Chapter Two
The Circle
AN:/ Thank you to all of you who have favorite this story and reviewed it already! You inspire me to write more! Thanks for all of the feedback and the continued interest in this little tale. I hope it doesn't disappoint.
Note: I'm re-ordering the quests for the sake of plot-points. I know it's wrong, but bear with me.
It was the better part of three days that Yseult and Farkas were gone. The forts and series of caverns they were to infiltrate to retrieve the Wuuthal were almost half a day's journey by foot and there was no doubt time needed to strategize in the meanwhile. Still, Vilkas found himself worrying over the two of them, more Yseult than Farkas, Vilkas knew that his twin was brawny and strong, as capable of defending himself as a giant. It was Yseult he worried for. Her small, SkyForge-Steel waraxes seemed pathetic and small when compared to Farkas's enormous, two-handed greatsword. How would she block an attack with those small blades? She would not dodge well in heavy, steel armor. It was two Companions against Mara-only-knew how many members of the Silver Hand. He could only hope that Yseult's likeness to a fox went beyond appearances alone – she would need all the cunning she could muster to maneuver through such a heavily-armed fort.
Vilkas's stomach sank into his stomach when he saw Farkas approach alone, returning from the journey. He looked more than a little harrowed, his armor battered and dented from having sustained blows and dried, crusted blood still clinging to his long hair and the leather strips of his armor. Yseult was not in his company, and the fact somewhat disturbed him.
"Welcome home, brother," Vilkas greeted his brother, gripping the other man's wrist firmly in reception. "You look as though you could use a hot bath."
Farkas laughed. "Indeed. And perhaps afterward I can talk to you and Kodlak," he glanced around sheepishly. "I'd prefer Aela and Skjorn not to be present."
Vilkas tensed. Farkas's tone did not suggest that something amiss had occurred, but his request of the Harbinger and Vilkas both suggested that the poor man had made a dire mistake during the excavation of the Wuuthal. Without meaning to, Vilkas's nostrils flared, the beast searching for what may have gone awry. From a visual assent, Farkas was unharmed and the blood on him smelled strange, belonging to neither him nor Yseult. The scent was strong, but not strong enough to overpower the subtle musk that came from his skin.
"You changed," Vilkas concluded, his tone hushed.
Farkas nodded, his head hung in shame. "I am sorry, brother."
Vilkas took his brother by the elbow and guided him into Jorrvaskr, down into the lower segment of the halls and called on one of the servants – he didn't see nor particularly care who – to draw hot water for a bath. Then, while Farkas worked at removing the soiled, heavy wolf armor, Vilkas slid toward Kodlak's chambers.
"Farkas has returned," he said, striding into the Harbringer's domain.
Kodlak hurriedly closed a leather-bound book of parchment he'd been scribbling in and shoved it hastily to the side. Vilkas did not particularly care what manner of things Kodlak was writing, though he did note that the action itself was strange – the man had never been much of a scholar. Perhaps the mages at Winterhold were having a bit of an influence on the old warrior.
"You sound alarmed, pup," Kodlak said, his gray eyes peering up where Vilkas stood. "What has happened?"
"We have been revealed to the new blood," Vilkas stated vaguely. "Farkas seeks our council."
Kodlak stood calmly. "Let us hear the tale of his journey."
Vilkas lead the older man to Farkas's chambers, though it was more a formality than anything else. Kodlak knew his way around the halls, after all. Vilkas entered and stood adjacent to the basin of water Farkas sat soaking in. It never ceased to amaze him how quickly the women in the mead hall were able to make real the requests of the Companions. Vilkas swore they knew a bit of magic of their own and it was infinitely more practical than anything a mage might conjure.
"Welcome home, Farkas," Kodlak began, seating himself leisurely upon Farkas's bed. "Vilkas tells me you have an exciting tale to regale us with.
Farks seemed dubious. "I'm not so sure if it's exciting. Worrisome, perhaps."
"Come now, we are eager to hear it," Kodlak prodded.
Farkas sighed, settling back into the water with a slight slosh of the liquid rippling around his thickly muscled form. "We made it to the fort without incident…"
Farkas followed behind Yseult as she descended further into the series of caves and chambers. His heavy frame made him slow to follow the slimmer, more agile Nord. She had already slipped into a large, round-ish opening with runic carvings in the floor and sparse furniture in small alcoves along the sides. He arrived in time to hear the clanging of a gate being drawn shut and lumbered forward to see her peering out at him from behind iron bars, looking quite shamed with herself.
