Wintercearig

Chapter Two-A Death, A Wolf, and Sense Of Comfort

Hhh There's probably a lot of grammar errors. I'm cooking so ignore them for right now. I'll come back and fix them in a few hours.
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Lance McClain

Lance's ocean eyes dropped to the snow, his lips pressed into a straight line. He faced the wolf, close enough that he could stretch his palm out to touch the dark fur. Or, close enough to touch the deep, red blood stain that dripped dryly on the wolf's muzzle.

He wanted the blood to be his own, possibly from a cut in the brush or earned in a scuffle.

"It's the boy's blood, isn't it?" He whispered, eyes never leaving the ground. "You killed him, didn't you?"

The wolf didn't leave. He didn't move either. Lance was almost surprised that the wolf hadn't shuddered in recoil when he had spoken. Instead, his violet orbs stared at his face, not the meat in his hand.

"It's all over the news." He furrowed his eyebrows, frowning deeply. "They made it seem so brutal. Did you do it? You did, didn't you?"

The black animal stared at Lance for a minute longer, still as a statue, unblinking. And then, for the first time in six years, he lowered his head. It was against the textbooks, against the natural instinct that any wolf at all should possess. Six years of standing dominantly, and now, his eyes closed, head ducked, and tail lowered.

Against natural instinct too, barely moving, afraid of scaring him away, Lance stepped closer. He wasn't fearful of the teeth the animal had or the strength, or even, the blood stained to its chin. His ears flicked, acknowledging the presence that was now not just the wolf-it was wolf and Lance. Lance and wolf. He crouched, dropping the meat down beside him, only then did the wolf flinch a bit. He was close enough to smell the earthly stench of the fur-a black so dark that it was completely void of anything else.

Against logic and demand, Lance parted his lips, slipping his long fingers into the thick ruff-like he had daydreamed about doing for six years. His outer fur was not as soft as it appeared, but beneath was a course of downy fluff. Against logic, against everything-Lance wrapped his arms slowly around the neck of the animal 2x the size of him, puffs of his hot breath being pulled into the far back of a shoulder. He held him like a fantasy and maybe, it was, either way, his arms didn't let go. The wolf nuzzled the back of his head as friendly as a family dog, but the scent of animalistic power didn't allow Lance to imagine that.

For a moment, he forgot where-who-he was. For a moment, it didn't matter.

Movement caught his eyes; Far off, barely visible in the late afternoon, was a wolf stood boldly at the edge of the border. A female from her grace, she was a color that was rare in the pack. A color that Lance thought was gorgeous; orange, beige, something dark, and grainy. Her eyes burned at them insanely bright in flecks of blue-hair ruffled up, ears dropped low.

Then, a rumble startled him and Lance realized that his wolf was growling at her. The she-wolf stepped closer, uncommonly bold, and he twisted in his arms to face her. Lance flinched at the sound of teeth snapping at the orange wolf.

She never hissed at them, and somehow that was worse. A wolf should have growled or anything. But she just grimaced, every aspect of body language breathing hatred at the Cuban boy.

Still rumbling, almost inaudible, his wolf pressed forward, forcing Lance to fall back softly closer to the porch. He wasn't aware if his wolf was shifting to attack or had moved to make him go inside, either way, he retreated inside the deck's glass doors, and locked himself in.