Ravensblood Forest you found me and i found you

lame post is lame but i wanted to get a little something up! <3

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Arturo seeks out @Lotte, doubling back to their den in the thin hope that he might find her there. He doubts he will ever actually find her stationed there until it is close to and following the birth of their children. Arturo does not dream of ever encouraging Lotte to be idle and he trusts her to keep herself and the babes growing within their womb safe even if it goes against her fighting nature. Then again, Arturo had never pegged Olive for the type to blindly put her own children in danger either and well… as far as it was told she had done just that with Blackfeather Woods; but to compare the two women is unfair to both of them and much like comparing a rain storm to a hurricane. Not even remotely similar. He tucks those thoughts away: when he is with Lotte he does not want to think about his worry, about the sting of what he perceives to be betrayal, the shattering of his trust in them. The wolves of the Wood have yet to make a move but Arturo is not a beast to underestimate potential enemies and he does not breathe easy by silence. He does not want to taint his happiness, afraid that it is as fragile as it feels by thinking of the weight he bears. He knows Olive and Dakarai are unhappy with him and he does care but it does not change the way the gangster perceives nor feels about the situation. Lotte is his partner, his equal in every aspect that she can be and yet he does not allow her to shoulder the burden with him. He deals with it for the simple sake of not wanting to put stress on Lotte while she is pregnant.

“Nightingale,” He calls to her, unsure if she is near but hoping that she is so that she might hear his beckon and join him.

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The smoke-and-shadow rogue had become somewhat obsessed with digging dens, though whether its cause was the strange welter of emotions that plagued her or the desire to nest was anybody’s guess. At the sound of Arturo’s beloved pet name for her, she emerged from the underbrush, wearing an impish expression. “Turo,” she purred warmly, snaking her body against her husband’s. Her pregnancy was in too early a stage to properly bear evidence of their loving, but her plush sides had begun to fill out and her fur had all but grown back; it was a hale and healthy female who looked up at Ceannasach with laughing eyes.

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His queen nightingale appears from the underbrush like a vision and Arturo sees her with the adoration of a blind man seeing the sun for the first time. Though he has thought it impossible every day his love for Lotte grows until he is afraid one day it might just swallow him whole. Lotte has become so much apart of his life, apart of him as a being that he refuses to imagine any life without her. Arturo never went forth with the intention of falling in love and had been certain that he was incapable of it. He is grateful that Lotte proved his belief on love wrong, and he is grateful for her, grateful that by some twist of fate she loves him too. She glows with pregnancy, not fully rounded yet but he swears he sees a baby bump and for a moment Arturo’s breath is stolen from him as he admires her radiant beauty in a new way even if she is covered in debris of foliage and dirt. “Lotte.” The smoky timbre of his voice is a low purl as it leaves his lips as he feels her body move against his. He holds still for her, breathing in her scent as it surrounds him. It is much easier for him to focus on what he should be happy about, on what he should be celebrating when she is around. As it is, he already feels the tension begin to melt away in his shoulders as he settles his mind on not being Ceannasach but as Lotte’s husband and a father-to-be.

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Ever since Olive and Dakarai had returned to Teaghlaigh, Lotte had grappled with a strange weight comprised of jealousy, frustration, and guilt. “I stood shoulder to shoulder with you as you claimed this forest,” the pallid mother had said — and where had Lotte been, month after long month? Languishing in a forest without contributing anything of value to the noitakuningatar and her ilk, waiting for Arturo to come to her.

And now Donnelaith was ash and the witch queen — just a child, younger than Lotte! — was gone.

The singed songbird had never really taken the time to mourn the loss of her first home in the Teekons or the wolves who’d inhabited it. So much of Lotte was focused on the present — on survival — and this weird emotional weakness, this dwelling on things that she had no control over, was new and irritating. She was irrationally upset that Arturo hadn’t told her about Olive’s pregnancy, for his phrasing had hinted at a previous conversation: “I see you two have made your decision, and you should know that mine has not changed.” She was irrationally angry that Ceannasach’s children would not be the first to walk through Teaghlaigh’s ruddy halls, and for that she blamed herself and her own physical immaturity. She was downright petulant that Arturo’s first foray into fatherhood since his first children were born was corrupted and made brittle by pack politics. On top of all the inanity, though, Lotte was deeply worried about the consequences of what had transpired between her Family and the Blackfeather wolves — this, at least, was rational.

