Moonspear You make me feel

Hydra listened, ears pricked. Which man? She asked, knowing well enough it was not her own mate. But perhaps any from Moonspear. Perhaps Revui. It still could be Revui; he was out there now, protecting her from men. But she could not smell him on her—no, there was a scent alright. Vaguely familiar, but she could not be certain. Not until she said it herself. 

The question was met with a nod. You could, she informed. And if you breed with another, your odds do not get any less. But I would not advise it. It would be cruel to what you might have made—to that wolf, more boy than man, as she recalled him—but she supposed, now, there was yet another wolf she had to educate before he begot children from all around the Teekon without even knowing, she was sure, to your children. To you, too, she drawled. That is why I want you gone from here, from my Wilderness even; it is an insult to me. I know you did not mean it, or recognize it, but now that you do: do not insult me any further, Hydra finished darkly. If Hydra found that she had, there would be two Blackheads to dispose of. And this one, she imagined, would be easier to remove than the elusive Caiaphas. But Hydra had been kind to her, and she thought of her own twin sister Alya—perhaps the kindness would have meant something.