Olafr does not know the words “ego,” which he’s learned by now means there is no equivalent in his own language. Yet he senses the words have something to do with their mate believing FJ is treating her thusly because of his pride. And his pride alone.#p#分页标题#e#
Which may very well be true.
Still, the fact remains… “He truly does have love for you. Too much. It scares him and that is why he must do this thing.”
Though even as he says the words, Olafr knows not who he tries to convince of this truth: himself or their mate.
Then she once again appears in his mind, her flat eyes burning a hole through his soul.
“Olafr, do me a favor. Just let him do it, okay? Don’t keep trying to convince me he’s going to burn me like I’m an animal because he loves me. I’m never going to believe that and you making excuses for him only makes it worse.”
And then her head turns away from him, her mind becoming silent in the same way FJ made his mind silent to him. Locking him out, not only from her sight, but also from her thoughts.
43
“You sure you got this?” the Detroit beta asks FJ as he hands him the iron he will use to mark their she-wolf. “I did her first mark. Might be easier if you let me handle this one, too, seeing as how you’re from...some place else.”
FJ can tell the one called Yancey would much prefer to take this duty upon himself.
However, in full contradiction of his beta, the now former Detroit fenrir says, “I think he can handle it. You saw him out there with them Trouble Fuckers.”
“Yeah, maybe…” the beta answers.
Their words fade into the distance as FJ casts his eyes to the back of their female. He studies the mark already made upon her right shoulder. Two letters, which the young Wyoming princess did teach him were called “D” and “W” by the wolves of this land. A mark she did receive when she was but seventeen summers.
Seventeen summers. Of course, the North wolves have their rituals as well. Unheated girls of even less summers were oft given by their families to male wolves with similar rituals. But such things fell under what his father often termed, “Not to your mother’s liking.”
And much of certain rituals did their father hide from their mother. Keeping her sheltered within the relative civilization of their village, because he knew how little her soft heart would approve of such practices.
FJ himself had taken on many of his mother’s beliefs. He gave praise and made his animal sacrifices to her God after every hunt. And did he refuse to judge the one called Clyde because of his love for another male, as his mother had taught him that such was unjust—even if a male did behave in the manner of a woman, which was considered a killing offense in most other villages but theirs, thanks to his mother’s influence. FJ had also never slept with a girl below the age of heat, and never has he had much like for any ritual that left unwished for mark upon a female’s skin.
No, not until now would he agree to such. Not until now, with his wolf raging inside of him, would he have taken such action.
“Burn! Burn! Burn!” the Detroit wolves chant, growing louder and louder.
Their words give echo to his own furious wolf. And yea, does he now wish to mark her. To hurt her as she hurt him.
Suddenly, their female’s head turns. FJ follows her gaze to his brother who stands near the front of the throng. Out of place, not only because of the color of his leathers, but because he is the only wolf not giving chant for her burn mark.
Their conversation is silent, but easy for FJ to read. His brother’s eyes are hot and troubled. Their female’s face is blank and her back tight, as they argue back and forth about what FJ will now do to her.
But the argument is not overlong. And soon does their she-wolf make an abrupt turn from his brother, ending the conversation.#p#分页标题#e#
FJ is little surprised when Olafr’s voice appears inside his head just a moment later. “Brother, you are my fenrir, but I warn you now, this will not end well—”
FJ blocks him out, his wolf having little patience for the brother who would be so thoroughly led by his heart.
“I will now mark this female as mine,” he says to the one called Yancey, ending his argument with the now former Fenrir of Detroit.
“Hold on—” Yancey starts to say.
“I am your fenrir. Your king as it be called in this land,” he growls at the hesitant beta. “You will give me the marking iron.”
The beta looks to the former Detroit fenrir and despite neither of their expressions changing, much seems to pass between them.
Then the one called Yancey silently hands over the marking iron, the wolf head upon its end glowing bright orange with the fire contained inside its metal. This mark he recognizes…almost. It is near the same as the one that comes before each round of their female’s video game, except darker and wider. The male wolf to her she-wolf.