Page 43

Howl shat in my shoe. Not on the rug. Not by the door like a polite delinquent. No—in the shoe. I stare down at the damage while he pants beside me, wagging his tail like we’re celebrating a major accomplishment.

“That w-was uncalled for,” I tell him flatly.

He blinks.

“I was g-gone for t-t-two hours.”

He blinks again. Tilts his head.

“Sadie misses me less in two hours.”

Howl flops over with a dramatic groan and kicks his legs like the weight of the world is crushing him. There’s stuffing from the couch pillow still caught in his fur. I pick a piece off his ear.

“You tore open the good one,” I mutter. “The one Amma sent from home.”

He offers a half-hearted tail thump in apology.

I step over the pillow guts and sock carnage—my compression shorts are somehow in the sink—and gather what’s left of the shoe into a garbage bag.

I will not entertain cleaning it. Howl watches me the entire time with that soulful, slightly guilty expression that always makes me second-guess my frustration.

“You miss her, don’t you?” I ask, crouching beside him.

He whines softly. Presses his nose into my hand.

I rub behind his ears. “Me too.”

We’re texting again. Not as much as before…everything. But again. Her brain runs wild. When I’m with her, I can catch the spin out before it takes off. When I’m not, I’m playing a waiting game until she’s ready.

Ever since our moment in the rehab room, I’ve been letting her lead, but not vanish.

It’s hard not to reach out every minute of every day.

To ask how she is. To tell her I saw a purple car with the license plate “people eater” over on Second Ave.

To see if she’s okay. To see if she’s still mine—in whatever soft, undefined way she was starting to be.

I rinse my hands, towel off, and sit on the arm of the couch. The house feels too quiet despite the destruction. Howl sighs dramatically from the floor.

I scroll to Sadie’s name in my phone. She’s at girls’ night, but I miss her.

I won’t text, because I don’t want to bother her, but I will scroll through my socials.

Send her a meme or a reel or whatever they’re called.

She sends them to me constantly. A dog that reminded her of Howl even though it’s a chihuahua and my pup’s a GSD.

Something about Vikings, red hair, snow.

I’m staring at her profile picture, or what I can see of her, pink hair, the curve of a smile, when there’s a knock at the door.

Three sharp taps. Then one softer, more hesitant.

I’m not expecting anyone, and my heart skips.

I stand too fast, almost trip on a squeaky toy, and cross the room in a blur.

When I open the door—

“Sadie,” I smile.

Her hair is loose and a little wild. Makeup smudged at the corners. A slinky black top that dips between her tits and hugs her body like a dare, low-rise jeans that emphasize her hips, and heels that she looks ready to collapse out of. Her expression is one I’ve never seen before.

Dazzling.

Frantic.

Buzzing.

“Hi,” she breathes. “I hope it’s okay that I didn’t text first.”

“Always.” I open the door wider. “Come i-in.”

She steps over the landing, and Howl lets out a noise I’ve only ever heard when he’s watching me prep steak. He lumbers up and immediately presses himself to Sadie’s leg like he’s gluing her in place.

She pets him blindly, not even looking down. Her eyes are glassy, her hands trembling just enough that I only catch it when she smooths them down her front like she’s trying to ground herself.

“Sadie.”

She shakes her head. “It’s okay. I’m okay, I’m—”

She isn’t. My brave girl.

I pull her into my arms without another word and she melts.

All of her slumping into me, trusting me to hold us both upright.

It’s an honor I don’t take for granted. I rock us slowly, making soft shushing sounds into her hair as she presses her face to my chest. Her hands fist in my hoodie like she’s holding onto something real, and I slide one hand up to the back of her head, gently threading my fingers through her curls.

I bend slightly, pressing her mouth to my collarbone like I can tether her there.

And I let myself feel it—how perfectly she fits in my arms. How the chaos calms the second she’s against me. I want to burn the world for whatever did this to her. And also thank the gods she came to me.

She hasn’t let us go.

Even as I back us both toward the couch, her arms stay locked around my waist like she’ll float away if she lets go. Howl plunks down beside us, head resting on her foot. I sit with her still in my lap, wrapped around me like a question she’s too scared to ask.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers into my shoulder. “I just—I didn’t know where else to go.”

“You’re a-always allowed t-to come here.”

Please come here.

Her breath shakes. “I think I might be a little drunker than I thought.”

“You’re g-glowing.”

“Actually, I only had two ciders. It’s just the adrenaline.”

“F-f-from what?”

She finally lifts her head.

Her eyes are wild. Not fearful. Not frantic. Just full. Like she’s so stuffed with emotion that she doesn’t know where to start.

