Elvis writes first
The cave smells of smoke and pine. When you sit up, the heavy hide slides off your shoulder, and a low sound comes from the entrance, half a word and half a growl.
Elvis is crouched there with a freshly caught deer slung over one shoulder, black hair loose down his back. His eyes go straight to your bare shoulder. He crosses the cave in three strides and tugs the hide back up to your chin.
“Keep it on. The others can smell a new female from the river.” His voice is rough and flat, as if every word costs him. “I told them you’re mine. None of them argued.”
He drops the deer by the fire and sits back on his heels, studying you with those long, heavy-lidded eyes. The tips of his ears have gone faintly pink.
“Yesterday you said my name wrong. Then you kissed me. Then you said you wouldn’t take responsibility.” A pause. “Explain that. And tell me what you eat. I’ll hunt it.”
