Deepwood Weald the birds and the bees and the cigarette trees

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The progression of Teaghlaigh to Hideaway Strath is slow but Arturo does not mind. It makes some of the others restless but Ceannasach focuses upon Lotte. She is heavily into her pregnancy and he worries about what the stress of moving will do to her …and their children. It is not ideal. Nothing about the fucking situation is ideal and he has made what he thinks is the best choice for his pack. What is best for their unborn children. Perhaps Blackfeather Woods would not return to their forest but it is but Arturo is too suspicious, too paranoid to believe that. He goes off of what he would do: he would pursue relentlessly so long as he knew where to find the culprits. He would pursue until he killed them all or he got what he wanted and he runs off the assumption that everyone will react like he does. In his business, he has to be that cautious. Mostly, Arturo doubts. He puts on a good face for the masses but there is a war brewing within him. He doubts his choice to uproot Teaghlaigh, he doubts that moving Lotte this late in her pregnancy — but the thought of losing her or his children is an unbearable one — he doubts his choice to make Olive and Dakarai disgraced. The punishment will be decided by The Family once they are within the safety of Hideaway Strath. If there is one thing he is endlessly grateful for it is that Hemlock has returned to them …he only hopes she can help Lotte. He feels a small ease of his worry at the knowledge that an expert medic is with them once again.

Arturo is pulled from his concern, the terse tug of his lips forming into a half-hearted smile as his queen brushes against him, her sides rotund with their children press against the svelte lank of his own. He swears that he feels one of them kick. The moment quickly turns for the worst as Lotte looks at him with desperation that seizes around his heart like a hand intent on squeezing it until it bursts. He draws in a sharp hiss of a breath as she hiccups his name and confesses her own plaguing thoughts seconds before she bursts into tears. The gangster swallows thickly. He has never been good with tears. He is quick to nuzzle up against her acting on instinct to soothe her the way he might soothe a child: with his presence, the touch of his body a silent confirmation that he was there. “I’m sorry,” Arturo’s deep, smoky, accented timbre is thick with emotion, with the burden that he carries upon his broad shoulders. Her tears disarm him, destroy him and it causes a flare of protectiveness and anger in his chest where it settles and burns insistently near his heart. The choice to move The Family was his, that is his fault. That he takes responsibility for, but that is all he will shoulder the blame for. “The Strath is beautiful, nightingale. Our children will be safe there, protected by the earth and by The Family.” He murmurs into her neck as he nuzzles his muzzle there, attempting to pepper kisses where he can reach upon her jaw. “Dagfinn is your other half, Lotte. I think he will always know where to find you.” Arturo croons to his wife in an attempt to soothe her, or at least stifle her tears. But he has never been good at these types of things. He rather feels like he is fumbling around in the dark but he tries for her.

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