Duskfire Glacier [m] Oomemē

It’s different this time; faster, vigorous. Skorpa moves them into a quickening pattern where Ayovi finds her own cadence to meld back into him. Is she doing this right? Her heart ripens with the pang of Skorpa’s pleasure the rest of her waits to hear. And soon it is her own strangled gasps of delight that steep in the ice, a chamber of echoing rapture.
At last she falls beside him, every muscle flaring in sensitivity, a youthful glow sitting on dewy fur. She turns for the void of Skorpa’s face. The hunt and mess of him had painted her in red, staining her mouth, her spine. She felt she had been made into one of his kind; a northern warrior, and in the ferocity of their connection she did not mind it. Tomorrow, she might. Tomorrow she might look at him with regret and anger and curse that she did not have the strength to save herself for a hunter; a pack wolf who could offer a safe home.
He was not handsome. His face stirred in her only a danger she now associated with pleasure. And yet she leans breathlessly closer, positioning herself so she can truly look at him for the first time, allowing curious eyes to rove his landmarks without discipline.
“Regnvand,” Ayovi repeats softly. He has said it before to her. “What does it mean?” She asks only in wonder, cornflower eyes fluttering closed.
They reopen upon her flat belly. Now there might be children.
“I— I want to be a wife, Skorpa.” He was not the only man for whom she had eyes, but his were the only ones she trusted.
“Your wife.”