The sound that came out of him was not a word.
It was older than a word. It was the noise a wolf makes the first time he sees his own get, the first time he understands that something small and warm and breathing in front of him is his. It started somewhere deep beneath his ribs and rolled up out of his throat without his permission — low, guttural, broken — and his free hand flew up and closed convulsively around the rough bark of the pine beside him as if he might fall otherwise.
"MINE." The growl cracked apart in the middle of itself. "My — pup—"
The clearing went absolutely still.
Erin had been swaying gently on the fallen oak, her cheek pressed into the soft crown of her son's hair, half a smile still on her lips from something Lio had just gurgled — and at the sound of that voice