All of this had dropped from her mind at the sight of her espresso-and-cream love, but its resurgence was slow and inexorable. She pushed it forcibly from her mind at the look of contentment on his black-masked face, realizing he needed the respite as badly as she did, and set about offering what comfort she could. Circling him slowly, she covered him in kisses, her tongue and teeth gently preening at the fur along his sides and spine; she mouthed lovingly at his nape, resting her chin across his lean shoulders before completing the circuit, turning to face him. She wanted to cuddle, to tuck herself beneath his chin — Lotte was a large, fluffy wolf, but she could fold herself remarkably and make herself smaller when she wished — but more than that, she wanted to look at him. She sprawled onto the ground, rolling onto her back to brace her forepaws on the sharp angles of his elbows, and looked up at him with moonbright eyes. They shone like mirrors, reflecting Arturo in miniature form back at him, and crinkled at the corners as she smiled.

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Their children, still within her womb, have no place yet in Family business, nor would they for the first few months of their lives. He has always thought of his Teaghlaigh as a well oiled machine and accordingly Arturo acknowledges that it well not always run so smooth. It certainly hasn’t the past month or so. There were shattered cogs and debris in between the teeth of the machine that disrupted everything. As it is, he is still not sure that it is completely back to pristine, working order but it is, at least, working. He is like the mechanic: that works on it with undeniable love for the machine though he feels great frustration and ire at times at it. He thinks sometimes about walking away in the tantamount of his ire and frustration, to let it crumble and rust away to nothing but he knows he never will. He knows, like the mechanic, that without him the machine will not run and that even if it did no one could ever, truly, replace him. He loves Teaghlaigh, and he loves Ravensblood Forest, and though they do not always see eye to eye he loves the wolves that make up the Family. They are Family and Arturo Fearghal does not abandon family (technically his leaving of Quicksilver Hollow was not abandonment as it was pre-meditated and discussed).

His thoughts are far away for a few moments but he feels the kisses Lotte offers him, the preen of her tongue and her teeth against his fur that leaves him with a delicious shudder that slithers down his spine. The gangster makes a low noise in his throat that forms into “I love you.” in the smoky timbre of his voice, murmured low, meant for her and her alone though in truth Arturo does not care who hears his declaration. Arturo Fearghal has never been a man good with expressing his emotions but he wants to remind Lotte that he loves her frequently so that she might never forget. He watches her with his flame touched irises as she sprawls upon the ground and rolls to her back, looking up at him. Mindful of the babes in her womb he moves to hover over her, bowing his head down towards her so that he might brush his muzzle and tongue against the curve of her chest. “I love you,” He murmurs again, before with a smirk that would do the devil proud he moves his muzzle to her cheek where he hopes to let a love nip. “I love you, Lotte.” He whispers a final time, his muzzle close to her ear before he draws back some. “Have you felt them move, yet?” He asks, meaning the product of their love: their children growing within her.

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“I love you, Turo,” the silver-tongued bard murmured solemnly, a thread of steel in her mellifluous timbre. She could not speak glibly of love — not when he looked at her like the devil himself. A low, humming murmur of pleasure spilled from her smiling lips as her husband’s tongue swept brazenly along the swell of her breast, turning her next words into an alluring purr: “Mm, no — but I know they are only biding their time. I know.” The glint in her moonbright eyes was wicked; she and Arturo had worked very hard to ensure that her first estrus cycle wasn’t wasted, after all. “I will carry our babes to term and they will terrorize the Teekons,” she swore, craning her neck to preen lovingly at her flank. Her eyes were soft and warm as they looked up at Ceannasach with a measure of pride. “Furiosa — she told me it is queens who bear the children, and believed I would be so well-suited for motherhood that I would one day have a crown.” In a rare moment of vulnerability, Lotte looked shyly up at her husband.

