Stavanger Bay may we all die twice

I am a seashell, she thinks, furious in her own mind but outwardly, still stoic and still still. I am a seashell.

But she is a wolf, and she can't stop the irritable flap of her ear as it responds to the strange new stimuli of the man's voice. Something deep inside of her aches for it, because she is not a seashell, and she still remembers the kind, sonorous voice of Szymon, and the deep resonating bass of an unnamed darkness that'd sometimes guarded her in her sleep. When the darkness had reigned, Doe had treated her like one of her own.

But those times are far-away and fuzzy in her memories, and the flap of her ear is the only reaction she gives the strange male.

I am a seashell, she tells herself again, but an unspent shiver of longing boils up in her belly, and she wishes that she could be a wolf.