"Now look what you've gotten yourself into," he laughed.
"There's another lever on the left alcove. I saw it through the bars," she pleaded with him, not at all content with her predicament. "See if that releases the catch."
He chuckled again. "Don't worry, I'll get you out."
From the north and south portions of the cavern came a group of men and woman, perhaps ten in number, brandishing weapons of molded silver and delicate hide and studded armor that appeared as though it were made from the pelts of wolves. "We've got you now, monster," came a shout from one.
"Which one is this?" Another voice inquired, the strangers forming a ring around Farkas and slowly advancing.
The big man backed away from them, retreating closer to where Yseult stood behind bars, drawing her axes and prepared to hack at them through the cage.
"It doesn't matter! If he's wearing that armor, he dies!" A woman shouted, grinning wickedly and poising her sword, prepared to strike at Farkas's vitals.
"I'll not die so easily," Farkas replied with a snarl.
I vicious roar tore from his throat and he fell to one knee on the ground. Yseult jumped and backed away, helpless in her confines and unable to do little more than watch as Farkas's skin grayed, the soft hair on his arms warped into course, black fur, his ears pointed, and his muzzle lengthened. She heard the wet snaps and creaks of bones breaking and muscles reshaping and watched in both fascination and horror as Farkas, the kind man who'd watched out for her during her first few months in the Companions, morphed into what she could only describe as a werewolf.
The wolf she could only assume was Farkas bellowed his rage and swung a heavy, clawed arm at the assailants. The first blow was true, striking across the taunting woman's neck and ripping out the vital artery there. One wailed and charged at him, and he lifted him by the neck and squeezed tightly, snapping the man's vital bones as surely as he would a piece of chalk. One by one, the assailants fell, each brutally slaughtered: a man was gored, a woman's throat torn out with large, vicious teeth, another's chest collapsed under Farkas's immense weight, and still others were bashed and battered against the stone walls until they ceased to appear human.
When the carnage had ceased, the wolf let out a high-pitched whine before retreating to the left alcove and out of her sight. Yseult heard another roar followed by the now-familiar popping and creaking of bones, muscle, and limbs. The chains rattled as the door encasing her in the alcove was lifted. She bolted the moment there was enough clearance and rushed into the left recess to see Farkas, naked with his hands folded over his groin to preserve his decency, standing beside the lever looking quite bashful.
"I hope I did scare you," he mumbled.
Yseult blurted the only thing she found appropriate to reply with. "You're a werewolf?"
He laughed awkwardly and half-turned to her, bending to retrieve his torn trousers and doing his utmost not to expose her to his nudity. "Aye, that I am, lass."
She stared at him a long time while he retrieved the pieces of his armor that had been lost with the transformation and returned them to their place but remained silent. There was nothing to say. Farkas had revealed himself to her and in doing so had informed her that the inner Circle was more than they appeared to be.
"I just hope she isn't scared off, now," Farkas said. He truly was like a child, Vilkas thought, concerned over offending a new-found playmate.
"But she retrieved the Wuuthal?" Vilkas pressed, eager to hear of the fate of Ysgramor's legendary battleaxe, the symbol of the Companions and their order.
"Oh yes!" Farkas informed him, beginning to scrub at the blood in his long, dark hair. "She was just stopping by the Breton's shop…the one with Sigurd as his helper. She found quite a few trinkets on a few of the Silver Hand members."
Vilkas felt himself smiling at that. He remembered their conversation on the stars and felt privileged at holding the knowledge that she was born beneath the sign of the Thief. Of course she would retrieve any valuable gems from the corpses. Members of the Companions did similar things, certainly. The action was not frowned upon and it was even expected from folk. But he enjoyed the thought of her doing such a thing silently, creeping up behind someone and lightly slipping a few coins from their pockets or drawing close to whisper a secret in someone's ear and easily unclasping a valued necklace. She was a practiced trickster and he rather enjoyed the vain thought that she would attempt to practice her skills with him.
Of course, with the news of Farkas revealing himself to her, perhaps she would not return to the Companions now that she knew the truth about the inner Circle, the truth of their Lycanthropy. How much did she know? Was she aware of the curse upon them, how they were prevented from entering Sovrngarde, tricked into following the will of the Daedric Lord of the Hunt? He sincerely doubted it. There was little enough research done on Lycanthropy past methods on how to kill the beasts: silver, fire, and all that. There were plenty of books written on vampires, however. There seemed to be a surge of obsession with them after the Oblivion Crisis- the Champion of Cyrodil had been a vampire himself.
