A sharp ache rising in my blood, I bare my fangs in frustration. With a burst of energy, I leap forward. The branches whip against my fur as I run through the forest, the ground crunches beneath my paws, but none of it slows me.
I must calm this storm before I return to my mate. She carries enough burdens without mine adding to them.
Does Orïon think I haven’t thought of revenge? That I haven’t dreamed of tearing apart those who dared to leave so many pups orphaned?
I have. From the moment I met my mate and heard her stories, the thought has consumed me every day.
My sweet, sweet mate. The simple thought of her wakes the beast within me. My cock unsheathes, ignited by her scent alone.
Her scent.
I stop, and my claws sink into the bark of a nearby tree. My ears twitch as I strain to catch the sound of her voice.
“This will be a good spot. Try not to leave any traces of scent, you know how they can track even across distances.”
Who is my mate talking to?
A low growl rumbles deep in my chest. The beast within me stirs, starts to claw its way out.
Hunting. My mate.
I drop low to the ground, my body coiled and ready. Her voice guides me, and the sweet scent of blue roses fills my snout. My nostrils flare as I follow her trail.
Through the bushes and twigs, my heart pounds in my chest. The thrill of a hunt.
“Tomorrow at dawn, we will gather. Make sure the scrolls are there as well,” she says, confident and commanding. Deliciously authoritative. It excites me beyond reason.
I stalk closer silently. My precum soaks the soil beneath my paws.
My thigh muscles rub my swollen sac, and it only fuels my desire.
And there she is, my beautiful mate. Standing with two nýmphí. They haven’t noticed me yet. Good. This is good.
She’s wrapped in fabric, her body concealed from my eyes, teasing me, hiding the full grace of her. I want to tear it with my teeth and mount her.
A low growl escapes me, and all three turn their heads in my direction. The nýmphí wouldn’t leave, even if I signaled them to. They serve their Lidéren, not me.
“Theron?” my mate calls. Her chin lifts as she inhales.
She can scent now, almost like we can. Oh, how thrilling this is.
“I know you’re here,” she says, amused.
I know you know, my sweet dove.
I shift to my right, changing direction, and growl again. Each step is important in a hunt: slow at first, then faster. Confusing my prey. My tail brushes against a bush, rustling the leaves.
Her gaze snaps toward the sound.
The moon hangs high above, nearly full. Its light spills over her. Painted in silver, she is divine, a vision of strength and beauty.
My dove nods to the nýmphí, handing one of them a scroll.
My head tilts. What has she decided?
Then, with a sly grin, she grips the fabric of her clothing in her fists and bolts to the left, away from me, in the opposite direction.
She wants to play.
