Just wanna say before we get started, it is so fun to be inside Quil's mind. He might be my favorite.

PART ONE: BEFORE

Your eyes are like weapons; your lips could teach lessons. Don't use them so reckless - "Wildfire" by Cautious Clay

Quil

Despite her love of the water, Claire Young has always been a wildfire.

Maybe that's why I became a firefighter.

Or maybe it's so I can tamp down the flames that will surely erupt from Sam Uley's stare alone once he realizes I've been tricked into taking his freshly sixteen-year-old niece on a date.

Both are good options.

And when I say tricked, I mean it. Claire bamboozled me. It's like she found every single rug in the Pacific Northwest and pulled them all over my eyes at once.

I should have known.

I should probably also back up a couple weeks, explain a few things.

There's this guy at Claire's school. Jackson something, but spelled with a bunch of rarely used consonants. For whatever reason, she stressed this specific point.

So Jaxxyn (?) had, according to Claire, been flirting with her for a few weeks, since homecoming.

"Guess what?" Claire said when I picked her up from one of her many SAT prep classes. Her Saturdays are booked from here to Kingdom Come—in reality, until April. She doesn't need to study that much, but try telling her that.

Muscle memory took over as I started to navigate us to the diner in Forks, our post-prep tradition. "You realized you already have a score of a thousand and don't need to do these study groups anymore?"

"For starters, the maximum score is sixteen hundred," she said, her mouth quirking sideways. "And no. Jaxyn asked me out."

If my life sounds like a trashy teenage drama, don't worry. That tracks.

I suddenly wondered if Jaxynn (on second thought, probably not, that feels like a feminine spelling for some reason) was in these SAT prep groups.

Claire has been on dates before, dates without me. Dates I definitely didn't spy on from behind a potted fern across the street. But those guys were tools, and Claire was smart enough to figure that out for herself pretty quickly before the check came. No intervention needed.

But Jaxsyn (there are just too many options for all these extra letters) seemed like an okay guy, from what Claire told me. Was nice to all the teachers at school, not just his own, and played a sport or two but still pulled his weight in group projects.

And the kid shouldn't be punished for his parents' horrible consonant-to-vowel ratio.

My knuckles cracked as I tightened my grip on the wheel, and I was glad she hadn't begged me to drive. She's horrible at best, and deadly at worst. "What'd you tell him? When was this?"

I heard her pulse pick up in her chest, one of the many skills my ongoing participation in the Black Pack has granted me.

Jacob's running things smoothly, but these days the threats are few and far between, and wolves are dropping out like flies.

Even Embry's out on sabbatical right now, and who knows how long that will last? It's some legal drama of him trying to adopt Sadie, Bethany's daughter. Bethany is his wife and imprint and new replacement best friend.

But it's fine. I'm not bitter or anything.

I caught Claire's shrug in the corner of my eye. "Today at study group. I told him I'd think about it."

"Claire," I said through a groan, and she was already giving me a heavy sigh back. I think I've started every lecture I've ever given her with that same groan. "You have to be careful who you give your time to. Boys like that will break your heart."

That was not the right thing to say.

"Oh my God, Quil, are you serious?" She threw her arms out so far, she nearly hit me in the face, which was saying something because my truck has a pretty spacious interior. "I can't believe you. I don't get why it matters. Your nose belongs on your face, not in my business."

I bit back a laugh, because Hannah, Claire's mom, said that so many times growing up I was sure it would be engraved on her headstone one day. A warning for her ghostly neighbors at the cemetery.

Claire, though, was not laughing. She was pissed. Her cheeks were flaming, her eyes closer to molten gold than their usual warm brown. She was five foot seven inches of pure fury, the deadliest combination of soft curves and hard muscle, and she was shaking mad in my passenger seat.

"I'm nice. I'm smart and funny and kind of hot, okay? Just because you don't want me doesn't mean other guys don't. You don't get a say into how I spend my time. What—or who—I do. If I want to date Jaxon, I will." Maybe I made up the 'Y' entirely? "If I want to sleep my way through the basketball team, I will."

Her words hit their target, and then I was mad too, thinking about someone else touching what the Spirits wrote my name on years ago. And it wasn't that I didn't want her. It was that I couldn't.

She either didn't notice or didn't care. My money was on the latter.

"You will not."

"Okay, Dad," she snorted, getting in her favorite jab while the ball was still in her court. Her cheeks burned brighter. "I've got a life that doesn't involve you, Quil. You don't know everything I've done."

Instantly, dread overtook the anger flooding my veins. "Please tell me you aren't having sex."

