Hideaway Strath The sun caught in her raven hair Is blazing in me out of all control

“Minx,” Lotte accused at the saucy smirk on Hemlock’s face, her moonbright eyes narrowed with playful malice. Her hackles rose unbidden at the sultry growl that fairly purred from the Kali’s humming throat, every sense heightened to an impeccable level. It was only when Hemlock touched her that Lotte felt the first inklings of true guilt regarding Ran’s death and the lie she’d told — but she swallowed down the remorse and the tension and focused on the joy she could still see in the wise woman’s eyes. To preserve that joy, Lotte would do anything. She had given up her title, but she still felt it was her duty to provide for each wolf, and for Hemlock the former alpha harbored an especial liking. “Yes,” was her honest answer.

What she felt for the fireflower was different from pure physical attraction; it was the ownership of Hemlock that hit her in a carnal way. The healer was fierce and competent, steel-strong and sweetly vulnerable, and the combination of these things made her an ideal companion for the soturi — but there was a layer of trust there that made her different from other females. There would always be a sense of competition. That was simply the way the Leifteanant functioned. Still, despite the fact that the punch of raw sexual desire was reserved for her husband, there was an allure about Hemlock that she didn’t understand and couldn’t deny. It wasn’t in her to spent time puzzling it out. She just wanted to be lost in the sensation.

Craning her neck from this new vantage point, Lotte mouthed teasingly at Hemlock’s nape — an erogenous zone, she assumed, since Arturo would grip there with his teeth. “I want to see you happy,” she said honestly, her voice solemn and her eyes intent. “I crave your happiness. Say you will be happy, liekkikukka, and I will do anything.” She adjusted her stance slightly to try to encourage Hemlock to lean against her in a loose uppercase “T” shape, nibbling a meandering path along Hemlock’s ribcage and whuffing at the sensitive convex curve of her flank just before her hips. “He will hold you here,” she rumbled in a teasing under current, boldly pressing her tongue into the hollow of Hemlock’s hip and then licking against the grain to return to her nape, “and here. You need not fear.”

It was foolish, but Lotte realized quite suddenly that in owning them both, she was giving both of them away — and the feeling hit her like a punch to the gut. There was a sadness in her that she couldn’t afford to acknowledge or give in to, but it didn’t show on her black-masked countenance. “You must call for him when you are ready,” she urged her friend in a low, undulating murmur, “and I will be with you as long as you want me here. We will never forsake you.” With the heady rush often came vulnerability — something Lotte had disliked greatly — and she wanted Hemlock to feel surrounded by love and protection and comfort for the entirety of her season and her ensuing pregnancy.