The front door slammed, a welcome distraction from a train of thought that had become all too familiar these past few days. Gabriel this, Gabriel that, what to do, what to do. She was a sitting duck here, waiting for life to happen to her instead of making her life happen, a situation she had always abhorred, and yet her head was full of her grumpy live-in werewolf. She wished, not for the first time, that the stories of the arukhin had been a little more detailed about that tribe's personality traits. It would have been an excellent reference point right about now.

Rowan smoothed her fingers through her long, red waves, cursing herself even as she tried to make the best of what was becoming an increasingly dire beautification situation. It wasn't as though she should care. And it certainly wasn't as though Gabriel seemed to care any longer, she told herself, ignoring the nasty little twist in her gut as she thought it.

Except that might not be entirely true. He might just be waiting for her to grovel a little. But that, Rowan thought, was never going to happen. She had meant what she said. And if Gabriel refused to listen, then their relationship, such as it was, would remain as it was now. She had not been raised to sit by idly and let men make her decisions for her. But perhaps in the end it was better this way. Maybe he was wrong, and leaving things unpleasant between them would tear that piece of him away from her soul, would leave her free to face what remained of her future with one less worry. One less shred of guilt.

Then Gabriel sauntered in, big and unshaven and so deliciously vital, and Rowan felt everything inside of her rise up in yearning for him. She kept her expression outwardly cool, barely acknowledging him with a look, but inwardly everything was turmoil. Her shaking hand, seeking something to do, tucked itself behind her back to toy with the bottom band of the sweatshirt.

Every time he was near her she longed for him so completely that it threatened to consume her whole. And it seemed to be getting worse.

Rowan pushed her hair back over her shoulders, nearly giving in to the urge to play her fingers over the mark his teeth had made on her neck. It hadn't yet healed, even though all Drakkyn were remarkably fast healers. Neither had Gabriel's. Not that she was looking or anything. Not that seeing her mark upon him made her feel the least bit possessive.

Rowan pushed the thoughts away. Instead, she girded herself for yet another tiny skirmish in their seemingly stalemated battle.

Gabriel looked at her with the guarded expression she'd rapidly come to loathe as he hooked his thumbs in his jeans pockets, stance completely casual. The stubble dusted over his cheeks and chin looked rough and dark, giving him a half-wild look that she rather liked despite herself. His deep brown hair grazed his cheekbones, practically begging her to brush it out of his face.

Rowan tucked her other hand behind her back, clasping them, digging her nails into her palms hard enough to hurt. If Gabriel noticed, he gave no hint. And when he spoke, it was with a bland, disinterested politeness that made her want to rip him to shreds. That, or crawl all over the chest that was currently so well showcased in a faded, fitted T-shirt until she got some sort of reaction. The kind she might soon have to admit to wanting after all.

"Brought you some fish and chips," he said, jerking his thumb back in the direction of the kitchen. "It's on the table."

"Thanks," she replied, just as polite, though inwardly she seethed. The fare at Wolf at the Door was delicious, she had to concede, but woefully limited. If she had to eat one more fried thing, she was going on a hunger strike. Fruit, fresh vegetables ... she'd scoured Gabriel's cupboards for any scrap of the sorts of things she preferred, but all she'd come up with was freezer-burned instant meals, several stale bags of potato chips, and a real-life can of Spam. She was afraid to open it and see what processed meat actually looked like. As far as she was concerned, enough innocent animals had been sacrificed in this place. Though it did give her pleasure to remember that Gabriel qualified as an animal, and was not at all innocent, should he really make her angry again.

Gabriel looked at her a moment longer, his head cocked in the way he had when he was thinking deeply about something. Hope rose in her that he might be about to end this ridiculous standoff. But in the end he simply gave a soft sigh, a barely perceptible shake of his head, and turned to go.

"Well. I've got to get back. Getting busy down there, and one of the barmaids never showed, so we're short-handed. Need anything else?"

"Yes," she blurted before she could stop herself. Gabriel turned back, his brows arched in curiosity. This non-conversation, in all its lack of nuance and variation, had become their little routine. She'd just broken the pattern. No one was more curious to see exactly how far she'd run with it than her, though. Because in truth, she didn't have a single clue why she'd said it.

All Rowan knew was, she'd had about enough of seeing the backside of Gabriel MacInnes. No matter how cute it was.