“The name ‘Mallaidh’ reminds me of Doe and Szymon,” she ventured, referring to the Irish song “Molly Malone” that she’d sung for him upon first mention of the name, “and although I only met Furiosa once, I would like our girl to have her name. Mallaidh Furiosa Fearghal — may she have all of Furiosa’s loyalty, all of Doe’s warmth, and all of Szymon’s fierceness.” Her argent eyes prickled with unshed tears that she tried in vain to blink away. One of the side effects of pregnancy that she did seem to suffer from was being ridiculously emotional. It was better, she decided, than vomiting — she enjoyed food and wanted it to stay in her stomach, thank you very much — but it was certainly inconvenient.

“Rakas,” she added inanely, “I am sorry I took so long to come to Teaghlaigh and to reach my — my majority. I wanted our children to be the first. I thought they would be.”

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Though her return of his words of love were solemn they fill him with such joy and warmth. He is lucky to have found her and lucky still that his feelings are reciprocated. Though age has never been a big deal to him — he is not bothered that he is old enough to be her father but he had used to worry that it might bother her or that someone younger, more strapping might come along and steal her hurt from beneath him. He is secure enough in their love that he no longer thinks such things. Attention was one thing but love, Arturo feels that is much harder to steal. He is not concerned that she does not feel them moving yet …though this is not his first litter he is no midwife and is not sure when is too early for them to move. Arturo offers a soft, fond chuckle. “Do you feel ill at all?” He remembers that Duana suffered from awful sickness that did not cease until she had actually given birth which brought about his surprise that she had given birth to four healthy pups given how ill she’d been during the whole ordeal. He draws from that experience only because that is what it was: experience. Not enough for him to be actually helpful but then again he supposes that Duana’s struggle with pregnancy wasn’t normal and that he should not be drawing conclusions other to assure himself that Lotte’s will go smoother.

“I know you will.” Arturo speaks in a soft, smoky murmur with utmost confidence. He was worried at first, as they worked to conceive that she might not be well enough but her body had taken his seed and he tells himself that if she hadn’t been well enough that she might not have gone into heat at all. The mention of Furiosa brings a fond smile to the Fearghal gangster’s lips as Lotte speaks of her. Though she was definitely a force of nature Arturo misses her. “She is not wrong,” He agrees in a low purl. “perhaps she had a gift of prophecy.” For at that time none knew about Lotte: not even Chusi. He’d only told their daughter about Lotte when he was confident that his attempt at courting her would not end with rejection.

“Mallaidh Furiosa,” Arturo repeats it, testing it out on his tongue. His ears smooth back to rest at half mast atop his skull as he bows his head down to brush his muzzle against her own and offer her a kiss to her cheek, smoothing his tongue against her silken fur. “I like it,” He tells her. “I think Furiosa would too.” It was a good name. A strong name for an undoubtedly strong daughter. Arturo lifts his chin when Lotte begins to apologize, his fiery gaze looking at her face, seeking her ethereal moonbeam gaze: always able to temper the wild and destructive burn of his own gaze. She apologizes for irrational things: things that she cannot control. “Lotte,” He purrs her name in a low rumble of a soft chuckle. “Do not apologize.” He breathes to her, rejecting the words. “Everything comes in it’s own time,” Arturo attempts to soothe. “there is no limit to how long I would wait for you Lotte. I would have waited for you for forever if that was what it took.” Because he loved her and there was no one else that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. It was as simple as that.

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Lotte has been sick enough lately, so I am giving her a reprieve during this pregnancy. XD

“I will not be ill,” Lotte assured her love with a saucy wink. “Dorthe — Dagfinn’s and my äiskä — never got sick in the early stages of pregnancy; our father always said she took to motherhood like a fish to water.” Dorthe Ansbjørn had always been frank with her daughters about heat, fertility, and motherhood, and Lotte knew enough to know that immunity to morning sickness was not necessarily hereditary — but the idea of being sick again after the winter she’d spent was too disheartening even to consider. Besides that, in many ways, the soot-stockinged rogue was an optimist. She’d deal with the nausea if it caught up with her, but she imagined that as long as she was putting all that extra food to good use — and she was — her body wouldn’t see reason to expel it. Sighing softly, she leaned into her mate’s gentle caress, drinking in his scent and savoring the knowledge that only she was privy to this sweet softness.

