# Scene 2
The Blackwood camp is half-awake, blue mist slithering through the grass and settling over the canvas tents. The ground is cold and sticky from river dew. Smoke from the morning fires fights with the fog, not quite winning.
There's a cut on his cheek, fresh enough to gleam, and his hair is damp, sticking to his forehead.
Eli sees him first and grins, a wolf's smile. He elbows Henry, who looks up and snorts.
"There he is," Eli says. "Back from fucking the ghosts out of the Tullys."
Henry grunts. "You see the way he walks? That's not the stride of a man who lost the night."
Eli nods. "A man doesn't crawl in smelling like that. That's a victory march."
Cade ignores them. He sits on a wet stump and takes the cup Henry hands him. The taste is river water and stale ale, but he drinks anyway.
A moment later, the flap of the biggest tent jerks open and Alysanne Blackwood emerges. She's dressed for the day—thick wool tunic, leggings, hair pulled tight from her face. Even this early, she moves like she owns the ground she walks on.
She stops in her tracks when she sees Cade. Not because he's unexpected, but because of what clings to him. The musk, thick as fog; the redness at the side of his neck where someone bit him; the scratch along his jaw, like a lover's signature.
Alysanne stares at him. "Cade. Why in the seven hells do you smell like—" she sniffs the air, her lips curling in revulsion, or maybe envy "—like you've been drowning in pussy?"
Eli almost chokes on his drink. Henry turns, shoulders shaking.
Cade lifts the cup, drinks, and says nothing.
Alysanne comes closer, face set. She stops two feet from him, arms crossed. "Darian has been asking for you since dawn. We thought—" she glances at Eli and Henry, then lowers her voice "—we thought maybe you'd been caught. Or worse."
He doesn't look up. "I wasn't."
Eli leans in to Henry. "She's going to kill him."
Henry shrugs. "He'll die smiling."
Alysanne waits, but Cade does not fill the silence. Eventually, she says, "Are you going to explain?"
He sets the cup down and stands, facing her square. His eyes are empty, hard as flint.
"You're loud this morning," Cade murmured, low enough that only she could hear. "I'm concerned," she countered. "You're irritated." "I'm both." Silence stretched between them, thick enough to feel. Alysanne crossed her arms. "Just answer the question, Cade. Why do you smell like—like that?" She looked anywhere but his eyes.
"It was nothing," he said quietly. Alysanne glared. "Nothing doesn't smell like that." Cade's lips twitched with the faintest ghost of a smirk, more an expression of amusement than apology. Eli took that as his cue to join the conversation. "Just say it, Alysanne. The man smells like—" She spun on him, her voice dangerously low. "Say one more word, Eli Rivers, and I'll drown you in the river." Eli put both hands up. "Just helping." "You're not," she snapped.
Alysanne holds his gaze, but she's breathing faster now. She wants to hate him. It doesn't work.
"Walk with me," he says, and takes her hand.
It's not a suggestion. He turns and pulls her with him, down the row of tents, away from the fire and the watching eyes.
The grass is still slick, the air wet and sharp. They walk without speaking until they reach the edge of camp, where a wall of old willows screens them from view. Beyond it is a lake, surface black and perfect, only the faintest ripple where a fish has disturbed the mirror.
Cade leads her into the willow curtain, lets it close behind them. They are alone, just the smell of moss and mud and the loamy rot of fallen leaves.
He turns and faces her, hands at his sides.
Alysanne waits, arms folded, but it's a front. She's shivering now, whether from cold or anticipation Cade can't tell.
"You want to hit me," he says. "Go ahead."
She slaps him, hard, the sound crisp and echoing. His head jerks sideways, but he does not move otherwise.
He looks back at her. "Better?"
She glares at him, then slaps him again, harder. His cheek blooms red. He does not react, except for a tightening of the jaw.
She wants to do it again, but stops. "You're a bastard," she says. "You know that?"
He nods. "And you are still here."
She opens her mouth, closes it, breathes in raggedly.
Cade steps closer. There is no softness in his touch; he reaches for her wrist, not the hand, and pulls her forward. Their bodies are almost touching, heat radiating. He tilts his head, eyes searching hers.
"Do you want me to apologize?" Cade asks. The question is genuine, but the tone is flat, as if he can't conceive of the word.
Alysanne shakes her head, slow. "You wouldn't mean it."
He studies her. "No."
