Wheeling Gull Isle I hate to be the bearer of bad news

News of Grayday’s death sobers the Gampr, and the chuckle that stirs low in his throat at his youngest daughter’s resemblance to a facehugger fades, overshadowed by grief. He makes no move to dissuade the young man from burying his nose into Seelie’s fur, merely begins to bathe his Aralez’s muzzle in tender kisses as he tends to their children. This is Sunny’s time to grieve and Stockholm doesn’t want to stem the tide of sorrow, just to offer support to his mate. “I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, his voice thick with compassion.