“If we’d had to wait any longer,” Lotte murmured, a low rumble of displeasure at the very thought of it ticking like a time bomb beneath the warm, rich alto of her words, “I would have called upon all of my strengths to bend time to my will.” Patience was one of her assets as an battle-trained Enok wolf — but it wasn’t one of her natural strengths. She nestled against Arturo, preening lovingly at the fur at the nape of his neck, gently untangling a snarl at the base of one ear just above the sharp angle of his jaw.

Heat or no heat, her husband was irresistible.

“You bespell me,” purred the young mother-to-be with a giddy sigh. She wanted to ask him about important matters — about her role in Teaghlaigh and about the return of Olive and Dakarai and about the role Chusi would play as a big sister and as Ríchíosa — but she danced around them, granting Arturo and Lotte a few more treasured moments of peace and quiet before politics put new tension in Ceannasach and Banríon’s shoulders. “Are you a betting man, Ceannasach?” she drew out teasingly, the tip of her tongue tracing the bulb of his ear to its tip in a fond caress. “How many children do you think we’ll have, and what genders will they be?” She wondered whether she’d be able to tell what she would have. It seemed like an interesting game, to place bets on their children, and whether or not it was unconventional didn’t really matter to her. The possibilities were endless. Fur color, eye color, personality, chosen trades…

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Arturo’s queen assures him that she will not be ill with a wink that tugs the edges of the gangster’s lips upwards and draws a soft noise of amusement from his throat. She speaks it with a confidence that is nothing short of admirable and startling. Despite himself Arturo does allow himself to feel reassured as she speaks that her mother took to pregnancy as a fish takes to water: naturally. She preens him and Arturo relishes in her touch with a soft rumble of contentment. He allows himself this. In the chaos of everything happening around them in Teaghlaigh he allows himself to be stolen by his wife. He needs it. Though Arturo is strong willed, though he is resilient, though he endures he wonders again how easy it would be for them to just leave. To find somewhere they are not known, some place quiet where Lotte can have their children and they can raise them without the burden of all the other lives they are in charge of. These thoughts are extremely selfish and Arturo knows he will not leave Teaghlaigh. It is tempting but he is too ambitious. Arturo cannot relinquish his quest for control for long.

“And here I thought that you were the one that bewitched me,” Arturo teases her with a light nip to the junction of where her jaw and throat meet. “Mmm, I may be,” He purls in response to her inquiry. “but betting implies that there is something to be won.” He speaks with a low chuckle, wondering what sort of stakes she had in mind. “My eldest children were an even mix. Two boys and two girls.” He informs her, unsure if he has ever spoken of his older children to her. She knows he has them, and she knows of Duana — Arturo does not hide his past from her, preferring to be honest with the woman who is his literal everything — but he does not remember if he has ever gone into detail. Perhaps he has: it is hard to say for he finds himself lost and pleasantly distracted by his young wife. “so it is hard to say.” Especially since he only has one litter previous to the one growing within Lotte’s womb currently. “What are your thoughts?” He asks, unable to help but wonder if she has an unfair advantage as she is the one carrying them and might instinctively know somehow.

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“There is always something to be won,” Lotte rejoined, honest surprise glimmering within her argent eyes as she regarded her husband. Arturo’s nightingale had grown up in a competitive world where battle glory and boasting rights were just as important as the spoils of war themselves. Trophies and pelts, trinkets and food — all of these things were ephemeral and would decay over time. Songs and stories, though, and the pride gleaned from being able to say years later, “Oh, hey, remember that time I predicted that all of our kids would be astronauts and you laughed at me? Who’s laughing now, huh?!” lasted forever.

