Sleepy Fox Hollow [m] nomajoka

A veek?! Now it was Anselm’s time to choke out a disbelieving laugh, its edges furrowed by something darker. Fear, perhaps. Fear that she would wedge her way between he and Etienne, fear that the seaborn would find her embrace softer and kinder, fear that he would find he preferred the willowing pluck of her body to the coarse and blocky hardness of Anselm’s own —

A bolus of animus sat unhappily in Anselm’s throat as he stared down the woman who was by all measures his better. He could not have her here — and yet, the longer the plumes of her resonating body lingered, the more a conflicting instinct rose to life and demanded her to himself.

Anselm took a step forward, gaze taking in the widow; the soft return of fat to her flank, the improved condition of her pelt. She was a siren — she would be irresistible to the one thing Anselm held in higher regard than anything else. And how could he truly fault Etienne for answering nature’s imperative? He could scarcely ignore the call himself.  

You vill not touch him. Anselm meted out, a bite to his voice that just scarcely betrayed his insecurity.

And yet, as much as Anselm wished to sink his teeth in the widow and chase her ruthlessly from the hollow, budding instinct stayed his fangs.

He took one more step, measured despite the surge of adrenaline that now commanded him.