Whitewater Gorge I said the boy's no good.

The scent of bear had her on alert—but it was the scent of wolf that had her lip curl up in distaste. The months had passed alone just as swiftly as any other. The pain did not fade as was expected with the realization of her lone status, despite a life bearing abandonment as the only true consistency.

Still, the silver arrow chided herself. The glint of copper donned upon her slender features catching the sun just as she slunk closer to the water edge, a respectful distance from the pale wraith and allowing him to remain between her and the mother bear.

Amber eyes unreadable as she studied him momentarily, the she-wolf lowered her muzzle, eager to quench her thirst from travels and to rid herself of her unease—eager, even, to keep her mind from straying thoughts and what she would possibly do next.