Sleepy Fox Hollow lächeln

mahler fancied that for the first time, wylla had not attempted to escape him. but it was a mere bit of fantasy; the briars that edged the she-wolf were insurmountable, even by him.
he had not taken a single pace when wylla rose from the ground, and instead of turning their conversation elsewhere, or speaking a spate of self-deprecating words, the woman instead sought him, sought his embrace.
a frenzy of shocked blinding shuttered his eyes, rooted him still; he stared openly at wylla, unable to be guarded in the face of something altogether too new and surprising between them.
apology leapt to her lips, but mahler scarcely heard. to wylla he returned; to her flank he came to hover, and, eyelids at half-mast, began to preen snow from her hackles in a silent and warm satisfaction that rushed into all his marrow and veins.
he was not confused, nor would he hold confusion against the woman. it was enough to touch her, to finally be allowed beyond that iron gate, if only a moment.
carefully he finished his preening, and, if she did not move aside from him, had not already evaded his touch, mahler let his muzzle rest briefly into the hollow between her shoulderblades and was still for the feeling of eternity.