Totoka River baby, when I whisper, can you hear?

“Yours.”

The Groenendael beckons her Gampr closer with a slow, feline flicker of her inkdark plume and a coy turn of her elegant head — but the instant his breath ruffles the silken fur at the spur of her hip, she evades him. Slivers of whalebone white betray her unease as her cerulean eyes pin him down, sheepdog-sharp, but she makes no move to physically deter him. There is something dark and troubled in her gaze for a fraction of a second; she cannot help but remember the Angakkuq’s new name for her — “fuckin’ tease” — and she circles back to the Armenian in mute disgrace.

Her movements are fluid, the aphotic feathering on her legs blurring like ink in the shallows, as she melts at Stockholm’s feet; utterly of her own volition, she tips back her fox-fine muzzle to present the hollow of her throat and the graceful slope of her abdomen for his inspection.