Bearclaw Valley her perfume crucified me with memories

perhaps this boy was not so brittle, stigmata thought, watching the lone child with a fascination not often spared to pups not fathered by himself. the flashing look was cursory, gone even before settling, and he gave a scant nod to the summer-red beta in receipt. her son's "thank you" had been sufficient to him -- he imagined that it would be refined with age -- and the dark hunter cued to as much when a sly, approving expression wrinkled the long line of his scratched, ashen mouth.

the first signs of amusement in the male disappeared with a swift swivel of his head, as he turned and slunk silently off to tend to his minor wounds.