Swiftcurrent Creek At the ballet

Cygnet hoped that the olive branch might be enough for her to win Arlette for herself; enough to convince her that she was more worthy of the woman’s attention than the ornery, foul-mouthed beta. 

It had taken a lot for her to admit that she considered Arlette family- some part of her still felt bound to something much more dark and sinister- something she didn’t fully understand. She wouldn’t realize it yet, but she felt as tied to death, as she was to life. A mucky, clawed paw had reached for her as she lay in the swamp barely free of her birth sack, hoping to push her under, but that paw had fallen and she had been pulled from death’s grasp. 

It lingered there, as though a debt was owed. Arlette may have become a mother to her, but she remained a sacrificial lamb that had somehow escaped the slaughter. She was bound only to a fate that she had somehow managed to avoid.

So when Arlette began to explain that she would not cut her ties with Arric, the girl silently fumed. Her nostrils flared and she denied Arlette eye contact, as tears burned at the brim of her eyelids. Her heart raced, and she gritted her teeth together as firmly as she could, hearing them creak as they grated against one another. A pulse beat in her brow, and she had no means to express the frustration she felt.

She wanted Arlette to choose- she wanted to force her hand, but Arlette was too reasonable, rational and strong of a wolf to bend to a fickle child’s demands. 

She whipped her head to and fro so fast that the tears were flung from her eyes. She uttered a small, strangled sound and stomped off, ears flattened. She felt a sob rise in her throat, and not wanting for Arlette to see her cry, she bolted- so she might find somewhere private so that she could pitch a full-fledged tantrum and somehow rid herself of this pain.