Swiftcurrent Creek nightshade

The culture she clung to was not one he understood—nor did he particularly care to. The creek did not indulge with slavery—as had been said to her prior. She did not answer his question—the skirting of the topic left to the forefront of the silence that followed as she indicated her ankle.

Die fighting or live as a slave. She had not become a slave—nor would her people need to be privy of her time here, in truth.

Something else lingered there.

“So you wait to heal so you can leave.” A statement—clarity.

Otherwise, he knew not a thing of the she-wolf before him—gaze searching—lingering now upon the scar that swept along the bronzed gold of her muzzle.