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

The panther caught his wife when she stumbled into him. He made himself into as comfortable a resting place as he could, shifting automatically to accommodate her while his muzzle dipped more purposefully to her pale throat. He preened through her silky fur, tail whisking erratically. Currents of mist swirled around them.

Oh, to hold her! She fit perfectly against him, and their fur, where it mingled, made for a pleasing gradient.

His breath caught when their eyes met. He was struck again by her uncommon beauty, as he had been the very first time he laid eyes on her. (Would others look at their children and see something just as special?) He'd written her off almost at once as a prospect, and even through the steady swell of his admiration. As much as he loved playing out his more fanciful stories, he'd never imagined he would end up with someone he'd so immediately cast as the princess.

"Mere rani," he whispered, leaning forward to trace the word over the tuft of her ear.