The Warmth of a Touch

The wind howled as I kicked the door shut behind me. The house was slightly warmer than the storm outside, though that wasn’t saying much. Still, at least it would keep her wound from melting open again until I could treat it.

She shivered violently in my arms - the fur coat I’d wrapped around her was nowhere near enough. Now that we were inside, I carried her the short distance to the couch by the hearth - cold and empty at the moment - and eased her down before stepping back.

“Wait here. I’ll get the medical stuff.”

I didn’t wait for a reply. I rummaged quickly through a cabinet, grabbing the first-aid kit and pulling out the essentials: disinfectant, bandages, adhesive tape. When I hurried back, she had already slipped unconscious. Whether it was from the cold or blood loss, I couldn’t tell.

Either way, I needed to disinfect and wrap that wound before her strange ice-blood melted again.

My hands moved fast, practiced. I cleaned and sealed the gash, then bound her thigh tightly. Within minutes it was done. The next task - warming her - proved far more difficult. Or rather, unexpectedly awkward.

She whimpered in her sleep as I tried to ease one of my warmer garments over her torso, and I did my best not to look, but her… proportions complicated things. After a few miserable failures I gave up on modesty. It went much smoother once I could actually see what I was doing. The thick top - stitched from the hide of a large bear I’d shot last winter - hung a little loose on her, but it would do.

I had no women’s clothing, so she remained bare beneath it, but warmth mattered more than decency. I layered pelt blankets over her until she resembled a mound of fur, then set about building a fire.

Soon, the hearth crackled cheerfully. I turned back to check on her.

She was still shivering.

I frowned. The room was warming quickly - I had to shed a layer myself - and yet her skin was freezing. I pressed the back of my hand to her forehead. Ice-cold. I touched the blankets - they were hot.

I couldn’t make sense of it. Why wasn’t she warming up?

I pulled the blankets away. They radiated heat, almost as if they’d just come from a roaring blaze. But her skin remained frigid. Was it simply her nature?

If so, why was she shivering?

Before I could puzzle it out, her eyes snapped open.

No warning. No stirring. Just - open.

Her pale grey gaze locked onto mine immediately. I froze, my hand still pressed to her forehead like a child caught sneaking sweets. Seconds dragged by. Something inside me clicked, and I slowly withdrew my hand. She watched me with silent, sharp judgement as I stood upright and attempted a wobbly smile.

“Feeling any better?”

She glared. “The fire hurts me.”

I blinked, confused. “Pardon?”

With great effort, she pushed herself upright and extended an arm toward the hearth.

“The fire… hurts me.”

The flames vanished.

Just like that. No hiss, no gust of wind - no fading glow. One moment crackling fire, the next an empty, cold hearth. Even the embers were gone.

A chill gripped the house instantly. She collapsed back onto the couch, breathing hard, eyes fixed on me. I stared between her and the dead fireplace, trying to understand.

“What… what did you-?”

She cut me off with a growl.

“I’m cold. Put your hand back on me.”

I didn’t register her words fast enough.

“Now.”

I jerked forward, pressing the back of my hand to her forehead again. Her eyes softened immediately.

“That’s better… but it isn’t enough. I’m still cold.”

With visible strain she lifted an arm, seized my free hand, and guided it with precise intent onto her chest.

Right on her chest.

My heart slammed into my ribs. My face went hot. She didn’t react - not in the way a human woman might. Either she didn’t care, or she didn’t understand the implications. Her body was cold, soft in places, firm in others. And she held my hand there, refusing to let go.

“There we go…” she murmured, eyes sliding shut.

Her shivering stopped instantly.

I stayed frozen until her grip loosened and her hand fell away. Only then did I carefully withdraw, moving like someone defusing a bomb. She drifted back into sleep.

A heavy breath escaped me. The windows rattled; the snowstorm outside had worsened. My hand still tingled with the lingering feeling of her breast. I shivered. Without the fire, the house would get cold fast.

I pulled on another layer and sighed.

I supposed I might as well make dinner.

I heard her voice drift from the lounge as I ladled stew into bowls.

“What’s that smell?”

Carrying both bowls carefully - each topped with a wooden spoon - I returned to the room.

“Dinner,” I said. “I don’t know what you usually eat, but it might help warm you up.”

She watched me approach, her eyes a shifting mixture of curiosity, caution, and the faintest hint of warning. When she reached out for the bowl, I noticed she’d abandoned the shirt I’d forced onto her earlier and wrapped herself solely in blankets. My heart jumped, but I handed her the stew without comment and sat beside her.

Steam curled upward, filling the room with the smell of cooked meat and herbs. She sniffed it suspiciously, then glared at me as I took a long spoonful of my own. I met her gaze as I chewed through hot meat and vegetables before swallowing.

“It’s not poisonous,” I assured her.

She held my stare for another heartbeat, then mimicked me, lifting a cautious spoonful to her mouth. The moment it touched her tongue, her eyes went wide. She chewed quickly and swallowed, lips parting in something close to surprise.

“The meat tastes… different than normal.”

I couldn’t help smiling. “That’s because I cooked it. You’ve only ever eaten raw meat, haven’t you?”

She nodded, already lifting another spoonful.

I returned to my meal, drawing my knees up in an attempt to trap more warmth. Night was falling fast. And honestly? I was scared. Without the fire, frostbite was a real threat. Hypothermia, too. And though the Wolf wasn’t shivering anymore, she had to be freezing under a single blanket with nothing but her bare skin beneath it.

I had nearly finished my bowl when something pressed against my side. A moment later, a blanket draped over me.

I turned.

She had shifted closer - leaning directly against me. And it took less than a second to realize her bare skin was pressed to my clothes.

“Wh… what are you doing?” I asked, voice cracking slightly.

She didn’t answer. Her breathing was slow and steady, her eyes closed. Exhaustion had claimed her.

A wave of pity washed through me. And something else - something gentler. She must have been truly worn down. Injured. Weak. Cold.

And yet the thought struck me like a hammer all the same:

This was the Great Wolf. The Amarok of the Northern Woods. The beast feared for eating careless travelers and stealing livestock… and she was using me as a pillow.

I exhaled slowly. Setting my bowl aside, I used my foot to hook the pile of discarded blankets from earlier, dragging them close enough for my hands to grab. I pulled them over us both.

I didn’t dare risk her wrath by lighting another fire.

With any luck, I’d still be alive come morning.