The wolf approached the doe cautiously.
There was a white spot in the corner of his eye, Wilson watching, probably purring to himself like the wanker he was. Lips twitched slightly in amusement, but Levent did not bare his teeth in a smile. His steps remained slow and purposeful, but not threatening; his posture was far different from a predator’s. The walk he used to approach shy horses seemed to be working, and he mimicked a soft grunt, a nurturing sound. Already he’d taken advantage of the new growth and rubbed himself with whatever smelly stuff he could find—dung, flowers, spare oils, et cetera—to cloak his wolfish scent.
He stretched his hand out to the woodland creature, his ears low against his head and his gaze soft. The doe stepped closer, tail flickering uncertainly, her steps high and awkward.
A grotesque crackle of bones broke the silence, and the deer bolted, bounding away with her white tail flipped up like a warning sign. Levent groaned and stuffed his hands in his pockets, shoulders slumping. As skilled in the low tongues as he was, he’d never been able to learn much of deer dialect—and it looked like he wouldn’t gain the trust of one for a long time yet.
Levent laughed. “I think that’s actually the case,
The cat snorted.
“
“
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