Swiftcurrent Creek dogs howling at the moon

She very vainly assured him he needn’t worry and he laughed. I’ve known few young alphas who’ve had to chase their own tail, he imparted, as if he thought it was adorable for her to be stringing a plethora of eligible bachelors along and musing with amusement that part of their drooling at her feet was due to her rank, which implicitly contrived her as a prize to be coveted. He imagined the fur would fly in several months when she became receptive to the attempts of these suitors, but he was of the mind that he would likely not be around to see it happen. She certainly had a gigantic little head about it, which earned her a smirk of roguish approval from the tawny scoundrel. If she were humble he might have found her boring.

She went on to ask him how the Creek was treating him, as though it was supposed to one way or another by now, but her trailing off just as she mentioned Serengeti made a perfect excuse to dance around the answer. Oh, the white one? he asked dead-pan, giving the joke one last dash before he was quite sure enough was enough (even for him), flirting with her limits more than anything. He still didn’t know why he’d been summoned by the rusty-coloured little spitfire. You’d have to ask her. She isn’t my wife or my mother, so I’m not expected to call her every twenty minutes to find out how she’s doing.