Hideaway Strath nothing in comparison to that one minute

Eirlys’ protest was muted — a breathless little wail that ghosted feebly from her muzzle with an exaggerated push of her thin sides. The snowdrop was everything her eponym suggested she ought to be: delicate, fragile, and…frankly, a little droopy. She wasn’t as tenacious as her siblings when it came to nursing, and that was beginning to show — but it wasn’t for any lack of effort on Lotte’s part. Eirlys should have died. It was a miracle that she’d lived this long, but the young mother reasoned that the mingled Ansbjørn and Fearghal bloodlines had forged a thread of unbreakable steel in her children, and even her weakest daughter was not exempt. It was this steel that had pushed Eirlys to use her little turtle flippers and strike out on her own — and now it drove her to fight her father as she occasionally fought her siblings.

“Eirlys,” the ruthless gangster fairly cooed, casting a much different countenance than he had even on the day of his children’s birth, and although Eirlys couldn’t hear him she coincidentally moved toward him at exactly that moment, lending her the illusion of responding to his voice. Blunt puppy muzzle gaped as wide as it could go to attack her father’s toes before he drew her cozily against his chest, but she didn’t settle immediately. As it turned out, the snowdrop had a lot to talk about: she squeaked, she grunted, she snuffled, and she wormed around, instinctively trying to shove herself into the hollow of Arturo’s axilla.