Stavanger Bay everyone, step aside; this is the last warning

Presented with the creamy hollow of the witch doctor’s throat, Szymon experienced again the strange phenomenon that occurred whenever he was in possession of something particularly endearing or fragile — he felt quite acutely the strength of his jaws, knowing that if he wished it, he could crush that tantalizing curve and end her life. It was a sobering thought and a disturbing one — he would have killed any wolf who tried it and would never have done it himself — but the knowledge of his capabilities, though horrifying in practice, was merely something he accepted as truth. He felt no danger of losing control here and so he smoothed his tongue along the fur of her cheek with exquisite delicacy and traced small nibbles down the fur until he’d reached the coarser fur near her collarbone. He adjusted his position to accommodate her, pillowing her head and shoulders on his scarred forelegs, preening the fur of her throat as she spoke.

“Mine,” he growled, allowing his breath to heat the fur of her throat with a billowing rumble. He drew back, licking the sharp pinpoint of her muzzle with a contented grin. Her words stirred a fissure of unrest in his heart — the life of a Warsaw wolf was not a gentle one, and there were no guarantees that he would survive the battles that lay ahead in the claiming of the bay — but he could not find the words to tell her so. What he did say was, “I belong to you,” in the most even, fluent cadence he could muster. She would never be without him, as long as he lived.