The hunter's cabin smelled like old wood and Cade.
He had built it when he was eighteen, he told me between kisses, gasping against my neck. For when he wanted to be alone. No one else knew about it. Now it was ours.
He laid me down on the pile of furs in front of the dead fireplace. His hands were shaking so badly he could barely light it.
"Don't," I whispered, pulling him down to me. "I don't need a fire. I need you. I'm cold."
That was a lie. I was burning. My skin was glowing faintly white, my crescent mark pulsing like a heartbeat, my heat scent filling the tiny cabin until even I could smell it — sweet, like snow and moonflowers, something that hadn't been smelled in two hundred years.
Cade groaned, burying his face in my neck, right over my pulse, breathing me in. His mark on h
