They were following Nymeria's face-thief.

It was self-absorbed—no, petty—of her to view the colt in such a way. Her brother had no control over the inheritance of his genetics when he fucked someone. She wouldn't have that sort of control either, if she ever chose to bear a foal... but the lack of control didn't change the resentment that coiled and seethed in her chest, the resentment that begged, demanded for release. She held it in; she swallowed it back; but whenever she saw those pink eyes and that mirror face she wanted to strip the skin from Kid's very bones.

He doesn't deserve my face, she'd complain to Lil. He'd grunt in noncommittal response. Sometimes she'd daydream out violent ideas, the sort her mother would be proud of.

Except she wouldn't act on her impulses. Not because she didn't want to—but because Kid (and Sabre) were family, despite her brother's shitty choices and the raging mother Colt always watching, always waiting. Nymeria would take care of her family. Under her guardianship, they would come to no harm.

As the saying went, blood ran thicker than water... although that only reminded her Volterra didn't know this part of his family existed. (She should probably tell Volterra. And yet for some reason she couldn't quite bring herself to actually ask him if he knew his one night stand resulted in twins and her being a fucking aunt with altogether more responsibility than she had asked for.)

The moon glowed on the snow, illuminating deep crescents left behind by Nymeria's nephew. Even if he hadn't been on a path which led to only one destination, it would've been easy to follow him.

Why are you following?

He's my nephew. It wasn't the answer her black was looking for (he wanted to know why she cared when she despised Kid and all he represented) but it was the only answer she bothered to give. In all honesty, Nymeria didn't quite know what drew her out on a night she could've easily let Kid run by. Family was important—that was true—but there was also something more to her nephew she couldn't quite describe. Maybe it was this vague recognition, or this understanding, that the bruises he'd wear on his skin she'd worn on hers too; and maybe she wanted to give him something other than what she suspected he might receive with Colt.

(Something she'd never really gotten herself.)

"Kid," Nymeria called, Lilómiel a fleeting shadow overhead. Red eyes lock down on pink (his face, his face, look at his ugly fucking face): "Why are you running away?"