"I'm sorry I broke the oath," Farkas murmured.
"It's quite alright, lad," Kodlak said, standing and offering Farkas a sheet with which to dry himself. "You were put into an impossible predicament. The werewolf is nothing, if not powerful. The Nine know your intentions were pure."
Farkas seemed eased by that. Vilkas could not help but grimace. The Nine Divines may understand Farkas's reasons for shifting but that did not change his predicament, did not sway the truth that Sovrngarde's gates remained shut and the wolf that had taken Terrfyg would take them to the Hunting Grounds, as well.
"Come, let us prepare for Yseult's ceremony of welcome into the circle," Kodlak said, patting Farkas on the shoulder and casting an appraising glance at Vilkas. "What's done is done. We cannot change what happened. Yseult will pass her own judgment. She will return to us, or she will not. We are simple folk. This is all we can do."
Vilkas had been ordered to watch the stairs leading to the mead hall to ensure that Yseult did not try and creep around and spoil the surprise. He did not know why Farkas or Skjorn bothered with such foolishness. If Yseult had the mind to bypass his station, then she would simply do so. The surprise was more for Farkas's behalf than anything else. The man enjoyed making others happy and causing the corners of their mouths to lift in smiles and laughter and grins. He desperately wanted to apologize to Yseult for the unpleasantness of the revelation of the beastblood in him. This was his method of doing so. It was sweet, but so terribly foolish. They were not even certain if she would come.
He was surprised, therefore, when the breeze carried her scent toward him, upwind where he sat on the hill. His nostrils flared appreciatively, but his countenance remained stern. She was to be honored tonight, made a member of the Circle by Kodlak's wishes. The matter was serious. But the gravity did not prevent him from appreciating her as she approached. Even in the simple clothing of a townswoman, she cut an impressive figure. He rather enjoyed being able to witness the slight curve over her breasts in the fabric, the confirmation of a narrow waist and wide hips. The pallor of her skin showed on her shoulders, revealing taught muscle from working in the forge and delicate collarbones, each dusted with freckles. Her long hair was plaited down her back, though a few whips escaped and rose and fell delicately with the wind.
"We've been awaiting your return," he told her solemnly when she stepped into the torchlight.
Her brow quirked and his attention was brought to an angry-looking scab over the left ridge, interrupting the amber hair that grew there. His brows drew together slightly, half in concern with what other wounds she may have suffered and half with a sudden surge of fascination. She somehow seemed more attractive.
"Come, follow me," he grunted, not at all in the mood to sift through his emotions. He'd enough concerning him with the curse.
She did not press further and did as she was told silently. Vilkas guided her to the posterior portion of Jorrvaskr, to the place they'd spoken of the stars. He lead her to her post at the top of the circle, directly across from Kodlak. He nodded to her, communicating that she should stay before he walked do his station beside Farkas. Both he and his brother were wearing common clothes rather than their wolf armor, as was acceptable for ceremonies. Farkas's needed repair anyways and was currently with Eorland. Vilkas would not let his brother be alone in being the sole unarmored one, though it appeared as though Yseult was also in such a state.
"Brothers and sisters of the Circle," Kodlak began. "Today, we welcome a new soul into our mortal fold. This woman has endured, challenged, and shown her valor. Who will speak for her?"
Farkas raised his voice, grinning broadly and hopefully at Yseult. "I stand witness to the courage of the soul before us."
Yseult's gaze shifted from Kodlak to Farkas and he watched the storm of confusion clear from her eyes and a smile come to her lips. Vilkas sighed in relief. Farkas was forgiven. She'd accepted the Circle, broken and cursed as they were.
"Would you raise your shield in her defense?" Kodlak inquired.
"I would stand at her back so that the world might never overtake us!" Farkas replied strongly.
"And would you raise your sword in her honor?"
"It stands ready to meet the blood of her foes."
Vilkas felt rather than saw the blood rush to her face, both out of pride and humility. The others could not see in the dark, could not feel the heat that was in her face and her breast. She was honored at this small ceremony, touched by the earnestness of it. And for that, he was proud.
"And would you raise a mug in her name?" Kodlak demanded.
"I would lead the song of triumph as our mead hall reveled in her stories!" Farkas confirmed.
