Varg lit another cigar with trembling fingers. As the smoke danced between the grey shafts of moonlight falling into the room, he shrugged his shoulders almost imperceptibly. His voice was husky, weary, as if he were digging through the ashes of the past.
"No, he wasn't wrong... but he couldn't feel them for a long time," he said, fixing his eyes on a dark corner of the room, as if seeing the ghosts of Violet and his unborn pups there.
"I don't know why; I didn't hear their voices. Until they started moving, I never felt that bond inside me. I knew they were there, but that frequency of fatherhood, that wolf-bond... it was far from me."
I watched him as if listening to a dark fairy tale, holding my breath. Varg's brows furrowed with deep, bleeding regret. He took a long drag from his cigar, as if trying to burn his lungs from the inside out.
