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

She spoke; then rolling before him, exposed herself in a way that again drew pleasure from his basic mind.

She trusted him so quickly that he was stunned, and confused, and proud of himself all at once. Mesa did not often feel superiority around other wolves — and never considered it as an option around women — but he felt powerful while he watched her.

Once mine. She meant the flowers? The forest.

He thought something similar of her, boyish and possessive.

Mesa moved to join her among the flowers by sliding on his belly, reaching his limbs through the stalks and buds and dirt and grass, muddying himself beyond what he usually carried.

Maybe ruining the abundance of foliage at the same time, he didn't really care. He stared after her though, and reached to wiffle a breath across the fur of her breastbone.