Lion Head Mesa thirty-seventh

Wren’s eyes drowned him for a moment—his own pale gaze studying her with silence. In the moment, it was hard to remember the look she gave him stemmed only from her inhibitions being silenced by the wine that coursed through her. Something he could never act upon or take advantage of, lest she woke in the morning with regret hanging over her.

He didn’t speak that for now though—let the other man believe them lovers, or at the very least, easily wishing to give in to their carnal pleasures.

Instead, he was lured back to conversation. Mesmerized for a moment at his made-up name by the she-wolf beside him and the breathy way she spoke it—before the slur of words from the man before them… a statement that darkened his very soul as he finally pulled his eyes from Wren, pointedly upon Senmut now.

Shiftiness indeed—particularly if the man who posed any lingering threats to his daughter had wed her off to a man who had been described as a plaything. All for the reach of shared hunting lands—

—something remained amiss, but Akavir was no sleuth. Lilitu was gone, and a Pharaoh dead. The Erpa-ha offered them seclusion—a certain thrum in the man’s words stirring Akavir to look back upon Wren once more, the gentle curve of her neck. Playing the part, he laughed—“I fear no discussion may be needed, hm, Swan?” Heated—playing a part, he told himself, his muzzle brushed to her. “Perhaps a spanking though, for your quick tongue.”

He would move to lead her from the room of the man—they would find their own corridor. A tilt of his muzzle back, he would offer the man a pointed look, but a sharp tooth smile. “If that is all the information to give on Lilitu’s whereabouts, I wouldn’t wish to impose on your Queen’s time,” he noted to the man—a dangling hook, wondering if everything truly had been shared.