"Then the judgment of this Circle is complete," the Harbinger concluded. "Her heart beats with fury and courage that have united the Companions since the days of the distant green summers. Let it beat with ours that the mountains may trmble and the beasts may flee with our call!"
Vilkas raised his fist with the other companions and roared, "Yah!"
"Let's get the drinking started, then," Skjorn laughed, now that the more sincere part of the ceremony had passed.
"Aye!" Many of the others clamored at his suggestion and moved toward the warmth of the fire burning in Jorrvaskr. Vilkas stepped followed a ways, returning the torch to its bracket on the wall. He could use a strong tankard of mead, but felt compelled to wait for Farkas.
"Well, girl, you're one of us now. I hope you don't disappoint." It was Kodlak's voice, softly spoken, but clearly audible to those with the blood. Vilkas turned to see him gripping her forearm, a sign of respect.
Farkas draped a thick arm across her shoulders and steered her toward where Vilkas stood by the door. "You're sure you're alright, lass?" he inquired, cheerful, but sheepish.
Yseult laughed and raised herself onto the balls of her feet to place a delicate kiss on his cheek. "Sweet Farkas," she said, "You are the kindest man I know. No matter the skin you wear, you are one of my truest friends."
Vilkas smiled softly to himself and even laughed as Farkas lifted her off the ground and crushed her against his burly chest in a horribly constricting hug. Yseult did well enough, laughing and then coughing as air was no longer available to her and punching his brother lightly to communicate that she'd had enough. Farkas placed her back on the ground and eagerly marched toward Jorvaskrr.
Vilkas opened the door for his brother. "The Companions honor the conquering heroes, this night," he said flately. "Well done, brother." He nodded to Yseult. "Welcome to the Circle, pup."
Farkas barked laughter and walked into the hall to be handed a tall tankard of honeyed mead and plopped down in a chair to begin booming the story of the tale of their victory. Yseult passed him, the smoldering, sweet scent of her hair stroking his face as she passed. Her light eyes found his dark ones and a cunning smile passed over her mouth.
"What?" he demanded gruffly.
She was unperturbed. "You and Farkas are twins, yes?"
"Yes," he answered sternly. "Though Kodlak is fond saying that Farkas has Ysgramore's strength and I've his brains."
"Oh, of that I have no doubt," she giggled flicking the bulging muscle in his arm lightly. "Are you a wolf too, then?"
He nodded hesitantly, "Aye."
The smile grew broader. "Thank you, Vilkas. Will you share a tankard with me this night?"
He could hardly deny her that. She was the Companion of honor, after all. She'd been accepted into the Circle and retrieved and returned the sacred object of her family. Besides, it were not as though he had anything particularly better to do. It had been a great deal of time since he'd spent time in the company of a beautiful woman. But he was hesitant, what with the beastblood still disturbing him. He'd gained better control over it and was able to ignore the more painful aches of the flesh. But the mead made his mind fuzzy, made him more apt to speak, to lose the tight control he held..
"If I must," he grunted.
Yseult laughed, her quiet voice musical next to the raucous laughter of the other Companions. She reached up to him and slipped her fingers along the hair of his jaw line delicately, her touch so soft he thought for a moment that he'd imagined it. He merely blinked at her.
"Come now, oh Dour One," Yseult chuckled. "Have a drink with me."
Vilkas followed hesitantly and seated himself across from her. He was not sure why she had taken a sudden fascination in keeping his company, but he was sure it involved the lore of the beast. He'd even told her in the past to come to him with question regarding the histories of the Companions and Whiterun, as the retelling or oral history was something of a specialty for him. He so terribly regretted that decision now.
But the night passed and Yseult spoke nothing of the beast. She simply sat politely and listened as Farkas told the story of their plight with the Silver Hand, raising a cheer here and there with the crowd but generally remaining quite and sipping her mead. Vilkas drank sparingly, not wanting to cloud himself any more than he already was. He wanted to be alert around her. He did not doubt for a moment that she would attempt to trick him out of vitally important information regarding the beastblood. She was closer to the Circle now, but not close enough that their problems were hers.
But she did not question him about the beast or how the blood came to be part of the Companions. Her conversation remained on safe, but interesting ground. She inquired of the dealings the Companions had throughout history and was fascinated by the fact that they were not at all involved any sort of political undertaking all through the course of history. He returned her questions of the Companions with inquiries into her pervious life as a thief, but was not at all surprised when she responded to his inquiries vaguely, revealing very little of herself in the process.
