Hideaway Strath one microscopic cog in his catastrophic plan

It is intuition and not any particular lack of stealth on Arturo’s part that causes Lotte to whip around, defensively swiveling her hips so that she stands at a slight diagonal to the imagined assailant with every tooth in her mouth spelling out malice in glittering alabaster. When she discovers that it is her husband and not a threat, though, she feels — a little embarrassed, honestly. Her moods have been so erratic; not even she can keep up with herself. “I love you,” she blurts out, the lingering growl ticking in her throat turning her promise of affection guttural and gruff. “I have to — ” Her attention flicks distractedly toward the log for a second investigative glance, but it is not to her liking and she vents her frustration in a typically physical way; turning fully to Arturo, she butts her head insistently against him so that his chin rests atop her crown. She lingers this way for only the space of a moment before pressing deeper into the strath’s heart.

She is trying not to panic, but the urgency she feels is dizzying — overwhelming.

Two more logs and a strange rock formation are similarly investigated and rejected, and Lotte turns to her husband with a worried expression as she licks at her dry, cracked lips. She is thirsty and feverish, her pelt dusty from travel and her thin-stretched sides aching abominably. For a moment, the search is abandoned as she meanders back to the riverside with Arturo presumably in tow and drinks deeply.