The Kingblade
male | 6 years | 40 inches | 165 pounds | casanova | lone wolf
He has known her since he came here. He has felt a strong bond with her since they had first chattered like spring finches in this very place. That bond makes them now far more susceptible. Yes, even him. Even the one who is not prepared to be bolted down by responsibility.
“I want you.”
He is blunt, frankness oozing from every pore alongside the wash of virility that had been there prior. He does not owe any explanation, he owes no one anything these days, but he offers her one anyway. “I cannot promise what mates and imprints have, I do not think I can be anchored to any one place or person of late, but I can promise that I do love you for everything that you are. Have done so since long before I took Spirane.” At least she knows that he is not the common wolf to be offering her home and comfort, an undying loyalty and affection - but nothing so picket fence and pristine as what many women would prefer. He had so little of that in him, so little of the tamed mate-dom that might be called preferred by the usual female.
He steps forward, head lowering. He knits his teeth up the side of her cheek, affectionate, encouraging, flirtatious in the way she had always seemed to wish him to be with her. And who better to flirt with than one who understood the core of your being and would not try to break the spirit in the name of pups, pack, and denning. “Run, I shall catch you.” He instigates, knowing full well that their blood would be up with a little cat and mouse game and thrilled at the thought of pitting his wiles against hers.
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