They were three days into their vacation in the Canadian wilderness, and Scott had woken up restless, leaving Alec asleep in their bed so he could wander. A gentle breeze rustled the short strains of his fur, carrying the cold and crisp scent of an early morning. His paws padded the soft snow before he reared up onto his hide legs and slammed them down like he had the first day Alec and taken him out.
A small wave of white crashed against the ground in front of him just like on that day; only this time, there was no grumpy black wolf, so old his fur was graying under the chin buried under an inch of snow and growling.
The city had been his home, but the streets were no place for his wolf. Even the forest with his shades of greens and brown, or covered in the dark shawl of night, would not welcome a wolf so white. Here he could run, he could play. He could lay down and hide, waiting in the snow, a blanket of endless white until Alec can along, and he could pounce.
Fresh blood marred the front of his coat, along his snout, and Scott had to lick at the warm meat between his teeth to force it down his throat. The body of his kill, the prize of his hunt, a white-tailed deer laid behind him. The belly had been torn open, hot blood bathing the scene as Scott lifted his head and howled a gleeful song into the morning sky.
