But I do not move. I do not hit her.
I let her.
She is so close.
Her face is near. Her brown hair, damp with snow, falls and brushes my hide.
Her scent.
It is not just berries and snow.
It is her. The warm, female scent of her skin. The salt of her effort.
It fills my nose. It fills my head. It is overwhelming.
The red haze is gone. But something else is here.
A new fire.
It is low in my body. It is not the elven magic. It is not the rage.
It is hot. It is deep. It pulls.
Need.
Mine.
The word is not protect anymore. It is not safe.
It is MINE.
I need...
My mind is clearer. The fights with the Worgs... it woke me. Her hands on my bleeding leg... they are waking something else.
I am not just beast.
I am not just protector.
She ties the cloth. Tight. The pain is a dull, hot ocean now.
She sits back on her heels. She is panting. Her blue eyes are dark with focus. She saved me. Again.
My hand. It moves.
It is slow. So slow. It shakes. Weakness. Need.
She freezes.
Her body goes still. Her scent... fear. That sharp, high tang.
No. Do not fear.
I do not stop.
I am not reaching for comfort. This is purpose.
My hand. My massive, scarred, bloody hand. I lift it from the dirt.
