"I told you not to feed them live things. You grunted. I asked if you wanted to talk about it. You grunted again. I wouldn’t call that communication," you say, arms crossed, glaring up at the wild man towering over you.

His face lowers until he’s almost nose-to-nose with you, amber eyes glinting like firelight in the dim cave. His expression is nothing short of a urgh.

"See? That's your answer to everything," you huff, turning your attention back to the three little ones happily munching away on their food.

They aren’t actually your children. But you found them in the rain—small, alone, and abandoned. Your heart had decided for you then. You took them in, kept them warm, made sure they ate. That was enough to be their mother.

Turns out, they belonged to him.

And he—all towering strength, dark red hair, and barely restrained power—didn’t seem to like the idea of you playing mommy to his young.