Even standing out front, before the porch of the small house, Celia could hear her father snoring inside. He must have been working hard, for hours, to be so exhausted.
He should have slept late, she thought. She had awakened first, slipping quietly out of bed to start his breakfast, wearing once again only his long, soft, cotton shirt. Shortly after he awoke as well, moving to her side to help. She demanded that he sit, to let her cook for him like a proper wife.
When he refused, insisting that as lovers — her heart melted when he used that word with her — they must share everything, from pain to joy to the most mundane, she'd pouted. She wanted to be a proper wife, if only for that one day, but he was adamant and unyielding. He took her into his strong arms, pulling her body against his, to kiss her until the pout melted away and she reneged, thinking instead of getting through breakfast as quickly as possible to get back into the bed with him.
Even that he refused, saying that unlike her he was no longer in his double-twos, or even close. He was well past his double double-twos, he'd laughed. An old man like him must be allowed some time to recharge. So she had spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon helping to clean and make minor repairs, until he urged her to go out to explore while he finished some loud, hard, manly labor on his own, without her underfoot, as he'd said. He kissed her fondly, before slapping her bottom in a randy fashion to send her on her way to spend the remainder of the day wandering the forest, discovering glades and streams and stands of boulders around their new home, places that she had never known existed.
Trying not to wake him now, she stepped gingerly onto the wooden planks of the porch, hearing the slight echo of each of her own light footfalls. She eased the door of the cabin open, cringing as it creaked ever so slightly.
She peered in. Outside, the sun was setting. In the hilly forests of their home, this meant that the light simply dropped, like a penny tumbling into a well, falling, falling, before it finally plopped into complete darkness in the water at the bottom. The sun set, the light dimmed, and the world existed in a twilight state for a while longer, with everything still visible like shadows with all of the color drained from the world, until finally all went black.
Within the house Father had left a single lamp burning on the nightstand beside the bed. It's flickering, orange-yellow glow cast it's insufficient light throughout the single room of the cabin. The most light was shed on her father's peacefully sleeping form, lying atop her passed grandmother's old, wide, wooden four-poster bed.
He'd fallen asleep without his shirt. She watched as his smooth chest rose and fell with each peaceful breath. He didn't have the sprawling hair there of some of the men, or the rippling, taut muscles of the woodsmen. His chest was strong, but in a more subtle, tender way. He sported some hairs, here and there, many of them having grayed with his age.
She liked his chest. It was familiar, and warm. She'd rested her head against it, comfortable and at ease, so many times before, for so very many years of her life.
"Oh my, Father, what a very fine chest you have," Celia whispered to herself. "What a very, very fine chest you have. Wonderful. What better place for a loving daughter to rest her head?"
Seeing his form lying there, half naked, spent from a day of manly exertions, filled Celia with a spreading warmth, both in her heart and in her loins. She felt the first hint of wetness between her legs as she gazed at him.
Perhaps you would enjoy it. Yes?
The words of the black wolf came back to her, as clear as day. She enjoyed a small, private smile.
Yes. Yes, she would enjoy it.
She didn't want it to be wrong. She told herself it didn't have to be. The wolf had said it. One finds trust only where one expects to find it, not wherever one looks. If there is any doubt at all, there is no trust, and it is a delusion.
But where one finds trust, one can also find love.
And why shouldn't Celia find the sort of love she desired in the only man that she trusted? Who were they to declare whom she could or could not love, or how much, or how she could show her affections?
Celia remembered some of the harsher words of the wolf, words that had stung her at the time.
What do you have, woman-child, that an old wolf could want? What do you have to offer?
She looked at her father, lying there, temptingly handsome in his own, familiar way, and so wise to Celia, and so much more experienced in the ways of the world.
What did she have to offer him? She felt inadequate. She was unready for this. She was so young and so inexperienced. She was naive. She was pretty, maybe even beautiful he had always said, but not so beautiful as some, she knew. She had her brains, but did men really value intellect in a woman? Even for her father, when it came time to lay with a woman and share his body with and within hers, did a woman's brains matter one bit?
He said it did. He said she was beautiful. Father said a lot of things. He paid her many compliments.
He had to, she thought, he was her father.
He was also her soulmate. She knew it. She knew it in her heart. What did she have to offer? She made up her mind to be whatever he might want or need. Let him just wait and see.
Celia inched over to the bed, tensing at every creaking floorboard or clumsy scuffle she made. She moved slowly until she stood over her father's sleeping, restful form. She hovered, looking, and then lowered herself, ever so gracefully and gently, onto the bed to sit beside him.
What do you have to offer?
"I can be wicked," she said softly to herself. "Just watch, wolf. I can be so very wicked."
One hand reached out, trembling and hesitant. She was afraid. But in her soul she wanted, and knew better than to follow anything other than her heart. She wanted and needed. Her hand reached out to gently trace the lines of the muscles on his chest and abdomen.
