Stavanger Bay catskills in january

Another word she didn't know. The man's voice was ice and silk, not meant to soothe despite the low volume at which it was spoken. Mannoah's legs shook with the strain of her readiness; she was very tired, very weak.

When would she sleep again? Would she ever be safe?

The wolf glowered and menaced, but made no move to attack. Mannoah's tail wagged hesitantly, a question. Will you kill me? Am I safe? she wondered, but there was no way to ask. Instead, she pushed haltingly to her paws, creeping forward in an uncertain attempt at peace. She did not want to touch the man, to anger him, but it seemed a good test of limitations.

It would tell her what was allowed, at least. Would she be allowed to rest, or driven at once from the territory? (Would they kill her? She still didn't know.)

The cold still bit at her toes, her ears. All she could think, feel, smell was the cold of the sea.