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Not yet.
"Gage."
Maren's already moving. She's in my kitchen in one of my shirts and a pair of socks, and she's out my back door and across the frozen grass before I get the mug out of her hand.
The cold hits her and she doesn't slow down.
Lila's hand comes off the door.
By the time Maren reaches her porch, Lila's arms are open, and the two of them fold together like it's any other Thursday.
"Your door," Lila says into her hair. "Maren. What happened to your door?"
I take the steps slow. I've spent six years turning myself into the kind of man that people cross the street to avoid, and it's useful about twice a year. This is one of the times.
Lila looks up at me over Maren's shoulder.
Nothing moves in her face. No flinch, no glance at the driveway, none of the calculations people make when six and a half feet of me arrives on a porch.
That's the first thing. The second thing is under her perfume.
Something warm and human and familiar, wrapped in vanilla and cold air, and it matches. It matches the scent of what I found under the char two days ago and told Maren it wasn't possible.
Ours, my wolf says. Take her.
Not without proof. Not from Maren.
"Vandals," Lila says. "Right? Someone with a blowtorch and no life."
"Sure." Maren's voice is careful. "Something like that."
"You have to report it. Insurance won't cover it if you don't file within..."
"I know."
"And you're not staying here." Lila pulls back to look at her. "Come stay with me. Tonight. I've got the whole spare room, we'll get wine."
"I'm across the yard."
Lila's eyes come up to me and go back down. "Right."
"He has dead bolts," Maren says.
"He has a lot of things."
I let that sit.
Sid comes around the corner of the house with his tail low and stops six feet off the bottom step. He doesn't hiss. He goes flat, ears back, the way he did at the window last night, and stares at Lila without blinking.
Lila's hand tightens on Maren's sleeve.
"That cat hates me."
"He's discerning," Maren says.
"How'd you know she wasn't home?"
Both of them look at me.
