Porcupine Ridge The hills of Hollywood on fire

The taste of Diane's blood and the weird, electric tingle of a wound against his tongue did nothing to dissuade the tawny beta from his task. He lost himself in the rhythm of lapping his tongue across her coarse coat to clean and soothe the angry welt below. It was the only healing technique the wolf knew and the only one he would ever accept, and it was as relaxing to the performer as it was the recipient. Such was his mindless focus that when Diane moved again, she startled him and the male jolted.

His surprise was short-lived for the nudge to his snout grounded him, and then she was testing the fur by his own wound. He flinched lightly, ever unsure, but relaxed when she rumbled something he could not comprehend. He had no reason to doubt Diane any longer, and her connection to the pack would only grow from here on out. The least the beta wolf could do was show her some trust and faith. He tilted his head, giving her access to his injury and allowing his eyes to drift closed in anticipation of the sting that would follow the initial touch.