"Are you so curious about my birth sign?" she inquired with a laugh. "Very well. Aela has asked me to secure a bit of information regarding the Silver Hand. I'll travel to the fort before the next moon cycle. It would be my honor if you would accompany me."
"Ah. You need a bit of muscle with you, eh?" Vilkas replied sardonically.
"You wish to see my past life, here is your opportunity," she coaxed.
He laughed, deciding to take the bait. "Very well, Yseult. I'll accompany you on Aela's foolish mission."
Her eyes flashed, though he was uncertain at what. He was suddenly put on guard again.
"You've no fondness for Aela, then?" She inquired.
He shrugged. Aela was werewolf, just as he and Falkas were. But she was proud of it rather than believing it shameful as Farkas and Vilkas did. "She's rather solitary," he stated truthfully. "She's an excellent marksman and a superb huntress. We fight over personal matters. My loyalty to her goes only so far as shield siblings and little more." He stated. He did not want to suggest Yseult speak with Aela regarding the beast blood. The perspective she would obtain would be warped, at best. "But she is not a bad person," he added, if somewhat belatedly.
The auburn-haired Nord nodded, brushing a few strands of hair from her face.
"Yseult!" Farkas called drunkenly. "Y'know 'ow to sing?"
"If I'm in the mood, yes," she replied.
"Sing us a song, then! It's your turn to use your voice a bit t'night!" Farkas bellowed, half-doubled in drunken laughter.
Yseult cast Vilkas a smoldering glance that caused a searing heat to burn in his loins before standing and moving to the fore of the hall.
"By Sithis," Vilkas growled, bending his neck and rubbing his eyes desperately with the heels of his hands. "What was that?"
Yseult stood before the Companions, poised upon a table before the fire. For a brief moment, he believed that she would chose a serious ballad or tell a story of love, betrayal and heartache, or perhaps of war or the Dragonborn. But when the first words escaped her lips, lovely and sure as her voice was, he could not help but collapse in laughter.
Way hay! Up she rises!
Way hay! Up she rises!
Way hay! Up she rises!
Early in the morning!
The other men recognized the song and joined in with her in their drunken, caterwauling voices.
What do you do with a drunken sailor?
What do you do with a drunken sailor?
What do you do with a drunken sailr?
Early in the morning?
Put him in a long-boat till he's sober!
Keep him there and make 'im bale 'er
Early in the morning!
Trice him up in a runnin' bowline!
Tie him to the tasffrail when she's yard-arm unter.
Put him in the scuppers with a hose-pip on him
Early in the morning!
Take 'im and shake 'im and try an' wake 'im,
Give 'im a dose of salt and water,
Give 'im a taste of the bosun's rope-end
Early in the morning!
Stick on 'is back a mustard plaster,
Soak 'im in oil till he sprouts a flipper
Shave 'is belly with a rusty razor
Early in the morning!
Way hay! Up she rises!
Way hay! Up she rises!
Way hay! Up she rises!
Early in the morning!
Yseult stepped down from the table delicately, the other members of Jorrvaskr caught up in seeing whether or not they could out-shout one another in the matter of music. She returned to Vilkas and bent to murmur against his ear, offering him a stunning view of her breasts beneath the common clothes. "Shall we retreat to the lower halls and let the rabble have their fun?"
"Please," Vilkas growled, half-laughter and half-lament that she had begun such an atrocious racket.
Yseult lead the retreat, the two of them half-crouched and retreating toward the stairs so that none of the other Companions caught them and dragged them into their flat, outrageous choir. Thankfully, the journey was short and the others were far too concerned with their noise-making to notice that he and the newest member of the Circle retreated down to the lower portions of Jorrvaskr. Vilkas was grateful for the dark, mostly-quiet seclusion and leaned heavily against the cool stone wall, massaging his temples to attempt to ease the ache the damned singing had caused. There were times he did not at all appreciate the heightened hearing.
Rough, work-calloused hands took his and lowered them from his skull. He opened his eyes to slits, peering at Yseult skeptically as she eased his hands down to his sides. She looked up at him through her lashes, her eyes large, liquid and sharp and they assessed him. Vilkas opened his eyes a little wider and scowled down at her. "What are you-"
Yseult did not allow him to finish. With a swift, silent, calculated movement, she pressed herself against him, effectively putting him off balance and causing him to stumble against the wall for support. Her arms went around his neck, one hand toying with the soft hair at the nape, the other tracing delicate runes into his skin softly with her nails. She crashed her lips against his and he could taste the honey from the mead she'd drunk over the course of the evening. The soft flesh moved against him for a bit, the pressure needy, before he felt her tongue lap at his lower lip and seek entrance.
