Deepwood Weald [M] To the sound of the bird that mourns

The panther, despite his name, was not quite so lithe and nimble as his wife. He tried his best to keep up anyway, dancing in and out of her path and making half-hearted attempts to catch her fur between his teeth.

"Myna, mere khajaana," he said, the words half laughter and half prayer. The new possessiveness he felt toward her had, ironically, made an ardent devotee out of him. Where the health of the pack had once been his idol, it was Simbelmyne's happiness that was now a direct measure of his worth as a man and a husband.

And she was beautiful when she was happy. She was always beautiful, but she was breathtaking to him now. When the breeze ruffled her fur, it made him think of the endless prairie he'd once seen — of miles of wheatgrass swaying and rippling like a living creature. The bright sparkle of her quicksilver eyes made his heart jump every time he caught it. He knew he ought to show more humility, but each time, he could not help thinking it: I did that.

He hoped that she would always look at him like this.

"Mere pyaar, mere roshani, — "

The words had taken on a sing-song lilt, as his words were wont to. His teeth snapped on empty air, leaving only a few wispy tendrils of tail fur stuck to his dark lips.