She exhales, sharp. "What do you want from me?"
He releases her wrist, takes a step back. "Undress me."
She blinks, then laughs—a single, disbelieving note. "Here?"
"Here."
Alysanne stares at him for three breaths, then nods once. She moves with the same deliberateness as Cade—unties the leather at his throat, peels off the tunic, lets it fall to the ground. Her hands are steady, but she never looks away from his face.
She kneels, undoes his boots, pulls them off one by one. The air is cold, but Cade doesn't shiver.
She stands, runs her fingers along the waistband of his breeches. Her fingers brush the line of hair that trails down his belly; she feels him harden, already half-raised, the tension in the air enough to choke.
She slides the breeches down and he steps out. He is naked now, body all angles and sinew, skin criss-crossed with old scars. His cock is thick and heavy, hard without a touch. She looks at it, at him, and for a second her hands shake.
Cade moves toward her, undoes the buttons at her throat, pulls the tunic open. He works each layer off with slow, ruthless efficiency, until she stands bare in the willow-dappled light, shivering in the mist, hair unbound down her back.
He reaches for her, not to pull her in, but to offer his hand. She takes it, and he guides her to the water's edge.
The lake is freezing, but Alysanne wades in anyway, lips blue, teeth chattering. Cade follows, the water up to his knees, then thighs, then belly. They are both gasping from the shock, but neither retreats.
He turns her around so her back is to him, and wraps his arms around her torso, holding her tight. She can feel the heat of him against her spine, his cock pressing into the small of her back.
Alysanne says, "Are you going to drown me?"
Cade's voice is low, unhurried. "Not today."
She lets herself relax into him, head back against his shoulder.
"I want to wash you," she says, and Cade nods. She runs her hands over his chest, across the ribs, down to his stomach. His skin is hot against the chill of the water.
She slips her hand down, finds him hard as bone. She strokes him, slow, fingers curled just so. Cade makes a sound—not quite a growl, not quite a sigh—and lets her work. Her other hand traces the lines of his back, the muscles there. He is perfectly still, except for the movement of his hips as he fucks her hand, just a little, just enough.
After a minute, he stops her, turns her to face him.
He lifts her in his arms, water sluicing off them both. She wraps her legs around his waist, arms around his neck, and kisses him full on the mouth. He returns it, but his tongue does not ask permission, it claims.
He carries her out of the lake, lays her on the wet grass at the bank. Her back is slick with water, but Cade pays no mind. He kneels between her legs, parts them, and lowers his face to her cunt.
She is soaked, more from arousal than from lake water, and he licks her like a dying man. Every motion is measured, each circle of his tongue calculated to break her open. She moans, low and breathless, grabbing at the grass, pulling handfuls out by the root.
When she is shaking, when her breath is ragged and her hands are fists, Cade pulls away and crawls up her body. He lines himself up, rubs the head against her, then pushes in. He is slow, deliberate, filling her inch by inch, watching her face the entire time.
She gasps, body arching. The stretch is more than she expected, but she wants it. She bears down, hips lifting to take him deeper.
Cade fucks her in long, slow thrusts. He never breaks eye contact.
"Tell me what you want," he says.
She struggles for air. "Don't stop."
He speeds up, not much, just enough that each thrust drives her further into the ground. She claws at his back, digs in with her nails, and Cade smiles, almost fond.
When he feels her about to break, he stops, pulls out, flips her onto her hands and knees. He pushes in again from behind, this time burying himself to the hilt.
Alysanne cries out, the sound muffled by her own arm. He sets a steady rhythm, each slap of skin louder than the last.
"Cade," she gasps. "Too much—"
He slows, pulls out, turns her back over. She is dazed, lips swollen, eyes half-closed.
He lifts her by the thighs and enters her again, holding her legs open with both hands. She comes instantly, a violent shudder that rips through her whole body. Cade doesn't let up; he fucks her through it, through the next, and the next, until she is limp and spent.
He leans in and kisses her, slow this time. She tastes herself on his mouth.
When he finally comes, it is with a growl that seems to vibrate through his entire body. He pours himself into her, holds her tight until he is empty.
They collapse together on the grass, bodies tangled, breath steaming in the morning air.
After a while, Alysanne lifts her head. "There will never be anyone else, will there?"
Cade shakes his head. "No."
She smiles, eyes wet. "Good."
They lie together in the willow shadow, and for once, neither of them says anything at all.