Dawnlark Plains kwana-ci

“I have always been responsible,” she counters, raising her head against the man’s rummaging. She smiles, watchful, every flick of tail a reminiscent pleasure. “You do look wise, Coväh,” the huntress quiets, glancing down at the protrusion of a pale belly between her legs.
“I am,” the smile on her lips widens, “they have a good father. He is so sweet on them. On me.” With full blue eyes she watches him now, conjuring a fantasy where Skorpa and Coväh accept one another, for how blatantly she adores them; both her men.
“We are living on the mountain,” a nose frisks for the white-packed peaks at her flank. “It is not Big Sky. But it’s a place for you. I’d like for you to meet him— and them.” Her tail beats, her eyes gloss.
Coväh was the last family she had left. The only fragment of red creek that hadn’t been swallowed by the affront of Wide Fang, and she didn’t want to let him go.
She couldn’t.