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LERRIN - Anima

Lerrin stalked through the Tent City—the name they'd given the encampment—his teeth set. He was on the edge of rage. He had no energy to try to avoid the eyes and words of his people. Let them come. And let them feel the rough side of his tongue if they did.

They were self-indulgent and ill-disciplined. Even his soldiers! And he was finished stepping around the issue.

His mind trailed back through that afternoon's meeting with the three fists that had been chosen for the mission to assassinate the cat. All of them the best snipers, trackers, and hand-to-hand combatants the wolves could offer.

And all of them snarling, vibrating on their feet with bloodlust as if they'd never learned restraint! He'd been appalled. Asta had snapped at them to stand down, and they'd done it—but their intentions were clear.

How could he possibly trust these wolves to take such an intricate mission, one that was so crucial and required such secrecy, when they couldn't even stand before him without salivating?

He'd been about to bark at them all to return to their tents with their tails between their legs when Asta had scratched at his mind.

They will calm when they have a purpose. Let them take action. They'll show you what they can do.

Lerrin had snorted, though none of the soldiers had known why.

Against his better judgment, he'd selected one of the fists—the one with the oldest male and female in its ranks, in the hopes that they would be a steadying influence on the others—and told them to prepare. That the call would come, and they should be ready. But he'd snarled at them to hold themselves on a tight leash.

They hadn't appreciated the metaphor. But he didn't care. They'd deserved it.

What had happened to his disciplined ranks—the hunters and fighters, the strategists? The wolves had always been known for their ability to slink through shadows and take down an enemy that didn't even know it was under threat.

Where was that control?

He growled at the thought, but happened to be passing one of the smiths on the path, who flinched and dropped to a knee, saluting.

Lerrin stalked past him without so much as a word.

Was it because more of the females had stayed with the Cat than the males? He hadn't noticed immediately, but as his eyes began to open to his people and he'd taken the time to simply walk the Tent City more than once in the previous week or two, he'd started to see the imbalance in his population.

Were the males struggling, not finding their needs met, and so becoming more agitated?

And yet, no one complained. It wasn't uncommon for soldiers to go weeks or months without mating—the added aggression usually became an asset to them.

What the ** was going on?

When he reached his tent he was late—another reason he was fuming. Ignoring the guards who stood just feet in front of the entrance, he slapped the flap aside and stormed in.

Suhle stood at the side of the bath—still steaming, though he was half an hour late. He didn't know how she did it. But she always seemed able to perfectly anticipate when he was arriving.

She held a bar of lavender soap in one hand, and his towel in the other.

"There isn't time!

" he snarled, then cursed himself when she flinched. But her voice was smooth when she spoke.

"They will wait for you, Lerrin. I can get your food while you bathe. And the council will wait for you. Let them wait. You need to take a break or you will snap—and you'll regret it,

" she said firmly.

He almost barked at her. Almost told her to stop speaking to him as an equal… but he liked it. And that little warning voice in the back of his head reminded him of how she'd flinched.

He refused to add to her fear of males.

He stood for a moment, undecided, then sighed and began to strip off his leathers and shirt.

"Very well. Let me bathe myself though, while you get food. I can't make them wait too long, they're losing their edge… **!

" he snarled as one of the buttons on his shirt caught he tore the fabric trying to get it loose.

"I can mend that tomorrow. And there's already a fresh shirt her. Be calm, Lerrin. Just breathe.

"

Grumbling under his breath, he threw the clothes on the bed, then stalked to the bath. He didn't miss that Suhle's eyes raked down his form before he stepped into it, and for a moment he wanted to pause, to let her admire him. He hadn't slacked in his training—he hadn't lost his edge!—and it felt good to have a female admire him as a male for once, rather than as King.

He gave in to the urge, and paused with one foot in the bath, and the other out, his hand out for the soap, just to see what she'd do.

But her expression remained neutral as she raised her eyes to meet his, and slid the soap into his open palm.

Disgusted with himself for expecting… anything else, Lerrin sat too quickly and the water slopped over the side of the bath.

"I'm sorry,

" he muttered and began lathering himself up.

"I'm just… don't worry, it will dry.

"

She hadn't moved from her spot. And when she spoke, his ears perked at the tone. Completely normal, but… breathless.

"Are you certain you don't want help?

" she asked faintly.

He hesitated, his body tightening at the image that bloomed in his mind of her, sleeves pushed up past her elbows, leaning into the water to soap him down—

"I'm sure,

" he snapped, shaking the thought off. He was as bad as the others if he let himself fall into those mental traps.

"Just go get some food. I'll be done here in minutes.

"

As she turned away, pulling up her hood over her hair before she stepped out of the tent, Lerrin blinked. He wasn't sure when she'd stopped keeping the hood up around him. It had just happened. But he liked it. He liked that she didn't to hide herself from him anymore. That she didn't put herself in that place of enforced servitude. He liked looking at her. She was truly beautiful—and yet, without guile.

Lerrin blinked again. What the ** was wrong with him? Suhle was devoted to service. She'd vowed to the old Covenant. And she was terrified of males.

What the hell was he thinking?

It had been too long since he'd found his release, he told himself as he set to scrubbing himself quickly so he could dry and dress before she returned.

Perhaps the women's council were right. Perhaps he did need to be intentional about finding a mate…

Why did that thought make him want to squirm like an adolescent?