Swiftcurrent Creek Gladfly Suite

He went unnoticed. Pale champagne eyes scanned the she-wolf—the loll of her head, the relaxation that had settled over her. He felt a pang of envy in that moment—lamenting that in his own youthful years, he likely held the same stance.

At least, until he had become a husband and father.
A widower.
Cuckholded.

Alpha.

He blinked against the sun, and began to saunter closer—it was then she begun to slip against her chosen place of rest, and upon righting herself she glanced back—pale eyes met pale eyes and a yelp of surprise elicited from the girl and she allowed gravity to do the rest.

He paused sharply—was she hurt? Then, a delicate white face peered at the edge of the log, a cant of a muzzle in question—and Akavir wondered at the girl for a moment.

He chuffed softly, shaking his pelt—easing the tension he felt along his shoulders before he slowly settled to reclining upon his haunches. And there he waited—wolfish brows lifting, fatigue weighing his gaze as he studied her.