Swiftcurrent Creek carousel

They travel north, where the air grows a little cooler and the scenery a lot greener. Vermouth doesn’t pay any of that much mind, the majority of his focus preoccupied with her. When he’s not staring at Odessia, he’s waiting on her hand and foot. He hunts for her; keeps guard when she rests; and makes certain the kvit woman wants for nothing. He wants to prove he’s husband mate material.

Odessia seems to enjoy his company—and his reverential treatement—so he lets himself hope as the two of them cut east past the mountains. Vermouth decides he’ll formally ask her to court the next time they make a pitstop. They cross a meadow, which gives him an idea, and he begins collecting wildflowers.

Then she guides him toward a creek, the surrounding territory drenched in the scent of wolves. She stops, so he glides to a halt beside her. His brows knit above the makeshift bouquet in his mouth. Vermouth nearly spits out the flowers, though he manages to stop himself and lower them gently to the grass between his swarthy paws.

“Before I do that,” says Vermouth, brushing his nose to her chin, “let me ask you something.”