"Secrets can only lie in the dark for so long..."
Martha Dévolla had always been a fiery, uncontrollable, ambitious girl since she was young. When her teachers told her to sit still, she leaped about. If the rain poured heavily on her picnic plan...
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"SO YOU'VE BEEN a raging wolf this whole time." Martha deadpanned as she handed Sam some old sweats her grandfather left behind. Though Martha had seen his naked body before, now was not the time to make her blush. He came out from behind the tree not much later an unreadable expression marring his usually stoic features. "Since senior year?"
"Yes," He sighed, grabbing hold of her hand to lead her back inside, away from the cold night. He already felt bad enough for having her outside for so long. He didn't want her to catch a cold.
"No wonder you're so hot all the time," She mumbled lowly to herself, smiling innocently when he eyed her over his shoulder.
They trekked back inside, dusting the icy snow off their feet as they went. Martha was rubbing her lips together, not knowing how to go about this. She didn't want to berate him with questions but she had more than she could count. Sam's big frame took up most of her eye sight, flashes of such an authoritative wolf flickering before her sight.
He found a seat where her cold meal sat, half eaten. She glanced at it wistfully before focusing on the important matters. Food would have to wait.
She stood at the archway, crossing her arms over her chest. "Why are you telling me this now?"
Sam picked at his nail, unable to meet her curious gaze. "There are other creatures out there that could jeopardize your safety. I wanted to open your eyes before somebody else, someone less familiar, did it."
That intrigued the dancer. She was raised to be imaginative, think outside the natural realm of possibilities. However, she never could fathom anything to this degree. The fantasy part of her childhood had all to do with her father, before he skipped out at the age of three. The only reason she remembered was because her mother told her so.
She didn't want Martha to paint her father in a dim light. Thought she'd leave the dancer with some decent ideals of her absent father, especially since she was the one to drive him out of their lives. Not that Martha was made aware of that. Too bad the bitter taste of his abandonment didn't completely wash out of the young girls mouth.
"What are you thinking, Martha? Tell me," Sam sounded desperate, because he was. He finally turned to her with needy eyes, searching her face for a reaction of some sort. A repulsion he feared.
Biting her thumb, she sighed. A heavy sense of nostalgia washing over her. "My papá spoke of this legend, a tale religious mesoamericans believed that every person had a counterpart – an spirit animal, if you will – tonalism."
