Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 75650 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75650 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
I am eager to begin.
6
STACY
The weather today is horrible. No amount of lotion can stop the wind from hurting my face, and no amount of furs can stop the bitter cold from cutting through the layers. It’s miserable, and I think of the last brutal season, when the weather was so awful that even the sa-khui stayed bundled in the cave. It doesn’t encourage me much. But we’ll get through this, because we have no other choice.
Pashov has made a wind-break with several rolls of furs on the sled, and I huddle behind it, shielding Pacy with my body as our sled plows on through the blizzard. The snow is falling so heavily that the skies seem dark as night, even though I know it’s midday. I can’t see any of the sleds we normally follow. Actually, I can’t see much of anything except for Pashov’s big body a few feet ahead, tirelessly pulling the sled. I’m grateful to him. I can’t imagine trying to walk in this.
And I feel guilty that I’ve been treating him so poorly lately. I’m being selfish. I think he’s trying, but it’s hard for me. My exhaustion doesn’t help, and the snow doesn’t help, and the sex we had the other day sure doesn’t help, because now I want to have sex again. My body doesn’t seem to grasp that this Pashov isn’t quite the same as the old Pashov. It still wants him and still wants the comfort and release of sex.
As I huddle under the blankets and hug Pacy close, I think of the last few days and feel a bit ashamed for how I’ve been acting. It’s not his fault. None of this is, and I feel like I’m blaming him. I’m not proud of how I’ve been coping with everything. I just don’t know what to do. I’ve been on the defensive ever since he woke up.
Because he can’t remember me, I feel like I’m a problem. Like Pacy’s a problem. Of course I’m defensive about being a problem. But Pashov hasn’t indicated that we’re the problem. I think I’m just taking my frustrations out on him, and every time he does something that doesn’t feel like the ‘old’ Pashov to me, I resent it. So he doesn’t grab my butt like he used to. He’s still a good, kind man. He’s still the father of my son.
Maybe instead of resenting the changes, I need to remind myself that he’s alive and healthy. I have a mate. He didn’t die in the cave-in. Pacy will have a father. Surely I can be grateful for that.
A father that doesn’t remember him, my horrible brain whispers. My brain is a jerk.
The wind howls, and I cringe under the blankets. Pacy’s unbothered by the terrible weather, burbling happily to himself and playing with a carved bone toy in my lap. I can’t help but worry, though. The air seems to get more frigid with every passing moment, and the snow thicker. I peek out at the stormy gray world, and it’s so cold my skin feels seared. “Pashov?” I call out. I have to raise my voice to be heard over the howling wind.
My mate immediately sets down the sled and turns to me, tucking blankets tighter around me and Pacy. “Are you well enough to travel? Do you need more blankets?” He starts to shrug off his cloak, as if to give it to me.
“We’re okay,” I tell him quickly. “Keep your cloak. Is the weather getting worse?”
He nods. “We will stop soon.”
“Soon?” I repeat, not sure I heard him correctly or if it’s just the wind ripping at his words. When he nods, I feel a tinge of relief. “Do you think we’ll have a fire?” I yell out.
“I will make you a fire,” he promises, tying my cloak tighter around my chin. “Get under the blankets and stay warm.”
“Are you all right?” I search his face to see if he’s feeling the chill as much as I am. He gives me a boyish smile and a nod, and my heart flip-flops in my chest at the sight. He turns back to the front of the sled and picks up the handles again, but I’m still sitting, stunned. That smile was the same Pashov as ever, and part of me wants to leap from the sled and turn him around and make him smile at me again.
And even though it’s cold, I feel a bit of hope.
Pashov’s idea of ‘soon’ is apparently very different than mine. It grows colder by the moment, until my breath is frosting even under the blankets, and my entire body shivers with the need for warmth. The wind grows louder, the snow thicker, until I feel almost as if we’re in a snow tornado. Do such things exist? If so, we’ve found one. The snow is pouring from the sky so heavily that I have to shake my blankets off over and over again so we’re not buried. All the while, Pashov plods ahead, as strong and grimly determined as ever. I can barely make out his form several feet away. If there are others near us, they’re impossible to see.