Ankyra Sound sheepskin

Wylla wanted to chortle at Kierkegaard's rejoinder—she knew little and less of the stoic old man, but she valued his skill as a warrior. She refrained only because she had asked him a question of a more serious nature and wanted the answer to it. She hitched her foreleg up, removing weight from it and wincing as the painful burn of relief webbed out from her injury.
If you were to ask Wylla where babies came from, she would be unable to say; there had been no sex ed in her youth. Lusca might have imparted some wisdom on her children had they been present at the time, but in her case, she had gone missing at six or seven months of age, so she'd missed out on the birds and bees discussion. All she knew was that it took a man and woman. Caiaphas was the woman, and she'd suspected Kierkegaard was the man. His confirmation was succinct, as she expected, and her expression darkened.
She more or less ignored his concern, waving it off with a murmured, "not important." It would be if she wasn't focused on something else, but she was determined to reduce Raptor, at least in her mind, to complete insignificance. She'd spent enough anger on that douche canoe to last a lifetime.
"You won't get away with it, you know," she warned him, lips drawing into a terse line. "You broke pack law. There'll be consequences." For the time being, it was said lowly, ominously, and she kept her anger to a simmer, but only because she hadn't noticed soon enough to do anything about the pregnancy.
But there would be consequences in some form. Wylla was not a leader deserving of respect, in sooth, and so she deserved what came to her; but she believed she was, and her ego was large enough now to feel personally attacked each time she was undermined by a subordinate, and that wouldn't do.