Wheeling Gull Isle sea fever

Coelacanth had always been a very tactile creature, depending on the language of touch to offer and seek comfort. After the long months of abuse and neglect, however, the idea of having another wolf so close to her — even safe wolves like Cascada and King — was utterly terrifying. The sheepdog’s feralized mind had deemed it too difficult to distinguish between aggression and asylum, so complete avoidance had become her modus operandi.

Seelie had progressed significantly since her revival at the water’s edge, and the first tickles of true joy and affection had begun to tease at her wounded heart and battered mind. Now and again, they broke through — and it was these little fissures that would eventually break down the walls that kept her trapped in the miniature copy of the Wolfskull that existed within her, an exquisitely crafted prison of her own making. A shy smile — not her first since arriving on the island, but the first she’d given to King — tipped up the corners of her lips.

He was so silly! The smile widened and broke, a whuffling giggle causing her emaciated flanks to quiver. Then, without thinking, she flowed forward on sprightly paws to touch the tip of her nose to one of the golden-eyed male’s leathery paw pads. The contact sparked alarmingly and she drew away almost immediately, but she had lingered long enough that neither of them could deny it had happened or chalk it up to simple happenstance.