Duskfire Glacier widowsnest

her grin sharpens, wicked as the glint of bone beneath flesh. good. i make up for the silence you make. the words are thrown like a blade, light and careless, but they stick true. she does talk too much. and he listens just enough. it works between them—this rhythm of few words and knowing glances, of muscle and movement and shared breath over fresh kill.
she nudges him once with her shoulder, solid and brief. catch me, then, she challenges, voice curling around the dare like smoke. i’d like to see you try.
her teeth flash as she pulls free another strip of meat, tongue dragging lazily over her lips as she savors the taste of victory. the beast, the hunt, the company—it’s all good. better than she’s had in a long time.
at his offer, she lifts her head and studies him for a beat. i will, késhka agrees, wiping blood from her chin. and you’ll help carry it.
because that’s what packs do. and, whether she meant to or not, it seems she’s found herself in one.