Permafrost Hollows my fathers blade

if he satisfied you, he murmurs, circling still, then i’d hate to see what disappointment looks like.

his steps are smooth, controlled. the cold barely touches him. while she dances, begging for a reaction he would surely give her. enticing even now—and she had no clue he no longer saw fit to resist her.

he echoes with a snort, amused now. better a chain than a collar. at least mine doesn’t come with a leash between my legs.

her hips sway, and his eyes track, unbothered, unimpressed. there's been countless women... and she'd need to do more than that to stir any sort of lustful gaze from the rogue. and still, something in her—bold, ruthless—draws him closer.

the mention of his wife strikes deeper than he lets on. jaw tenses. nostrils flare.

my wife, he says, stepping in close enough for his breath to warm her fur, doesn't control me.

he leans in just enough for his voice to curl hot against her ear.

and what’s more pathetic—sleeping outside? or barking up a tree no one ever asked you to climb?