Sleepy Fox Hollow To the house in the pines where the road ends

It has thorns and leaves now. He had that right. Wylla thought it always had, just in different ways: his acceptance to Grimnismal was rife with suggestion and teasing, and the way she left him was mired in deep hurt. The only time they'd interacted positively was when they swam in the frigid waters of the Sound and then fell asleep in the grotto ... ironically during the most volatile time of Wylla's life when her body underwent its transformation from girl to woman, when Mahler might have been most tempted.

Their game of questions might have ended positively had not her opinionated lesser self reared its head, if she could be a more demure creature than she was. But Wylla was the wild in all its messy, contradictory glory, and Mahler had seen fit to impale himself upon the worst parts of her. His resilience to do it over and over and over again while finding forgiveness in him for all the ways she stabbed him could only lead him closer to her, but how many times would he take it before he turned his back?

What has it changed? What hasn't it? she blurted, wondering how on earth he couldn't see how telling someone you loved them changed the entire dynamic. It introduced potentials. Such a confession brought forth feelings of its own accord. Perhaps not strong ones yet, not like his seemingly endless devotion, but ones nonetheless that could feel the hurt of him shutting down and the mischief of teasing him in ways altogether different had he not confessed at all.

Lacking any kind of ability to put meaningful words to her thoughts, however, Wylla eyeballed the blood glistening and frosting on the tips of his fur as he sat on the trail and chose actions. She asked, quietly, may I?