That dog is a wolf, is he not?'
'Aye, well, mostly.'
A small flash of hazel told him not to quibble.
'And yet he is thy boon companion, a creature of rare courage and affection, and altogether a worthy being?;
'Oh, aye,' he said with more confidence. 'He is."
She gave him an even look.
'Thee is a wolf, too, and I know it. But thee is my wolf, and best thee know that.'
He'd started to burn when she spoke, an ignition swift and fierce as the lighting of one of his cousin's matches. He put out his hand, palm forward, to her, still cautious lest she too, burst into flame.
'What I said to ye, before . . . that I kent ye loved me-'
She stepped forward and pressed her palm to his, her small, cool fingers linking tight.
'What I say to thee now is that I do love thee. And if thee hunts at night, thee will come home.'
Under the sycamore, the dog yawned and laid his muzzle on his paws.
'And sleep at they feet,' Ian whispered, and gathered her in with his one good arm, both of them blazing bright as day.
— Diana Gabaldon
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