Otter Creek make a fist and close your eyes

He came to her, finally. Not with his women in tow, though he was wreathed in their scents, and with the imperious stare of someone with all the power in the world. Power which she had granted him, once. He had earned the right and she had seen fit to place him beside her. Now, what? He did not trust her intentions. All the times he had left her to the lake, and she had waited for him; now that the situation was reversed, he would not welcome her?

She knew her place was at the top. If not at the lakeside, then elsewhere — but she would not grovel.

His posture was met with a mirroring. Her body rigid, her tail up. Pride would likely be her downfall one day but Zharille carried it well; and she knew without her, and without her children, there would be no pack. She chuffed to him, dismissive, and stepped close so that he could find the scent of their daughter there upon her.

Mine, she was saying. All of it — the lake, the children, himself — belonged to her. If he did not agree, it mattered little to Zharille. She would find her way back to power.