Claire's quick to lie and slower to admit the truth, so my muscles relaxed when she hesitated. "No. But like I said, you don't get a say when I do. Unless—"

I tried to head her off. "Don't—"

"It's with you," she finished, and I felt her gaze warning the exposed skin of my arms, my neck.

She's made no effort to hide her sexual attraction to me. Hell, it's a war I've been fighting since she hit puberty. This last year has been nothing sort of torturous, what with my heightened wolfen senses. I know her bodily reactions. The way when there's no more real estate for her blush on her face, it spreads to her ears before trailing down her throat. How when something I do draws her attention, she squirms in her seat and presses her thighs together.

How I've bought her wetsuits every year for surf season and she keeps claiming to have grown out of them, leaving no other option than to wear these little bikinis that show more skin than lingerie. How when we're alone at my house or hers, she'll sit close. Pat my leg too high up, nuzzle her chest into mine when we hug.

There have been times I've picked her up in the morning and still smelled sex on her skin and hands, and sometimes when I dropped her off I wasn't even down the block before she started moaning quietly in her room, behind locked doors. Not loud enough for anyone in her house to hear.

But I could. Did.

And she knew that I could. Did.

I've taken so many cold showers this last year my water bill has nearly doubled. I can't let myself go where Claire clearly has already gone. She's still too young. Forbidden. That's the word I've trained myself to insert when my brain goes into that spiral.

Instead of thinking things like Claire is cute, beautiful, attractive, curvy, strong, made for me, I force it to be Claire is forbidden. Claire is forbidden. Claire is forbidden.

Claire. Is. Forbidden.

I had to stifle a groan, because I was sure it would only add fuel to the wildfire woman sitting next to me. "We're not having this conversation, Claire."

"Then you can take me home," she said, crossing her missiles for arms across her chest. The chest she was pushing together and up but also trying to pretend like she wasn't. "I'm not hungry."

You may have guessed, but we've had that conversation—that fight—before. And I'm sure we'll have it again. She thinks she's ready. I think she's sixteen. I also like my dick firmly attached to my body, which Sam has threatened kindly to undo a few times since Claire started growing tits if I so much as look at her funny.

Since I'm pretty fond of said dick, I was the first one to break our stalemate. She was ignoring me, wouldn't answer my texts, had the nerve to lock her window. She knows that's a no-go. But I had it on good authority Claire was visiting Emily and the boys, and it had only been a week, but I missed her.

I missed her laugh when I did something stupid, the way my truck smelled of her for hours after she'd left it. Everything she touched was smoke and licorice-scented, even though she hated licorice.

So I pulled up to Emily and Sam's, a trike belonging to their oldest Levi tipped over sideways in the grass.

Inside, I heard Claire laughing; it sounded like Emily was at the stove.

When I walked in, the smile slipped off Claire's face, and she readjusted baby Lucas on her lap. I didn't tell her it wasn't fair play to use a one-year-old as a human shield. She knew. She simply did not care.

"Hi." Her quip was short and sharp.

I'd had a lot of time to think about my response at that point. I knew I couldn't control who she hung out with, even if she had… sex. I trusted her. It was all the other dipshits I was worried about.

Teenage guys may not only want the one thing, but it's at the top of their list. And while I didn't think Claire was actually capable of letting her heart get broken by a boy without her express consent, it could still hurt a hell of a lot.

It was hard to think about anyone not wanting Claire the way I did, do, but those people were out there. Hell, even her friends and family weren't devoted to her on the same level I was. It's just the way the imprint is designed. My soul is bonded to hers, forever, made for each other in every way possible. Mentally, emotionally.

Physically.

And I knew no one else would make her happier than I could (in all those arenas), but she hadn't learned that lesson for herself yet.

What I came into the house intending to say was something along the lines of, Date who you want, Claire Bear, and I'll catch your tears when they fall—or something at least that romantic.

What I blurted was this:

"Dating anyone else would be pointless and we both know it."

Emily did a poor job of stifling her laugh from the stove, and Claire hid her shock well. But I knew her. I'd surprised her. She wasn't expecting me to go that route.

"Well," Claire said, pinching her lips together between her teeth as she calculated her next move. "I guess you can pick me up at seven on Saturday if you want to show me why you believe that to be true."

Believe that to be true. Yeah, she was definitely studying too hard for that fucking SAT.

And instead of saying that, I said something equally as damning. "Fine."

"Good," she retorted.

"Great," I fired back.

"Fantastic."

"Wonderful."

This was a game we'd been playing since she was in middle school, needing to expand her vocabulary and learn what synonyms were at the same time. There's no way to win, but two ways to lose: copping out and saying something is perfect, or repeating something that's already been said.

