He was still—horrifically still, like a catapult before it snapped. Enshrouded by the undergrowth, the shadow's body entwined with the foliage, hiding away in the safety of darkness.

He neared—just a step—and she reciprocated with a jolt backwards, her lips twitching in the start of a snarl. What now, did he want to jostle her again? 'Catch' her again?

There came no collision of jaw to tender skin—rather, a rumble from his throat. 'Not to me.' His voice was soft, too soft. It was wrong. Out of place, disconcerting. Deirdre's face twisted into a look of confusion.

Was it true?

Conflict erupted in the back of her mind. His jaws hurt, yet his words healed. Deirdre's gaze flickered up from the ground to glance at Sverke, her tail rousing from between her thighs in a slow sweep. To him, she was something—? How?

He did not know her name. He did not know her background, nor anything else about her. To him, she should be nobody—for that is what she is. Her head slowly canted, deep chestnut eyes fixed upon him. What... do you mean? The young wolf shifted against the ground, resting her back against the tree behind her.

It was incomprehensible. Yet, the words left his lips, entered her ears, and now she would not—could not—have it any other way. To him, she was something. Something. Her breath picked up. The low sweep of her tail grew faster.