Stavanger Bay Rogue Rouge

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His brother’s commanding presence was felt rather than seen; Szymon’s golden eyes continued to bore into the strange female with sharp wariness and growing interest. Even when his stance shifted to accommodate the Leviathan’s indisputable rank — tattered ears fanning back against his narrow skull before they drew attentively forward to catch the vagabond’s response; the high carriage of shoulders and spine relaxing to somewhere midway between neutral and dominant; the high-flying banner of his tail coming to rest just above the crest of his angular hips — he remained steadfastly trained upon the female who stood now in the greatest judgment she would ever stand in. He had nothing verbally to add; Skellige’s presence relieved him of the need to speak, for which he was grateful. A greedy smile of his own laced Szymon’s scarred lips.

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