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With his black lips pulled away like that to show his teeth, he looked less happy than... possessive. ...Why was it that Emelyn's mind was so intent on focusing on the least important piece of information this conversation?

"So I've heard before."

Her eyes closed, and the feeling of his hand against her jaw was intensified for the sake of her newly deprived sense. She was aware, then, how close he had come, and how low his voice was, how sure.

"Don't do this." But it was a dry whisper, and she did not move to stop it.

She swallowed, and it went down as a lump. Only then did Emelyn open her eyes. Even though she'd known from the feeling of his breath on her muzzle that he must be very close, she'd not been emotionally prepared for the sight of primal, yet compassionate protection. Here was a mix of man and beast, and both of them portrayed, through the raw form of masculinity, and the heady scent of possession and ownership... the soft promise of something good, something right. Something in Emelyn gave over to it, yielded to the primal force that wanted to take her under its wing and shelter her to a swift-eyed place of sweetness and memories. She would have given over to it entirely, and sunk into that unspoken offer- if not for the one thing that held her back.

"How... how many mates does a wolf have?" She asked him how he betrayed her. Not her. Not Emelyn. Her. But even as she spoke, she reached out her hand and touched it to his chest, hating herself for imagining her whole self in that cove.

"You're not a very good wolf." She did not pull her hand back.

Despite herself, she laughed- a softer thing than her normal, harking laugh, and finally did move her hand back from his chest, so that it might touch her muzzle- and his hand- in a shock of amusement.

"This isn't like you." It was said with an almost joyous accusation.

When he pressed closer to her, she let a moment of fear and doubt rush through her, then pushed them inside- anxious to be free of them, and of her guilt for what she knew could happen. His actions- his words- they had all been so quick, so unburdened by undue thought or buried emotion. It all spoke to his animalistic side being the cause. Ambrose the man wouldn't be doing this- not when ...she was waiting for him. Emelyn half wanted to ask where she was, and how he could do this to her... but the fear that mentioning her name would bring him to his senses was very real. And so she thusly tied in his actions to her emotions, and her guilt. He must not wholly know what he did- he must be under some transfixion of the wolf nature, or perhaps the serum. Maybe even the labs had tampered with the man, removing his ability or desire to rationalize. And here he was, subjecting himself to something that was fraught by irrationality and betrayal.

But she'd take it. She was lonely, she was fearful, and this crumb she would accept, regardless of the price of her guilt. She stepped into his arms and pressed her chest against his, crushing herself against this irrationality. It was a heavy price to pay, this guilt- and the knowledge that this wasn't what he really wanted. But it was all she had.

It was all too much, but her need to be protected, her desire to have someone care about... anything at all about her- it buoyed her up in a sea of guilt. It was a fragile flotation device that she knew would break and split her down into the depths of this manic expressive life she'd fell victim to so recently... but only after this was over. She let his muzzle find hers, and there explored what seemed impossible- the human-like expression and connection of desire between two such inhuman things. A kiss that was unlike any other kiss she'd ever had- and not for the sheer sake of physiology.

It was soft, sweet, painful, wrong, and needful. It was everything, and in the touch of a body now made unfamiliar by a year's worth of emotional distance and drastic physical changes, Emelyn wondered what would have happened had their interruption never occured. The thought was meant to be a sweet, nostalgic bliss of what could have been- but all it did was serve to remind her that there was likely something here, something intangible that was keeping Ambrose's true desires away from this encounter. It was all she could take not to tell him to go to her and tell her that it was over... while he was still in this state. To recreate that conversation she had endured with him... I care for you, but I can't be with you. She's the one that I'm meant to be with... she could tell him to say those words to her. But all she could manage to do was to sink with him to the couch, and to continue in a swift and beautiful agony.