Duskfire Glacier [m] born with other names

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faust watches svalla with an unreadable gaze, though the flick of his ear betrays something deep, something unspoken. she wants to provoke him, to slice at the nerve that keeps him composed, but he is not a man who breaks so easily. still, something burns beneath his ribs as she purrs her parting words, the tease of her hips like a blade dragged slow across his skin.
enjoy your whore, faust.
his lip twitches, the only sign of the seethe curling through him like smoke. his eyes linger as she moves, but his arms do not open for her. let her play her games. let her find some poor fool to entertain her wrath. it is not svalla's rage that unsettles him—it is the sting of possession, the gnawing weight of knowing she would lay with another to make her point.
his, they were his. darukaal's.
his chest rises with a slow, steady breath before his head turns back to sulukinak, and she is still there, still his. her body winds around him like something meant to be kept, and he does not shy from it. no, he embraces it, pulling her into him with a nuzzle deep against her neck, smothering blackfell’s scent beneath the strength of his own. mine.
you are no whore, his voice is low, steady, a growl softened into something near tender. it is your body that yearns. he does not blame her, does not shame her for the instinct that pulls her to him. this is how it should be.
his teeth graze the base of her ear, a breath warm against her fur. you wish to bear cubs for darukaal? his question is not demanding, not forceful—it is an invitation, an expectation, a path lain at her feet should she choose to take it. the glacier would take her as its own, and he would see to it that she remained under his banner, untouched by those unworthy.
faust does not look back to svalla as she vanishes into the distance. let her stew. let her wound herself with the choices she makes. she will learn, as all do, that faust does not share what is his.