Blackfeather Woods Like summer storms, the skies as grey as leaves.

She was a sinuous shadow. A narrow panther with moons for eyes, and when she turned them his way Mesa was unnerved as well as defiant; he was not used to this kind of attention. He was glad, too, that she was not talkative like many of the lone wolves he'd crossed with. This was the kind of interaction he enjoyed (coveted, almost). It was somehow simpler. More natural for him.

Her sound pulled at something deeply primal within him. His head raised upon a rigid spine, as he stepped back but with a bold posture, as if he might own these woods. In fact Mesa felt powerful with her attention. He murmured a low note in the back of his throat which was rough but warm, like an invitation.

She could stay, he'd decided.