Esmae’s voice pierced the veil of silence Draven had shrouded himself in. “Draven? It’s Esmae.” He was interested instantly. Draven had not heard from Queen Esmae since she had seemingly panicked at the sight of their soulmate tie and run off. He hadn’t gone to find her, giving her the space he knew she needed; it was likely a huge adjustment for her, after all. She was Dawnshire’s single, lonely queen. She had suffered the loss of its original king.
He rose to his feet as she entered his den. “Esmae.” She had certainly looked better, though she didn’t currently look terrible; she did, however, exude a nervous scent just slightly.
“I am sorry for how I ended things last time we spoke, Draven. Please understand, my last love, he passed away and I cannot lose another . . . The last thing I wish is for us to rush anything, but I fear we're running out of time. Your scent alone however . . . " Draven’s belly curled at Esmae’s sigh. "I can't keep myself away from you anymore, I fear. I want you to take me."
He knew what was motivating the jay-winged queen. Fear, of Fenrir and what might happen to her pack. He had heard all about Tarben’s new king. Bold, violent, demanding, womanizing. Word was he had demanded all Tarben’s females claimed in their latest meeting. He had also presented all the alphas and alphesses with an ultimatum: a royal wife from each pack. That, or be decimated in a war, and Draven was sure that if that happened, Fenrir would wait till Tarben’s numbers were up. At least enough to ensure victory.
“Of course.” Draven’s voice was matter-of fact and calm. Too bad it had to be under these circumstances, fueled by fear and a looming deadline, pressed to the brink.

fade out, fade in

Draven lay quietly in the cool darkness, waiting for Esmae to say something. It was well and done now. Whether they were all saved was still up in the air, but . . . they had tried, and that was all there was for now.


“& they will run you down, down till you fall!”