Vilkas went stiff, clenching and unclenching his hands to give them something, anything to do. His mind, normally so sharp and focused, was no better to him than oatmeal sloshing about in his skull. He did not know what to do, just understood the urge not to behave the way he wanted to.
Yseult was not pleased with his reaction. She arched herself more surely against him, earning a sharp grunt of pleasure as her hip pressed against the steadily apparent, aching part of his groin. The hand that had been tracing words on his back came forward and tipped under his jaw, her thumb resting against his chin and tugging his mouth down to provide the entrance that asking nicely did not. He gasped as her taste became more potent, his brow furrowing intensely as his senses were overwhelmed with the smell, feel, and savor of her. The mead carried undernotes of cinnamon, the smoke the slightest tones of cherry, and she was both hard with muscle and soft with the essence of a woman.
He snarled, his hands finding her shoulders and thrusting her away from him and spinning her around, throwing her against the stone wall with, perhaps, a bit more force than he'd intended. When she attempted to step forward, he shoved her back again and bent his leg slightly so that his knee became wedged between her legs and pinned her skirts to the stone. He braced himself against the wall, hands at either side of her head, and glowered down at her, still tight, still controlled, if only just. He'd gained control. He was now the one leading this little game and he had the opportunity to walk away, ignore what had just happened. He did not understand what she was trying to accomplish with her actions, only that they were making his heart burn damnably hot. He was breathing heavily and he knew it. He glowered down at her, confused as to why she saw it fit to afflict him with such longing when he'd the beast to contend with
Yseult met his gaze with bright eyes, open and challenging. Prove yourself a man, Vilkas. She seemed to say. Prove yourself a Nord.
Jump. The beast snarled. He was all too happy to oblige such a safe, human desire.
He found her mouth and was not at all gentle in his claiming it or exploring it. He bit her lip callously to gain entrance and taste the salty tang of blood where he broke the skin. She gasped, but did not pull away and he delved in, pressing himself more fully against her and growling at the pleasantness of her flesh. He was all too pleased when she began challenging his dominance over her, her tongue finding his and beginning a duel, of sorts. He could not think of the beast blood for the moment. His mind returned to his visions the night he'd scented her, as he could smell her now. She was ready and eager.
It was a shock, then, that when he moved his hands to grip her hips she pulled away and took the opportunity of surprise to deliver a harsh strike across his cheek. The blow stung and he snarled, more out of shock than pain. Confused, furious, and concerned, he removed a hand and touched his cheek where she'd slapped him, feeling the stinging heat, and turned his eyes down to her. Yseult met his questioning stare with a challenge in her eyes and a smirk on her bloody lips.
"The hunt begins, Vilkas," she said, thumbing the blood from her lower lip and licking the red liquid from her thumb sensually. The movement caused both the beast and the man to stir violently and he grunted, stiff in both his muscles and his nethers.
"What-"
Again, she silenced him with a rough kiss, full of teeth and tongue. But this one was shorter, not as long-lived as the first had been, before she harshly pressed her forearm against his chest and forced him away from her. Vilkas grunted in confusion. Everything in her mannerisms, the look in her eyes, the smirk on her mouth, the set of her shoulders, the sway of her hips, and the smell of her arousal communicated to him that nothing he'd done had offended her. Yet she pushed him away.
"Thank you for accompanying me tonight," she sated pleasantly, her voice again soft and humble. "I look forward to traveling with you." With that, she stepped away from him and retreated down the hall toward the communal bed chambers of the Companions.
He'd half a mind to follow her, and show her the consequences of such infuriating behavior around men. The heat of her remained with him as she sauntered away and he watched her haunches appreciatively, hungrily. By the Nine, he wanted her! But he had not left the encounter entirely empty-handed. The bite on her lip had been deep…deep enough to scar, even. She was marked, now, marked as his. He knew that the world of the beast did not equate the same rules as the world of man, but it was a victory he clung to nonetheless. No other man would touch her. They would see the mark, they would know that they faced a challenge if they chose to do anything brash or carnal.
He groaned and walked to his chambers like a herdsman too long in the saddle and proceeded to relieve the ache she'd begun in him.