Deepwood Weald you waiting at ho[m]e for me saying what time do you call this?

The exhilarating anticipation of lying in wait for the Ceannasach, compounded with the elation that sang through Lotte’s blood at finally having him near, freed itself in a rich, warm peal of laughter that bubbled mirthfully from her lips. “I have been missing you,” she realized in a breathless rush, nibbling lovingly at his cheek. Though she thought of Arturo often, the depth of her feeling for the fiery-eyed male was something she didn’t examine too closely. It wasn’t an avoidant behavior — it simply wasn’t Lotte’s way. The sense of rightness — of wholeness — that she felt clicking into place now was all the analysis she needed, and she found that she quite liked this daring, assertive side of the black-masked Fearghal. It pleased her to be pursued so ardently, and she responded in kind. Boldly she rubbed the bridge of her broad muzzle along the underside of his tapered one, eager tongue laving whatever part of his face she could reach as her coal-tipped tail stirred up a miniature whirlwind behind her.

“Arturo,” she breathed at last, her hindquarters dancing with the force of her wagging tail, “how are you? How is meidän päiväperhonen, minun pikkusisko Chusi?” Her thoughts went immediately to the little girl who must have grown so much, then to the new alpha who surely bore a great weight upon his shoulders. The soot-stockinged rogue nosed at Arturo perhaps too insistently as she took stock of him, her body sidling up against his in a catlike way as she circled him closely. Satisfaction settled within her impish smile as she drew away and looked up at him with starry argent eyes. He looked well, but she offered her shoulder to him anyway: “if you are burdened, Ceannasach,” she murmured, drawing the word out appealingly, “my shoulders are strong enough to help carry them, and my legs are strong enough to bear you up.”