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

Nestling closer still, “You are strong,” Doe said, the vibration engendered by her low, warm timbre teasing palpably along Szymon’s muzzle and face. The perfume of her — mint and pampas grass, lemon and salt — tangled headily in Szymon’s nostrils; he breathed her in deeply before drawing back to look upon her fully with sulphureous eyes full of the emotion for which he had no name and little understanding. “My words are yours,” he said honestly, his bass timbre resonant with the weight of his vow. His body and blood — and a great deal of his heart — belonged to Skellige and the Sea, but Doe had a hold on all of these things as well. His words, though, and the thoughts behind them belonged to no wolf but Doe. Skellige had always kept a special place in his blackened heart for his youngest sibling, but what they shared was deep, enduring devotion and rough affection — though they could not be precisely called affectionate by nature. The brothers, though close, did not talk in this way — their relationship, though fulfilling and absolutely vital to Szymon’s existence, was brusque and often businesslike. Doe was different — special — and fortunately seemed to share the fanatical devotion for the Leviathan.

All of the Cairn children hungered — they were selfish and ruthless, each of them craving something. For many of them, power was paramount. Szymon differed in that his burgeoning lust for power existed purely because of his feelings for Doe. Doe was his addiction — her affection was what he sought, selfishly and single-mindedly. The mere thought of her saying these things or being this close to Jaglon, Jagoda, or even Skellige irritated him — the reality of it terrified him. To Jaglon and Jagoda, Szymon owed no fealty — but he knew, too, that he could not best either of his heavily-muscled brothers in physical combat. And [i[Skellige[/i] was in another tier entirely. Not one of the Cairn brethren had been able to defeat Skellige; even in friendly spars where the broad-shouldered behemoth was going easy on them, he had been known to wreak havoc on the bodies of his opponents.

If the Leviathan wished for Doe to keep away from Szymon, the golden-eyed boy could see no getting around that.

Szymon could see no other solution aside from climbing the hierarchical ladder.

Bending his head, he smoothed his tongue along her tapered muzzle and the pert pinpoint of her chin, the exquisite care he always exercised with Doe evident in the meticulous slowness of his ministrations. “You have been b-busy,” he crooned, licking tenderly at her flopped-over ear and nosing at its base. In his simple statement was a question he did not ask outright — “what have you been up to?” — but the pause following it invited Doe to talk about her adventures.