In the running tally, she's beating me by about a hundred points.

We droned on for at least four more turns before I said, "Great!" a little too loudly and spooked Lucas.

"You lost," Claire said flatly, handing me the baby who'd started screaming with impressive lung capacity, before moving to the pantry for a snack.

And that, my friends, was that.

Embry Call: Good luck on your "date" (it's a date, Quil)

Since there's only one proper way to respond to a text like that, I send him a middle finger emoji. I'm already nervous enough without him reminding me exactly what this is.

In all reality, it's my first date with my future wife.

For as much time as Claire and I spend together, as often as I take her shopping in the city and have her packages delivered to my house when her dad says she's spending too much money on his credit card, I don't know what she'll wear tonight. Maybe the red dress? Or the blue one the same color as her bathing suit. She had a black dress she wore to her great uncle's funeral when she was fourteen, but she's a lot curvier now, taller. More boobs and hips and ass and legs.

Mom told me I should wear a tie, but Embry said I'd be fine without one. He didn't wear one on his first date with Bethany, and look at them now. Married and shit.

But I do get flowers. I spent an hour in the little shop in Forks working with what they had to offer. Claire's favorite is hibiscus, because of the funky colors and their "versatility in teas and desserts", but, surprise, hibiscus is neither in season nor in stock. Her second favorite (because why have just one?) is the African blood flower, but the saleswoman looked I was talking in hieroglyphics when I mentioned that one.

"What about daisies?" she recommended instead. "They stand for innocence and purity."

"No," I said, surprising myself with the severity and speed of my answer. "Not the right message."

Because I may have been dense, but I wasn't that dense.

The woman's gaze turned thoughtful, then she smiled. "Oh, I see." She disappeared to the back room for a few minutes and returned with a beautiful, bright red bouquet. It looked like Claire, bright and vibrant and wrapped in a pretty bow.

"Which are these?" I asked, running a finger over an unfamiliar bloom.

"Those are called jungle flame. Just came in yesterday."

My forehead creased. "You have something called jungle flame but not hibiscus?"

"Well—they're popular for holiday bouquets." She fumbled to explain further, but I took a deep breath and held up a palm to stop her gently.

"It's okay. They're perfect."

And they are. Claire answers the door wearing a dress I'm sure I would have remembered her wearing before, and while she takes in the flowers, I take in her.

The teal dress shimmers with her movements, drawing the eye wherever the dim porch light reaches. Especially where it stops slightly higher than mid-thigh—not that I'm looking that low, Mr. Young. I would never.

She looks exotic, aquatic. Her long, raven-colored hair is pinned behind her ear on one side, showcasing the small gold hoops I got her for her thirteenth birthday.

So the first thing I say to Claire on our first ever date is: "You look like a mermaid."

Her mouth quirks, and a laugh gets caught in her throat. "And you look like you overpaid for that tie." Okay, so I stopped at Thriftway before I came here. Apparently, I forgot to remove the price tag. (Honestly, we're lucky the damn thing is even on.)

Tucking the bouquet under her arm, she reaches with both hands to snap the tag off. "Are these… are these trout, Quil?"

My neck goes scorching, and I scratch at it absently trying to push the color back down. "Options were limited. It's stupid," I say, going to the loosen the knot and throw the trout tie in the trash.

"It's endearing." She stops my hand with her own, smoothing down the fabric. She lingers on my chest, and I hear her pulse pick up.

I swear, if she looks at me with her bedroom eyes right now, I'm going to die. Expire. RIP me.

To my surprise, she doesn't. She blinks, removes her hands, and mumbles about sticking the flowers in water before she leaves.

Claire's family is in on my shapeshifter secret and the imprint, and in all likelihood they knew this day was coming. But I still catch Claire's mom Hannah watching us from the window, her smile kind and terrifying. Everything Claire knows about manipulation tactics, she learned from her.

Hannah raises her eyebrow at me, and I gulp and nod and make the cross-my-heart motion. Whereas Claire and I use a plethora of words, her mom and I have a quieter relationship.

She scares the shit out of me.

"What's the plan?" Claire asks, slinging her sweater over her arm as she shuts the door behind her.

I've got a handle on All Things Claire Young. I can write a handbook. A series of handbooks. An anthology. So I say, "Do you trust me?"

She stops, frozen mid-stride as she takes one of two steps down the porch. She looks over her shoulder at me. "Absolutely."

"Then hush up, buttercup, and enjoy the ride."

