She should protest. She should say something about autonomy, about not being managed, about the fact that she was a grown woman carrying four children and perfectly capable of deciding who crossed a tree line.
Instead, her body betrayed her completely. She nuzzled into his chest, her fox ears going soft and flat, the contented droop that every single one of her husbands had learned to read as surrender. Her tail wound tighter against his thigh.
Victor watched from his chair, wings shifting once, a slow, unconscious adjustment. The tension that had lived in the set of his jaw for months was simply... absent. He looked at Felicity pressed against Dimitri's chest, at the way she'd gone boneless and pink-cheeked in the new pack head's arms, and something ancient and possessive flickered behind his red gaze.
But he didn't rise and didn't snarl, nor did he claim.