She laughed, a warm, mellifluous ripple of sound. “My thoughts? I think there can be no bet on number or gender,” she chuckled. “I am from a litter of two boys, two girls: Bård and Dagfinn, Tove and me.” Lotte sprawled out on the ground beside her black-masked love, rolling onto her back with an inviting, undulating whine and an appealing wriggle. “Come and laze with me, Turo,” she begged, a smile in her eyes, “and — will you tell me about your children?” She felt no shame in the age difference between herself and her fiery-eyed husband, but she was curious as to what traits he’d passed on. “Are they like you? You do not speak often of them — or of Duana.” She didn’t really mind that part so much, but now that she was pregnant with his children, she did want to know about the mother of his eldest. “I am doing research,” she said coyly. “Then we can bet on other things — colors, personalities, hobbies.”

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Arturo agrees with her deduction though he speaks nothing. She is right, though. There is no way for them to determine how many or what gender they will be. They will see when the time comes for them to be born into the world, but Arturo knows that he will love them all regardless. He’s always been harder on his boys, admittedly and tended to spoil his daughters but he thinks that perhaps he should spoil less …if Chusi is any indication of what happens when he spoils too much. There are many days where Arturo worries that in his desire to give her everything her biological parents did not that he has ruined her. The Fearghal monarch does as his Queen bids, stretching out beside her in a sphinx like position, their bodies pressed lightly against one another. He is hyperaware of the babes within her and fears that too rough a touch, or press of his flank against hers might somehow hurt them. “Bowie was my first born. Bain and him look a lot alike. I expect they take after Cynbel in colors,” Arturo begins, his mind going back to what he remembers of his eldest son. “He’s strong, independent. I haven’t seen him since I left the Hollow,” but this does not raise Arturo’s concern. His children are Fearghal’s — they have greatness in them. “Bain is my second born. He was always sly and sassy. A hot-head, a show off, but he’s dedicated.” Arturo speaks of him with a soft half laugh. “He lived on Ankyra Sound for some time but he was gone before the pack disbanded.” Arturo tells her with a soft smile. “Cearney, my eldest girl. She is melanistic like me. Diplomatic, polite, curious. I have not seen her in many moons, either.” But like his other children he suspects she has moved on from this place, too. “Last but never least is Devin, my youngest. She was always sort of my favorite child,” Arturo admits with a sheepish laugh. “She is white as snow, blue eyed to boot. Takes after my mother. Spunky, rebellious. Sort of like Chusi but not. I don’t remember Devin ever being as bad as Chusi.” He has his concerns about Chusi’s open disobedience and defiance but that is another worry for another hour. These hours were for Lotte.

“Duana,” He supposes this would have came up. If not now than surely eventually. He has been forthcoming with his life before and her curiosity should not come as a surprise. He has avoided speaking of his ex-lover to Lotte for many reasons, but mostly because he does not wish her to worry. He’d never loved Duana. Had never thought he was a man capable of love until he’d met her (Lotte). “We met while I was recruiting for the first incarnation of Teaghlaigh. At first our attraction was lust for we met during her heat cycle and I am sure given my eldest children you can assume what occurred between us,” Night after night, in fact. “When she told me she was carrying my children I did what I thought was right. I took her into Quicksilver Hollow and together we raised the children but never as mates. We respected one another but that was about all that was between us. When they were old enough we went out own ways: I came to these Wilds and she remained behind, I presume.” It was not exciting, there was no romance, no adventure. It was a partnership borne out of duty and little else.

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Lotte listens quietly as Arturo begins to speak of his eldest children, her broad muzzle pillowed upon the ashen ruff that rings her throat as she watches with rapt attention the subtle changes in his black-masked face. His richly accented timbre is music to her ears, and the way his expression softens and warms as he speaks of children enchants her. She smiles when he does, laughs when he does — and it is not a farce but an honest mirroring of his mirth, reflected back to him in equal measure. It pleases her that Arturo does not cling too tightly to his children; she abhors the idea of keeping one’s offspring close and closeted until they no longer know how to navigate the world alone and hopes that her children will be as independent as she and her siblings have grown to be. “Chusi is not bad,” she protests gently, misunderstanding his use of the word. “Headstrong and defiant, yes — perhaps she became your heir too soon.”