Our first stop is the airstrip. I was worried the weather wasn't going to cooperate, but with every day that got closer, my buddy Aaron from the fire station assured me we'd be good to go. In addition to working at the station with me, he's part of the larger Search and Rescue regional team, which gives him access to the equipment. He's a good guy, and also a good friend. When I'd asked for this favor, he hadn't hesitated.

Claire, usually surefooted, stumbles when I help her out of my truck. "We're going on a helicopter ride?"

"No, I thought we'd just look at it," I say, but she looks so excited I can't wait any longer. "Yes, Claire. We're going on a helicopter ride."

Aaron steps around from the other side of the chopper. "You must be Claire. I've heard so much about you."

"If he said I'm snarky, opinionated, and dramatic, he's right."

Aaron laughs as my cheeks heat. "Something like that," he says, reaching to give me a fist bump.

After a quick safety briefing, I help Claire up into the cab with a hand on the small of her back. It's a good thing Aaron's far away because she whimpers.

I know I should be watching the view – Aaron and I decided the best route was to follow the coast before dipping into Seattle and over the mountains – but I can't stop watching her. She's grinning as wide as I've ever seen, her nose smushed against the window as she points and squeals and takes pictures with her phone. At one point she leans over to see the view out my window, and her hair tickles my arm, and I have to clench everything not to reach out to her.

We're winding our way out of Olympic National Park when she takes my hand, her eyes bright and playful.

"So, Aaron, did Quil ever tell you about the time he shit his pants at the beach?"

"Claire," I groan, trying to pull away. She doesn't let me. "Language. Five dollars."

Like our superlative game, the swear jar started when Claire was much younger. When she reached middle school, we had to up the stakes. The first time she accidentally cursed in front of me I'd laughed so hard I nearly pissed myself. Then, seeing my reaction, she did it again, on purpose, and she had to cough up a fiver, too. First one's always free.

I'm not sure what we'll do with the money we've amassed over the years. Maybe I'll give it to her for her graduation. Maybe I'll buy her a new surfboard when hers bites the dust.

But Aaron's guffaw of laughter drowns out my dissent, and she gives my hand a squeeze before launching into the story.

After we land and Aaron assures me everyone in the station will hear about the beach story by my next shift, I guide Claire back to the truck. Her legs are a little shaky.

"That was amazing, Quil," she says, pausing as she buckles herself in. "I loved it. I've always wanted to go on a helicopter tour."

"I know," I say, taking the seatbelt from her and finishing the job. So what if it brings me closer to her? That's not so bad. "You hungry?"

"Always," she whispers, her eyes dropping to where my hand rests on her hip. She does a shimmy in her seat, her thighs pressing together the tiniest bit, and I drop back to the driver's seat before she can elaborate or do that again.

I drive us to her favorite restaurant, a little shack called Calvins Crab House (no apostrophe) in Neah Bay, right on the water. It's no more than that—a shack attached to someone's house. Probably Calvin. It's made of plywood and seats no more than five people on the inside. The outside isn't much better, a splintering wooden picnic table and five or six groups of cracked plastic Adirondack chairs. They're rainbow colored and not at all ideal for eating greasy fried fish, but try telling Calvin that.

It's not exactly the classiest joint, is what I'm saying. But it's Claire's favorite.

We get our food—oyster basket for Claire, fish and chips for me, maple pecan brownies to split—and make our way to our usual spot at the picnic table.

She stops short when she spots the reserved sign, the single rose in the vase, little tea lights clustered around it.

"Quil," she breathes, and I can't help it.

I wink.

After her initial shock wears off, we fall back into ourselves. This might technically be a date, but we're still us. She's still feisty and loud and says hi to every person that passes and gives a fry to every dog we see.

The breeze is strong here, on the water, in the fall. But her cheeks are flushed, and I don't think it's from the wind.

As we split dessert, she goes quiet. Somehow, Claire's mastered thoughtful chewing.

"This is perfect," she says absently. "I don't… I don't want it to end."

Pride flares in my chest, and I bravely reach over and rub my thumb across her knuckles. "Well, Claire, that's the thing about dating. If you like someone enough, you can do it over and over again."

She giggled at that, flipping her palm so I could hold her hand. "What makes you think I like you enough for that?"

"Just a hunch."

I have to work a shift tomorrow, so I can't afford to stay out as late as I want to. She doesn't have a curfew when she's with me, but I want to be respectful. Like I said, her mom's terrifying.

When we get back to her house, I come around, opening her door, the same motions as every other stop before.

"I had a really great time tonight, Quil," she says. "Best first date ever."

Last first date ever, too, I want to say, but I check myself. "Me too."

The porch light casts more warmth on her skin, but she's glowing from the inside out now. Claire's parents are asleep, and Callie is upstairs in her room with headphones on. The perks of wolf hearing.

