Stavanger Bay Bikini body

Her small, tapering jaw found purchase in flesh and fur, and in her infinite fury, she chomped down once, twice, three times. On the third time, a faint hint of blood seeped onto her tongue, but nothing like the amount that Szymon had drawn with his powerful maw.

Atoll's problem was not entirely in skill or strength, though she lacked, a bit, in both areas. The problem was the coyote-shape of her mouth, and the thickness of the old wolf's neck. She could not fit her jaws around his throat comfortably enough to clamp down and seal off his life; nor could her teeth fully penetrate his tawny coat.

She was at a loss, unwilling to give up her hold but not satisfied with the futility of it, either. Shifting carefully, she worked backward bit by bit until she had just the skin of his neck in her jaws, and that she could bite into; draw blood from.

But, turning her attention to the rest of the world, she realized that the male had already given up - probably as soon as he'd heard her terrible cry!

Bet you won't try that again! she thought nastily, kicking sand in his direction. The fur along her spine stood up ramrod straight, and the rest of her coat bristled similarly in the fashion of a particularly disdainful bird. Eyes glinting dangerously, she glared at the stranger for one long moment before glancing toward the Leviathan's hulking form.

"We should kill it," she seethed, pacing toward Szymon and then away again as her anger struck her once more. She'd meant to look at his wound, clean him, up, speak sweet words - but there was no way she could do that now, not with Skellige and the stranger so near. She wondered if her love would even allow it.

Not daring to look away from the attacker, she canted her head in the Leviathan's direction, eyes still fixed firmly on the other wolf. "What happened here?" she asked, confusion and fear and white-hot anger forcing her tone nearer to a demand than a polite inquiry.