Oddly enough, although Lotte searches herself for vestiges of jealousy and spite toward Duana, she can find none. She supposes that her jealousy toward Olive exists mainly because the woman is vividly present, the swell of her pregnancy and the cloying thickness of her sweet, milky scent constant reminders to the competitive rogue that she is second place when it comes to this particular race. “I am glad,” she says sleekly, almost smugly, “that we found pleasure in one another before my heat cycle.” Her wily, feminine smile and half-lidded eyes sparkle with frank sensuality. Lazily, her thoughts circle back around to Chusi. She does not share the same level of concern as Arturo does, and that is probably to be expected; Arturo is speaking from a conflicting place as both the girl’s adopted father and her Ceannasach.

“A wolf who cannot commit to Teaghlaigh’s tenets cannot be its heir,” she says in a deceptively mild tone. “Any wolf. Ceannasach’s word is law — and Chusi is not just our daughter. She is a young woman now, old enough to be considered fully grown where I am from, and so you are not just her father but her Ceannasach.” Lotte smiles up at her black-masked love. “Lærke is Dagfinn’s and my isoveli — our big brother — and we would not be Ansbjørns if we had not heckled him mercilessly at every turn. At the end of the day, though, he was our commander — and if he gave us an order, we obeyed it.” Lotte and Dagfinn weren’t as willful in their youth as Chusi seems to be, but the fact remains. “She would benefit from a task or a goal,” Lotte muses. “I want the children from my body to see the world and challenge limits and climb mountains and swim in the sea — I want the same for Chusi.” Shyness puts shadows in her silver eyes as she looks up at her mate. “I know you do not like mountains,” she says, “but I told her I would teach her to climb in the spring. I think it would be better to teach her and be there to watch her than if she tried to learn on her own.”

She summed up with, “If Chusi is defiant, she should be put to work. If she wishes to climb mountains, I will see that she trains her muscles until she is strong enough; if she wishes to defend Dakarai and Olive’s actions, she should be made to explain her position — and to do the grunt work of bringing them food and helping learn to care for their ills. She does not understand that her choices have physical consequences.” Lotte shook her head. “The wolves of these wilds are so soft — especially the females. They would not last a day in the Enok Tundra.”

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“She assured me she was ready, but I should have not been so haste to believe her,” He speaks his thoughts aloud, glad that he is not the only one that has come to that conclusion. “She wishes to be a free bird then she will have it but not in the rank of Heir. She will not be happy but I do not think she is or was ready for the responsibilities of her position.” Not while she defied him. Not while she disobeyed him in front of his wolves. She was not Ceannasach and Arturo was not just her father. If she did not learn what disobedience costs from Dakarai and Olive then she might be the next risking the life of The Family. She can be a free bird but she has to know where her limits are when she pushes him. She needs to learn what it means to be a subordinate before she can ever hope of being a leader or else she would never understand. In his desire to give her everything he felt she deserved Arturo acknowledges that he has given Chusi too much.

“As am I, nightingale,” The gangster murmurs to his queen, nuzzling his muzzle against her neck. Not that he expected anything to change. He loves her. He will love her after her heat cycles, when she is round with his children, when she is old and grey. He will love her in this lifetime and into the lifetimes that came after. Their conversation switched back to Chusi, though and Arturo listens dutifully to his wife’s word, agreeing to them. Arturo has made his stance on mountains very clear to Chusi and though he thinks he explained why he detests them to her he does not remember ever confessing it to Lotte. “I think the issue she has gone from child to a position of power without the natural transition from child to subordinate and then to power as heir. She needs to learn what it is to be a subordinate before she can ever hope to be a leader.” Or else none would follow her. He would deal with his daughter’s ire and upset later, though. He waits until Lotte is finished speaking before his own lips part to speak.