I pull Claire in for a hug and kiss the top of her head, like I've done a thousand times before. "Goodnight, Claire. Sleep tight."

She starts to say something and stops herself, the light in her eyes dimming as glances at my mouth. "Goodnight." But her lip trembles, and she doesn't meet my eyes as she says it.

I mentally retrace my steps. What did I do wrong? Maybe I didn't hold her hand enough. Girls like that. Oh, fuck, she was cold and I didn't give her my jacket. You stupid idiot, Quil.

"Why do you look like you're about to cry?" I ask, hoping I didn't fuck this up beyond repair. I did research. I know her. In all, it should have been a perfect first date. Claire's perfect first date.

"You're just leaving," Claire mumbles, blinking her eyes heavily. The way her eyelashes flutter with the movement makes my heart do a stupid leap in my chest cavity.

Still, my brows crease. "Well, yeah. The date's over."

She nods, looking down at the ground. "Okay, sure, whatever. S'fine."

I may be a mere mortal (kinda), but I know that's as far from the truth as possible.

It is not whatever.

Things are not fine.

"Claire," I say, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder. "What's the matter? Seriously."

"I had a good time," she says, eyes still locked on the ground. "And I thought you did, too."

I blurt my response. "I did. I really did." It was like how we normally are, but just with more touching. Plus she looks like a mermaid.

"So don't people usually kiss goodnight on first dates that go well?"

Kiss? Oh. Shit. I didn't account for kissing her. I don't even have any mints. "Do you… want to kiss me?"

She blinks twice. "You're so stupid, Quil." And then she rises on the balls of her feet and plants a kiss on my open lips.

I'm not sure what I expected kissing my imprint for the first time to be like. I guess I'd imagined it slow, perfectly timed (and without prompting), romantic. Maybe it's sprinkling or something, I'm not really sure. But I expected it to feel soft and sweet.

It is none of those things – okay, well, at least it's sprinkling.

From the moment our lips connect, there is fire. It's as if a part of my body that's been dormant for years has suddenly been roused from the dead. Somewhere, in the very dark recesses of my brain, I realize that's exactly what's happening.

I've never been allowed to feel these things toward Claire, this lust. Until I have. Until now.

For as hard as my brain's trying to make me remember she's forbidden, my body has other ideas. It wants to take and grab and pull and claim and… mate.

She must feel it too, because her hands have clamped onto my shirt, thumbnails biting at the skin of my chest as she curls them inward, pulling me down and pushing herself up on her toes.

Too much space. I agree. She's so fucking smart.

I reach out for her, intending to grab her waist but gripping her ribs instead. Claire's lips pop open in surprise, and she releases an intoxicating sigh into my mouth, into my soul, as she swipes her tongue across my bottom lip.

Smoke and licorice and maple pecan brownies.

Who taught her how to do that? Do I care? I must not, because I'm meeting it with my own, the essence of her covering every last taste bud and bolting down my spine. It gathers behind my zipper.

From the way we're pressed together, I imagine that's what makes her whimper.

Not that it matters what makes her do it. The damage is already done. When did I move my hands to her ass? When did her hand move to my hair? When did the other knot around my tie? When did I press her against the wall beside the door?

And when the hell did her legs come up to wrap around my waist?

In this position, her smell is overpowering, and my hips cant forward, seeking. If not relief, then something. My erection brushes over her heat, her dress riding up by her hips.

The sound she makes at that contact?

It's not any old half-assed whimper. It's a full-throttle moan.

Fuck me.

Too fast.

Can't.

Want to.

Really fucking want to.

Can't.

"Claire," I groan into her mouth, steeling myself for the hardest thing I've ever had to do. "Claire, baby, we have to stop."

She exhales sharply against me, but her lips retreat from a kiss to neutral, and she untangles herself from me as I let her down. I miss her heat already, and I know I will lose the battle tonight and think of her with the lights low. "Damn it. I know."

I study her face, her lips bright red and swollen. I did that, my wolf lets me know. Her hair is wild from my hands, and I can't help but reach up to tuck it behind her ear, leaving my palm pressed to her cheek. Her pulse beats even there.

When I kiss her this time, it is slow and sweet and perfect. And over far too quickly.

"So five dollars for that one and five for the helicopter. Ten bucks, Claire Bear," I say, brushing a finger across her lips before I turn to go.

She groans, loud and annoyed. She doesn't attempt to hide it.

Just like she doesn't attempt to hide what she does when she gets to her room, not even waiting until I get off her street.

Coming to a stop at the intersection, I let my head fall to the steering wheel.

I'm so fucking screwed.