you want me to walk her like she's your dog?

The motley wolf came closer, and she tensed, staying still. He pressed his side against her, and she finally got the hint. Right, probably sick of her slow as mud pace. She started to lean a little into him. Feeling that she didn’t really have much choice in the matter.

When he told her some of his past, she finally realised she was trying to label attributes to him that wouldn’t stick. He wasn’t like her slavers, he wasn’t like the Armada wolves. He was something else entirely. Did that mean she would trust him? Hell no! He was feral, like her, and she would trust herself as far as she could leap right now.

Couldn’t even get me close to grey. Was it a challenge, was it? They walked along the Col. Their pace was slow and careful as she adjusted to the feeling of her fur pulling with every step. But she was accustomed to pain. “I do look a little like a chew toy, don’t I?” She agreed casually. “The wounds that started it are whip lines, where they lashed a whip down my back again, and again. See, I told the dude fucking me that ants had bigger weeners, and at least that cleared him from being my dad since it was too widdle to eject anything.” She said conversationally. “The rest of the wounds happened a few days later, when I was trekking through the tundra with my black splayed open and a polar bear thought I looked like a walking buffet table.” She was glancing at him out of the corner of her eye to see if his face got all blanched like Oleander did any time she spoke about her treatment. Yeah, she bet she could turn him white.

"Speech"