Wheeling Gull Isle bermuda, bahama; come on, pretty mama

The tiny Groenendael trembles when he leans in towards her, and her submissive nature further appeals to his natural desire to protect. She makes herself vulnerable to him as she curves her body towards him and it lights a fire in him that had been temporarily extinguished by the ocean's wrath. Stockholm's eyes flutter closed briefly as Seelie buries her nose into the thick tangle of his fur, and as she tips her head back to gaze up at him he lowers his, draping his neck over her body as a soft rumble emanates from deep in his chest. I will keep you safe. I have lost everything, but I will not lose you.

He allows himself a moment to relish in the warmth of her body against his, the feathery strands of her fur tickling against his nose as a gentle breeze rolls across the beach before lifting his head to glance down the shoreline, amber gaze scanning for the presence of threats lurking in the dark. But they are alone aside from the distant cry of a night bird and he brushes his muzzle against the top of Seelie's slender head.

"Hungry?" His voice is a deep baritone, and it takes him a moment to find it. He tilts his head as he gazes down at her, the night is young and if they are lucky there may be good forage washed up on the shore from the storm. That was originally why he was out here trudging through the sand, but his own hunger is now secondary to his self-appointed duty to look after the inky Belgian.