Set just outside the pack den in the middle of the night.
The moon was high, but sleep had not come easy. Craw had tried to rest his eyes in the confines of the den, but to no avail; there were too many situations and hazards and conspiracies running through his head to allow any rest. @Morganna no longer stank of desire, so being in her proximity was infinitely easier, but now it was different - someone had succumbed to her scent, had come close enough to couple with her. Perhaps more than one. Craw knew that he had resisted, and he was the highest-ranking male in the pack who wasn't considered a member of her family, so just who had mounted her? He may not have thought highly of @Skoll, but the dark man was above mating with his sister, he was sure. Craw thought there was some history there with @Renier, so he was a possibility - but, then again, he had also seen Wraith acting all cosy with their female lead.
Losing Wraith to Morganna was not a part of his plan. Whether the mountain wolf's loyalties were most swayed by his enjoyment of feminine parts was something that Craw needed to know. If Wraith had fathered her children, did that alter his allegiances? Craw had tried so hard to integrate him into the pack... and perhaps had done too well. He was almost beginning to lose perspective himself, lost in thoughts of Archers and willow trees when his real priorities were supposed to be much higher. How had he let himself become so entangled in some other family's politics?
And then every now and then the name would float to the top, Pharika, Pharika, and he was driven to such heights of frustration that he quietly extracted himself from the den of sleeping packmates, preferring to sit a few feet from its entrance. The air was cold and crisp and silent out here, with no warm bodies or the smell of wolf or the sounds of breathing. There was only his own wheeze, as his lungs drew in and expelled air which rattled against the old damaged flesh of his throat. Having escaped the den of willow wolves, his attention drew to the sound of his own breathing, and then to the memory of the event which had caused it, and from there his fully awake mind took a very long and twisting walk through the past, his yellow eyes open but unseeing as he stared into the moonlit night.
Memories of the cold north, of a father's sneer, of supportive whispers in his ear, of falling. Of a single live child in a litter of four, wriggling and crying for his mother's milk.