Stavanger Bay her early leaf's a flower

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Doe’s voice, low and warm, rounded out Szymon’s praise — “you were wonderful, Qilaq,” — and there it was again: that fierce, heady rush of triumph and pride. Though he continued to roughly groom their girl, shifting his weight more comfortably onto his opposite shoulder to let the girl nestle her quaking body against his torso and abdomen, he sneaked a peek at his willful wife. The demure repentance that rested upon her sharp, coyote-like features and colored her affectionate timbre was something he had never witnessed before — and there was something about it that pleased him on a deep, instinctual level. Szymon was no tyrant, but he was a Cairn — and an insecure one at that. Perhaps as he aged, he would continue to gain confidence and therefore not require reassurance when it came to his place in the pack and in Doe’s esteem; however, in the wake of Qilaq and Doe’s Drop, he needed it badly. Over their daughter’s trembling back, Szymon paused his ministrations to stretch his muzzle toward Doe’s, his tongue seeking to caress the tapered angle of her jaw. “Never, Qilaq,” he reassured the shivering child, his eyes locked fervently on his mate’s. “You and Amayo are my life.” He returned to his task, slicking saltwater from the newly blessed girl’s coat.

After a beat, Szymon furrowed his brow in thought, then paused long enough to mutter, “I love you both.”

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