She thinks she might be holding her breath when he takes a step closer, and her eyes are suddenly a mixture of hard worry and wary uncertainty, all trapped inside a blue clearer than any unearthed gem. Not for the first time, she finds herself wondering what he thinks as those kind, curious eyes wander searchingly over her face and up to her horn where they linger just just a moment longer. But, differently than usual, she finds she cares about these quiet conclusions he must be drawing.
Except it is as though he reads her mind, or maybe just that hint of wary vulnerability where it traces fissures of softness into a face otherwise made of stone, because he calls her beautiful in a voice that leaves no room for doubt. Twice. It is a reverence she is so vastly unfamiliar with, and for one single second it hits her like a force, crushing her until she takes one single step backwards, suddenly more doe than wolf. But none of this feels mocking, none of it unkind, and when she freezes again and searches his face, there is only a familiar kind of warmth that draws her back in.
“That is ridiculous.” She says, and she thinks she meant it to be hard or defensive, but again this wolf is more like a doe, and those eyes are something soft and unsure and flooded with thoughts she holds close to her chest. Beautiful? If there was a reflection nearby to examine, in that instant she would do so. She would trace those willowy lines and that charcoal dark of skin not quite soft enough to be velvet, of that pale wintry blue like a frozen glaze over her eartips and her lips and the stretch of leg beneath her knees. She would examine her eyes and wonder what he thought he saw there, examine her frown and likely frown more deeply. She would not look at that beautiful spiral on her brow, like glass or crystal, refracting light and color over the dark skin below it.
He reaches for her and she is surprised by the desire that wells up like a tide inside her, an urgent need to reach back and touch him, breathe in a scent she has only ever imagined. Floral, summery? Or would he smell like his wolves, like the salt of dried sweat from his humid home?
In the next second she knows, because she finds her wolf again. She is bold and unafraid - terrified as she pushes in past that gentle gesture to let her nose rest near the crook of his shoulder right beside his wing. She is so close, so close, and yet suddenly it feels like it’ll never be close enough. “Not so bad.” She says, and the words are cut short, staccato in the breathless way she forces them out past the sudden racing of her heart. “Do you like it? Being the same height?” She meant to turn her head to find his eyes, but instead she is a woman possessed, reaching for the downy softness of that beautiful wing with lips that taste the sunshine on all the nearest feathers.
There is some part of her that knows she is too close, taking too much, but when she does finally turn her face to look at him, she makes no effort to step away. She doesn’t want to be away, doesn’t want distance when she’s still only just discovering what this closeness feels like. Her nose is against his neck, pushing aside the long, flowered strands of red mane to discover the stark paleness beneath, all while carefully not meeting his gaze because it feels too new, too vulnerable. “I am glad you made it out of the dark, Tamlin.”
the devil in my arms said feed me to the wolves tonight