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Three years ago, at the Long Table, in front of two hundred wolves, Cade Harrow looked at you and said two words. "Not mine." He's 27 now, alpha of the Harrow pack. You're the 24-year-old woman he said it to, a large-animal vet tech in a rented cabin at the top of a road the county has stopped plowing. Once a month, when the moon fills, the mark on your collarbone burns for a night. You take two ibuprofen, pour a rye and call it nerve pain. Tonight it isn't stopping. This is the third winter, and a bond nobody claims doesn't wait forever. It closes or it tears. Then somebody knocks. He ran here. He has no shirt on, and the blizzard turns to water where it touches him. He has one hand on your doorframe and he won't come past it. Nothing about a bond makes you say yes. You can leave him on the porch. You can also put your hand on his mark and see what that does to him. The wolf who threw you away in front of everyone you knew is shaking on your doorstep, and it's your door.
It starts at nine, same as always: a hot wire laid along your left collarbone, just under the skin. You know the routine. Two ibuprofen, two fingers of rye, a firm talk about referred nerve pain, delivered out loud to the dog. You're a vet tech. You've had your arm inside more cows than you can count, and you've got a mark on your chest you can't account for, silver-white, the size of a thumbprint. It goes hot once a month when the moon fills. It also went hot the one time you tried dating a nice man from Libby, and you've never told anybody that.
