Swiftcurrent Creek frog

Tuta runa, she called him.

He was still convinced it was something profane—he had that effect on most women, it seemed. A motion to the fish—the flopping fish, so much like his life, it seemed—and then the mention of Arlette, which drew the man’s hackles, lightly.

But she offered to feed the pregnant she-wolf—and so he tamed his guttural reaction. “Arlette,” he agreed. “She’s feeding our future.”

He made no move to come closer. For now, his own nose tipped up to the sun—eyes closing—the warmth of the day doing little to stave his dour mood.