She wore low-slung black jeans, a matching jacket, and a snug amber-colored shirt. Both jacket and shirt were cropped to reveal a good seven or eight inches of midriff, which was as decorated as her neck. But where the one decoration had been made of ink, the ones on her stomach were composed of scar tissue. Multiple slashes, thick and cruel. As a wolf she'd be as proud of those as she was of her tattoo, maybe more so. Ink was ink, but scars were badges of survival. They said, "I'm here. I'm alive. And I buried the son of a bitch who did this."

"You can help? How?" Niko said with rigid control.

Fine blond eyebrows quirked and she raised a hand, palm to her mouth, to bite the heel of it hard. Then she licked the wound and turned the hand toward us. The bite was healing already. The blood had stopped flowing and the flesh was knitting slowly.

"Of course," Goodfellow said. "Werewolves have a natural propensity for healing, but their saliva speeds the process."

Delilah gave a single regal nod, then moved over to me and removed my bandage. Light flared behind her eyes, turning amber to brilliant copper. "Ahhh." She sounded impressed. When a wound impresses a wolf, it doesn't bode well for the guy sporting it.

For the first time I looked. Impressive was one word for it. Horrific was another. A hunk of flesh nearly as round as a child's fist was gone from my upper chest, just…gone. Left behind was a ragged red crater deep enough that I could imagine I could see the shine of muscle. "You were right." I swallowed, looked up at Niko, and gave him a crooked smile. "You get to be the pretty one now."

"News flash, little brother, I always have been," he retorted as he rested his hand on my shoulder to squeeze lightly.

From Delilah's snort, we were both fooling ourselves. In that moment I could see the impatient Flay in her clearly. Climbing onto the bed, she straddled my thighs and stripped off her jacket. "Go," she ordered to the room in general. "Now." It was more of Flay. I'd been wrong about Delilah; she wasn't what the old-school wolves considered pure breeding after all.

The community was divided among the wolves who cherished the old ways…pure human to pure wolf and back again, and the ones who thought the more wolf you were, the better. And they meant all wolf all the time with no taint of human. Those were the ones who bred for the recessive qualities. Flay and Delilah had come from a pack who had embraced that.

She had the normal teeth of human form, white, even, and straight, unlike Flay's mass of wolf teeth crammed into a human mouth. But while her teeth were normal, her vocal cords weren't. Talking was difficult, not garbled or coarse, but raspy like the tongue of a cat and thick as butterscotch pudding. Your average person would've pinned it on a heavy accent. Those in the know would hear it for what it was—a she-wolf from the wild doing her best to talk.

"Go?" Niko shook his head and refused adamantly, "No."

"Imagine it, Niko," Promise said simply. "It will be rather…intimate."

On that note, Goodfellow promptly offered to stay. Promise marched him out without any apparent sympathy, but she did place a supportive hand on his back. They might have their differences, Robin's thing for Niko being a big one, but Promise did care for the puck, which seemed to shock the hell out of him.

"Call if you need me."

I raised my gaze to Niko and quirked my lips. "If being licked gets to be too much, I'll yell."

"Smart-ass." A last firm clasp of my shoulder and he left.

Delilah turned her head to watch him go, then looked down at me. "Still nursing?" Rusty and slow, but understandable—the canine version of a purr. It was soothing in its own way.

"He's a good mom," I responded, unoffended. "Oh," I added diffidently, "sorry about my scent." Wolves weren't wild about the Auphe smell, and, considering the reaction I'd gotten from Flay and the Kin, I had my fair share of it.

"Auphe? You?" Her mouth curved, dismissing me as an Auphe cublet at best. "Cocky pup. Close your eyes."

I started to protest, but between the anchor of narcotics and a lack of desire to see the gaping pit in my chest any longer, I went ahead and obeyed. I felt the touch of her tongue against the wound. It was warm, moist, and gently methodical as it moved. It was also odd as hell, and, as Promise had said, intimate.

It hurt as well, but only in the beginning. Her saliva must have numbed as it healed, because the pain faded, even the residual pain that had broken through the pills. It wasn't long before I drifted, not asleep and not awake. There was an incredible heat growing in my chest, chasing away the chill of fever. There probably would've been an incredible heat in a lower location too, but it had been a long, hard day. Even twenty-year-old hormones couldn't fight against this day. Soon enough, half sleep became the genuine deal and I dreamed. Long silver hair turned to short red waves, amber eyes to deep brown. The warm weight on top of me—Delilah to Georgina.

It was a nice dream. Hot as hell and very nice indeed. And then the dream changed. There were clothes involved this time.

It wasn't the only difference. When I thought of George, I usually pictured her, depending on the state of my willpower, in the same dress. A brown silk sundress…cherry chocolate. I'd seen her once in it and never forgotten the image or the feeling I'd had. So it didn't matter that it was fall and far too cool for that dress, I still thought it, dreamed it. Except this time. This time George was wearing a finely knit sweater, deep crimson, and filmy skirt of gold, bronze, and copper. She also had a tiny ruby piercing in her nose. It made her look exotic, a priestess of a far-gone time and place. A prophet, and wasn't that what she was?

"A ruby," I said in a voice thick with sleep. "Like your hair."

"It's a garnet," she corrected with a smile. "A practical gem for a practical girl."

Her hand was holding mine, our fingers linked. "I miss you, George." It was something I could only say in a dream, because admitting it in the waking world wouldn't do either of us any good.

"You don't have to." She leaned to kiss me. We'd kissed before, but not like this. Our first had been with the relief of rescue, the second a bittersweet good-bye. This was the kiss of a different life. Heat and hope and all the time in the world. There were only the two of us. No monsters, without or within. Dreams can be that way, the good ones. Then you wake up. You always wake up.

Because they are only dreams.

"Stubborn."

I opened my eyes as George's voice still lingered in the air. I actually heard it—heard her. She wasn't there, yet I knew if I saw her … if she showed up at my door at that moment, she would be wearing crimson, gold, and a garnet.

But that was something I wasn't going to think about. Couldn't think about. I touched the small plait of copper hair tied around my wrist, a memento of times past. Of doubts present.

No, I'd made my decision, and it was the right one. I knew it. In my gut, I knew it, even if no one else did. I sat up and waited for the pain to distract me from useless thoughts. It didn't come. I looked down. The bandage was still gone; it hadn't been replaced. There was no need to. The raw crater was gone. In its place was an indentation, still fist-sized, but more shallow, about a quarter of an inch deep— as if that fist had been gently pressed against soft clay. The scar tissue was purple and thick and ugly as hell. I couldn't have cared less. When I was a kid, Sophia had once told me that, while I was a monster, I was a beautiful one. I'd known from that moment on that what was on the outside didn't count for anything. Our mother had been beautiful too, physically, but inside she was as ugly as any Annis or revenant. Uglier in some ways. They had their excuse. She'd had none.