Swiftcurrent Creek rasputin

….Not my circus, not my monkeys… Not my circus, not my moneys… Not my circus, not my monkeys…

Why was she trying so hard to stay in his circus and be his monkey?

He could feel his anger ebbing—giving way to frustration and exhaustion. A paw lifted, swiping across his brow—his eyes still burning toward her as she sat down in front of him—telling him just how it was, as if this was the most obvious arrangement set before him.

Apparently, it was unkind of him to send her away and not kill her.

How absolutely distasteful of him.

He groaned quietly—tempted to simply call Arlette or Arric—anyone with more patience than him. Except there was no way he was letting this she-wolf near their pregnant healer.

“We don’t take slaves,” he replied—trying hard not to grit his teeth. He stood taller then, stern countenance on his features—a rumble in his chest. “Go home to your swamp, little panther.” His eyes drifted over her—to the nape he had bit so fiercely upon. “You’ve paid your blood.”