Emberwood Not The Plan

"No," he responded softly, coming to a sit a few feet away from the female, wishing to further display his unwillingness to worsen her condition— that was, unless she wanted him to put her out of her misery. But though the female (who he could tell had been very striking in her prime) looked beaten, she certainly did not seem prepared to die or beyond help; it was the type of thing that drew out the paternal alpha in him, and without meaning to, he thought about Octavia and knew he would extend the same help here that he had offered previously to the last injured female he had come across. And the one before that— the red little minx whose name he had never received.

He looked over her faded gilded fur, noticing that a lot of her face had not been tended to, if only because her tongue could not touch the areas that needed it. "Your face needs tending. Would you like my assistance, queen?" he said, using the term he had been taught to refer to she-wolves her age, who were only good for child-bearing and story-telling as far as he was concerned, but were to be respected regardless.