Zevulun blinked as Merete began, his confident swagger momentarily disrupted by her less than enthused return. As much as Zevulun could be a flirt (and boy could he), his genuine compassion and concern would triumph all else. Yet before Merete’s sentence could finish the pair found themselves interrupted.
Mama, whose this?
Mama? Zevulun’s blue eyes jumped from filly to Merete, to the filly again. She was a pretty little thing, a melting of gold, black, and white. Zevulun’s eyes drifted over her in study, but it didn’t take him long to draw hopeful conclusions. His gaze jumped back to Merete just briefly, searchingly, waiting for her to tell him he’d drawn the wrong conclusion. But Zevulun knew no pause would come. He’d sired enough foals already from different mares to recognize the marks he passed, even if they were slightly more muted than his.
He looked back at the filly with a smile.
“I think it’s safe to say I can answer this for your beautiful mother,” he said, his voice low and warm, filled with love. No one could argue Zevulun did not love his children, for it was written clear as day across his face and dripping in his tone whenever he interacted with them. He’d only just met her, but already he’d move mountains for the daughter whose name he’d yet to know. “My name is Zevulun,” he started and smiled gently, “but more importantly, I’m your father.”
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