Sleepy Fox Hollow seven ate nine

After her insightful interlude with Stigmata, the honey-kissed dove had kept a certain distance from him. She held no intention of breaking away from the pack or her vow to him—there was no reason they could not be friends, and if she was honest, she knew she would enjoy assisting with whatever little miscreants he sired by the numerous women within their ranks. Puppies were a joy—she just wasn’t interested in having them without a mate by her side.

For now, though, she was easing her heart with a small break. And as she loped along the peaks and ledges of the mountain, the scent of another caused her to pause, her vivid eyes scanning the horizon in search of the stranger.

Coming to a hollow, she saw the dark form of the wolf in the near distance. With a certain audacity to her graceful step, her refined muzzle lifting as she scented blood and causing her brows to furrow with intrigue.

He lowered himself to the frigid waters—the string of words stirring the briefest flicker of amusement to curl at her lips before she offered a chuff to announce herself, eyes carefully sliding over what appeared to be a wolf who knew battle well. “What does the other guy look like?” It was hard to miss that festering wound on his shoulder—the stink of injury clear in the air.