“I ran into Christian,” she says.

My muscles lock down before I even know I’ve moved. If I were holding anything, it would break in my hands. She notices. Reaches for my cheek. Strokes my skin before sliding her hand up to tangle her fingers in my hair.

“No, no. It wasn’t bad. Not really.”

I don’t breathe.

“He cornered me outside the bathroom. Said some… horrible things.” Her lip curls. “Wanted me to feel guilty for the gala.”

I want to drive to wherever he is and teach him the kind of apology that comes with bruises and pain. Instead, I hold her tighter. I regret not doing so the last time I came face to face with the brundtró.

“I’m sorry I didn’t do more at the gala,” I murmur. “I should’ve protected you.”

“You did.”

“No. Y-you handled it. You a-a-always do. But you shouldn’t h-have t-to. Not anymore.”

Her eyes shine again. But not with tears.

“I didn’t handle it because I had to,” she says. “I did it because I could.”

She pushes up on her knees, straddling my lap now, hands on my chest.

“I told him off. I didn’t shrink or rage. I just… said no. And I meant it.”

I stare up at her, awe blooming in my chest like something sacred.

“H-how did i-it feel?” I ask.

Her smile is breathless. “Like I met the real me for the first time. And really, really liked her.”

I wrap a hand around the back of her neck and press my forehead to hers.

“I’m so fokking p-proud of you, Sadie Jones.”

She exhales shakily. “That’s not even the best part.”

“Oh?”

“I punched him in the face. And I told my parents everything.”

My heart skips, not sure what to tease out first. She must read the confusion on my face because she soldiers on.

“I told them I’m not going back to grad school after this year. Told them Christian was emotionally abusive. Told them I’ve been trying to be someone I’m not.”

I blink at her, stunned. She’s trembling and grinning and on the verge of tears—happy ones—and I’ve never seen anyone look more alive.

“What did they say?”

“My mom was… shocked. Not mad. Just sad. That she hadn’t seen it.” She pauses. “Then she asked me what I wanted.”

“And what did you tell her?”

She studies me for a beat, then dips her chin down to avoid my gaze. I’m about to reach out, frame her face myself, when she answers.

“You.”

My breath leaves in one exhale. I think I’m supposed to ask more. Something about punching, maybe? But the thought disintegrates before I can do a damn thing about it.

“I want you, Ragnar.” Sadie says. Quiet, but firm. Sure.

Then she kisses me. Hard. She kisses me like she’s claiming me. Like I’m hers and she’s done pretending I’m not.I kiss her back because there’s no other option. Because the second her mouth opens under mine, I lose every coherent thought but ‘more’.

Her hands slide into my hair, tugging gently, her body flush against mine, all silk and warmth and heat. She shifts in my lap, her thighs squeezing, and I groan into her mouth. She’s taking the lead and a nuclear blast couldn’t drag my attention from her.

“Tell me this is real,” she whispers against my lips. “That I’m not dreaming you.”

“It’s r-real,” I murmur, kissing along her jaw, her throat. “W-we’re real. I’ve g-g-got you.”

She pulls back just enough to look at me. “Can I—can we—”

“Yes.”

I’d carve out my heart and serve it to her on fine china if that’s what she asked for.

I stand, lifting her with me like she weighs nothing.

She wraps her legs around my waist with a surprised gasp, laughing softly as her hands tangle in my hair again.

We kiss down the hallway—clumsy and laughing and breathless—and by the time we reach my bedroom, she’s whispering my name like a prayer as her hips undulate over the bulge in my sweats.

I set her on the edge of the bed and step back to look at her. Her cheeks are flushed, clothes askew, and her lips kiss-swollen. I want to worship her for a full month. A year. A millennium.

Longer.

Slowly, deliberately, I tug on the ties at the back of her neck and peel her shirt over her head.

I toss it to the floor, not caring where it lands.

She’s braless underneath, and my mouth goes dry.

I can’t think too hard about her lack of underwear.

Does she skip it at work too? I’ll have an erection every time I smell the ice at this point.

“You’re u-unreal,” I say.

She starts to respond, but I silence her with a kiss, one hand trailing up her thigh, the other bracing her back as I guide her down onto the bed.

She tugs at my sweatshirt and I let her take it off.

When her hands smooth over my chest, I shiver.

She traces the lines of my tattoo, first with the tip of her finger, then with her mouth.

“I wanted to do this,” she says, her tongue slipping over the stylized T, “that day in the ice baths.”

“I’d h-have let you.” I cup the back of her head to keep her mouth on me.