The soft pitter-patter of your paws is masked by the thunderous thudding of her own.

Her solid wall of a body shadows yours entirely, lesser rank’s curling back into the safety of bushes and trees at the sight of you two. At the weight of it. How could such a prissy little house-pup like yourself, score such a high-ranking alpha like Abby? On a whim?

Fate’s cruel, as the elders say.

“And this is where we stock prey.” She says, cooly nodding towards it. Like it’s routine. Like she’s not showing her mate around where they store fresh, and rotten, kill. Like it won’t somehow or someway traumatize you. Traumatize those trusting eyes of yours, so soft and sweet.

But, if you’re gonna live this life, you might as well get a head start on getting used to it.