The woman’s response was a pessimistic one, and Levent sighed as he wondered which one of them was being more stubborn and annoying. He was an adroit individual, but it would take all of his tricks to get her to loosen up. Meanwhile, she was doing her best to hang onto that feeling of anger and indignity from the cougar conflict. Neither one was blameless: if she should relax, he should leave her alone, but it didn’t seem like they’d come to an agreement anytime soon.
Her remark about his language made him stiffen, and anger rose up like a wave to replace his persistent friendliness. He was perfectly capable of speaking English completely, and his mother tongue was used for decoration as part of his character rather than a need for it, but it was still an insult that had nothing to do with their current conversation.
“You’re speaking in tongues to me,” Levent growled. “You think about that, sweetheart?” The word fell harsher from his lips than its Turkish equivalent, “sevgili.” He stepped around her as she glanced away—in shame, maybe, or because she didn’t want to look at him—and snorted. He was about to make another biting remark when she mumbled something that he barely caught. His ears flattened.
“Hotaru? What kind of—oh.” He grinned again, his expression flickering from cross to bright too quickly to be trusted. “I am Levent. And um—” He glanced over his shoulder to see Wilson sitting, purring with amusement at the wolves’ interaction. “The little pussycat’s Wilson.” He winked at the tom, who rolled his eyes, then stepped around the timber she-wolf once more, his tail wagging behind him.
“I’m uh, sorry if you took it personally—me talking to the lion.” His ears fell back against his head sheepishly, and he chuckled. “I mean, I don’t like seeing anyone hurt. Cat or dog. So I guess it was for the lion’s benefit just as much as yours I stopped it.” His tone grew teasing, albeit in a kind way. He was sure she could’ve handled herself for a while, but the injuries from a confrontation wouldn’t be worth it.
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