Sea Lion Shores danger close

She wasn’t Doe, but she was eating what he gave her and ordering him around, and that was so familiar, so deeply ingrained, that he settled into it almost immediately. He wasn’t in good spirits. Szymon rarely was, anymore. But he was restored enough that he fixed her with a gimlet eye, testing her briefly, before a roll of one lean, angular shoulder served as a noncommittal lupine shrug. “Okay,” he acquiesced, his scabby tail flicking once in a sad little pantomime of a wag. He wasn’t so sure about this island. From the sound of it, it belonged to Moorhen — and that was good and right, given her birthright — but the scent of others lingered on her fur, and he couldn’t help the stab of defensiveness (possessiveness?) that drummed from his heart down to the tips of his toes, the roots of his teeth.