No Road Back

1. Prologue

The stove had settled into its low tick. Candlelight moved across the black-and-red lace at Elena’s throat and along the short, dense coat of the dog pressed to her side. She sat on the floor with her back against the bench, knees drawn up under the heavy skirt, one hand resting at the base of Bruno’s neck. The fur there was warm from the fire and from his own body. Outside, frost had already sealed the grass; inside, the only sound was the slow pull of his breath and the occasional shift of a log.

Bruno’s head lowered. His nose found the open edge of the collar and stayed there, the leather of it cool against her skin for a moment before the heat of his muzzle replaced it. She did not move her hand. The tip of his tongue touched the hollow above her breastbone, broad and wet, and drew a slow line upward toward the pulse under her jaw. The lace caught on the edge of his tongue and released. She felt the damp trail cool almost at once, then warm again when he licked the same place a second time. Her fingers tightened once in the fur and loosened.

He nosed lower. The skirt had ridden when she sat; the fabric bunched at her thigh. His muzzle pushed under it, the short hairs of his coat brushing the bare skin above her knee. She let the knee fall a fraction. The tongue found the inside of her thigh and stayed, slow, deliberate, the roughness of it distinct against the softer skin. Each pass left a widening stripe of wet. She watched the candle flame and did not close her eyes. When the tongue reached the lace still covering her, she drew a breath that caught halfway and held it. The lace darkened where he pressed. Her free hand came down, not to stop him, only to gather the skirt higher so the fabric would not keep catching between his teeth and her skin.

Bruno shifted his weight. The length of his body pressed more firmly along her hip. She felt the heat of him through the dress and through the wool of the rug. His tongue worked past the lace now, finding the slick that had already gathered. The sound was small and wet in the quiet room. Her thighs trembled once and steadied. She kept her hand on his neck, thumb moving in a short, unconscious stroke against the fur while the rest of her stayed still. The sensation built in slow layers—heat, then pressure, then the particular drag of his tongue across the most sensitive place—until her breath shortened and her hips made one small, involuntary lift. He followed the movement without hurry. When the tension broke she made no sound beyond a low catch in her throat; the hand on his neck simply tightened and held.

Afterward he remained where he was, muzzle resting against the damp skin of her thigh, breathing steady. She did not lower the skirt at once. Candle wax had pooled and hardened on the table. The stove ticked. Her fingers stayed in his fur, and the frost outside did not lift.

1. Chapter 1: Two Suitcases

The lane narrowed to two pale tracks in the grass. Elena cut the engine and sat with both hands on the wheel while the tick of cooling metal filled the car. Bruno shifted in the back, nails clicking once against the plastic. She opened her door. Cold air moved across her face and down the open collar of her coat. The house stood with its shutters closed, the wood of them weathered to the same grey as the stone step. She walked around to the rear door, unlatched it, and waited while Bruno jumped down. His weight landed solid. He shook once, ears slapping, then stood with his shoulder against her knee, nose lifted toward the porch.

She took the first suitcase from the trunk and set it on the step. The handle was cold enough to sting through her glove. The second suitcase followed, heavier; she had to brace a foot and lift with both hands. Bruno stayed beside her, not crowding, only ...