They stood staring at each other for tense seconds as Rowan wracked her brain for something semi-intelligent to need. Gabriel, she noted, had at least lost a little of the studied disinterest in his expression. Though Rowan wished he didn't look suspiciously amused, since it was definitely at her expense.

"Well?" he finally prodded her.

"Clothes," she said. It was the first thing that had come into her mind ... well, almost... but once the word was spoken she discovered it was true. She was sick to death of looking wretched, feeling miserable. The Dyadd took meticulous care of themselves, and so had she for most of her life. Beautifying the outside now would at least make her feel more like herself, and would hopefully bring back some of the surety with which she had always steered her own life. Maybe she could find a salon as well, Rowan thought with a welcome spark of excitement. It would be lovely to be pampered again.

If Gabriel was inclined to oblige her. And that, judging by the pained expression on his face, was by no means certain.

"Clothes?" he repeated, as though he didn't actually want the definition of that word to register. Rowan put her hands on her hips, ready to fight for this. Her instincts were true. A shopping trip was just what she needed. And damn it, after spending a week in this dingy apartment wearing men's sweats, she was going to get it.

"I came to Iargail with nothing. Over a week later, what I have acquired," she continued, sweeping her hand down her well-worn ensemble with her nose wrinkled, "amounts to possibly less than that. You get to go out. I've been good about it, but I don't. I need some air, Gabriel."

"Clothes?" he asked again, sounding doubtful. Rowan just barely restrained herself from smacking him, but she almost lost it when he examined her outfit as though he couldn't quite understand what was wrong with it. Half of the man's closet was probably ten years old, she reminded herself, and he seemed to think that his collection of bowling shirts amounted to dress wear.

He was hopeless. That didn't mean she had to be.

"You know this place," she said, trying for patience in her tone. "Pick a spot if you don't want to come with me, then give me a time and pick me up."

He shook his head. "Not alone. It's a bad idea."

Rowan gritted her teeth. "I need to get out of this damned apartment. I could just go anyway, but I'm trying to be diplomatic about this so you don't freak out." And also so I don't have to rob a hank to get some new shoes, she silently added.

"I never freak out," he grumbled, hunching up his shoulders and scowling like a petulant five-year-old. It was, Rowan supposed, the ugly flipside of his often childlike enthusiasm. Being just plain childish.

"Well, whatever," Rowan said with an impatient wave of her hand. She didn't want to waste any more time arguing. The prospect of a little bit of freedom after all of this claustrophobia had her itching to just run out the door. "Come on, Gabriel. You have your pub. I have a general wearing a tutu." She pointed at the television so he could get the whole visual. The sudden curve of his lips and twinkle in his eyes was a decidedly unwelcome distraction, since her mind jumped quickly from putting new clothes on to just plain taking off the ones she had on.

Since that wasn't going to do either of them any good at this point, Rowan forced herself to look away. She hadn't forgiven him for not understanding her. For expecting her to accept him and his decisions unconditionally, when there was so much standing in the way of that just to begin with.

Of course, she thought uncomfortably, she hadn't exactly been forthcoming about where Bastian was, or the bargain Lucien wanted to strike for his safety. The bargain she was all but certain she was going to take, unless a chance to destroy him presented itself first. But she'd decided right away that telling Gabriel and the rest of his Pack would just complicate everything, endanger everyone instead of just her. Of that she was still certain. Even if she was less so about her feelings on the matter.

Gabriel was watching her quietly, and she could tell he was mulling it over. Finally he sighed, and she knew she'd won. II was all she could do not to launch into a victory dance right there, but somehow she didn't think that would go over very well.

"All right," he said, though it obviously pained him. "I suppose you have been cooped up. But there's enough right on Main Street to keep you occupied, so stay close. And I'm giving you my cell so I can check in every hour, all right?" He must have seen her annoyance at that, because he rushed on with, "I mean, I wouldn't want to lose you. Or anything. Um. You never know who might follow you, and ..."

He kept talking, though Rowan quit listening. He was rubbing the back of his neck the way he always did when he was embarrassed or agitated, and it was distractingly sexy. It also told her that Gabriel had ceased to make any intelligible sense whatsoever, so it was safe to tune out. She wanted to tell him that no, it was not really all right to call her every hour, since she was a grown woman who hadn't required the services of a nursemaid for some time. But the flood of relief she'd felt at his answer, not to mention the bit about not wanting to lose her, kept her tongue in check. She still didn't know what to do with it, but she couldn't bring herself to be the least bit snide about it.