Deepwood Weald you waiting at ho[m]e for me saying what time do you call this?

True to her nature, Lotte considered Arturo’s question seriously, nestling flush against his tall, lean frame while her heartbeat slowed to a normal rate and the strange, cloying feeling of vulnerability ebbed away. She needed his nearness desperately and busied herself with trying to press herself as close to him as she possibly could without shoving him clear out of the weald. “It was,” she said in a low, husky purr, “not at all as I thought it would be.” Lest he think she was disappointed, she hummed low in her throat, a thoughtful murmur, and explained herself: “I am not used to willingly relinquishing control — not to my body and certainly not to any other wolf. It was hard to let go.” A smile played about her lips as she turned to preen lovingly at his fur. “I thought I needed you — before — ” she said a bit clumsily, “but after — I need you just as much, rakas. Maybe more.” Absurdly, her throat grew thick and tight with emotion as she softly whined: “I want to come home with you. Not after winter — now.”

Turning her mind forcibly from the bleak season and the empty den that awaited her in Donnelaith, Lotte honed in on the present, drawing a deep and cleansing breath. She could sing her loneliness later — now was a time for joy. “It was the most wonderful thing,” she breathed rapturously, argent eyes aglow with love and sorrow and deep-seated contentment. “When can we do it again?” She slanted a wickedly mischievous glance up at the Fearghal. It never occurred to her to wonder about other conquests or lovers; although she would willingly — and eagerly! — fight off any females who approached now with the intention of wooing and winning the masked coywolf, his past wasn’t something she cared to pick over or scrutinize. She wanted his now — she wanted his someday. “You have created a monster, Arturo Fearghal,” she promised him boldly. “I will not be satisfied until I have mastered every way to please you.”