“There is a reason I do not like mountains, Lotte,” He tells her grimly, turning away from her to stare ahead, losing himself in the nightmarish flashes of memory that were Riptide. He does not remember what happened while he was Riptide but he remembers the parasite, remembers being two different wolves inside one body. “I fell from Ravenshook Cliffs. Any higher and it would have killed me but on my tumble down I hit my head,” He does not like speaking of it. His body tenses as if he prepares for the internal war that he has tried to forget. He does not think nor speak of Riptide for fear that the parasite would return. “While my mind healed I developed a…second personality a…parasite, I suppose you could it. He called himself Riptide. I have no memories of what was done when I was him,” And if there was one thing that terrified Arturo it was not being in control. Something he was inertly meticulous about. “It is almost a year since I have been the parasite but I fear that speaking of him, thinking of him might trigger his return.” It a demon that Arturo has to live with on a daily basis. Keeping his mind busy helps, but the doubt that he is truly gone always lingers, somewhere.

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Lotte listens quietly to her husband’s worries, her heart aching for the conflict that has stolen away their idyllic union. For a brief, selfish moment, she resents that she and Arturo are disallowed from taking time to themselves — that their time together is weighed with stress and clouded with uncertainties. But she buries these things, casting her resentment aside in favor of joy. Against Blackfeather Woods’ possible retaliation she sets her love for Arturo and Chusi, for the life that has yet to stir within her, and for their future together — no matter what it holds. She counterbalances his grim stare with a warm, enduring smile and sparkling argent eyes, and grooms companionably at his burnished agouti pelt with tender lips.

“Take heart, rakas, my love. Kaikki tulee olemaan hyvin,” Lotte croons soothingly, as if the incantation of both Tundran and Common are better to healing his unease. “Chusi may not be ready right now, but you and I are young and strong. We will live long enough to see her come fully into her own — and they,” she murmured, swinging her muzzle toward her plush flank, “will change her. She is not an isosisko yet, but she will be, and she has a protective streak as wide as her father’s.”

A shudder runs the length of her sinuous spine at the thought of Arturo falling from the cliffs and she shakes her head in mute dismay as she circles her body around her mate’s and presses near to him despite his averted gaze. “You are Arturo Fearghal, strong as two bears — no, three — a nobleman with a gangster’s guise — or is it the other way around?” She bathes his face in kisses, trying to pull him back to her and to the present. “You are mine,” she reminds him with a saucy nip to the underside of his devastatingly masculine jaw, “and if anyone seeks to take you, I will take you back.” She isn’t so far along that she can’t distract him — and distract herself — with an act so passionate not even a parasite could interfere, and she moves against him with sensual desire, her tail flirting with his. Her snout presses against his flesh — she touches him everywhere, tastes the salt that drifts in from the bay, kisses him wickedly. “Here is mine — and here — and here — and I will let no one and nothing steal you away,” she whispers to him, her fangs grazing the tip of his ear on a breathy growl.

“Surely, you do not doubt my strength, Turo?”

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Whatever reaction Arturo expects from his confession of his lapse of sanity for how many others months he had dealt with Riptide Lotte does not conform to it. Instead of being weary, as he expects her to be, she takes on a ferocity that makes shivers run down his spine. “A gangster with a nobleman’s guise,” He corrects her lowly, with a small smirk tugging at his lips. She claims possession of him, leaving a heated nip to the underside of his jaw. Arturo’s breath is ragged as he draws it in through his nose. As she states that she will take him back, he does not say what he thinks: that matters of the mind does not quite work like that but he undoubtedly appreciates the sentiment all the same. “Nothing will keep me away from you,” He murmurs, adding his own declaration to her own, the smoky timbre of his voice husky with desire as she leaves a heated trail of touches and kisses, and a nibble of his ear. He cannot resist her …not that he wants to resist her. She has made her intent clear to him and he wants her as badly as he believes she wants him. “Never.” The gangster breathes as he makes a partial circle around her, intent on spending the rest of their stolen hours in heated, passionate, carnal embrace until their focus is called back to their duties as gangster and gangster queen.

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