Ravensblood Forest preppers

the woods had been quiet, but meredith was never fooled by silence.

she moved through the underbrush with purpose, ears flicking to every snap of a twig, every rustle of wind through the trees. her paws pressed firm into the damp earth, her body low as she scoured the forest floor for anything worth bringing back.

the raid was coming. she could feel it in her bones, the charged air of anticipation humming beneath her skin. nox wanted them ready, and she wasn't about to show up empty-pawed. rope, herbs, sharp things—anything that could be of use. she wasn’t the brute force of the crew, nor did she need to be. she had her own ways of ensuring success, and this was one of them.

her teeth found the thick stem of a plant, yanking it from the dirt before shaking off the excess soil. she tossed it into the pile she had started, alongside strips of old hide and a few rusted bits of metal she had scrounged up.

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it isn't ever long before crowell comes marching through, the eager bastard sniffing out trouble wherever it may be. that being said, he had his eyes on meredith. the girl was a spitfire, and crowell was enthralled. he'd always liked his women feisty, and that girl...

he practically shivers at the thought. he knows she would give him a good quarrel in the sack, leave him with a few new scars to shine his pelt. and there was no fun in fuckin' a lady if she didn't bite him a few times.

he sniffs her out towards the edge of the forest and he barks to her, ears swiveling atop his rogueish head. an' jus wht're ye doin'? his voice filters out past his gritted smile, the man trotting up beside her. deciding to be bold as he comes close and tries to nip her on the scruff.

meredith doesn’t stop what she’s doing, doesn’t so much as glance his way at first. she’s got better things to focus on—cactus clusters, dust pockets, whatever else she can scavenge and secure before the raid. her paws work quickly, knotting, bundling, securing.

but then there’s him.

she hears him before she sees him, that damn voice slithering in like oil. she bristles, already annoyed, already tired.

when he gets too close, when his teeth dare to graze her scruff, she snaps—not enough to bite, but enough to warn. enough to tell him she’s not the type to be toyed with.

finally, she glances at him, scowling, eyes sharp like flint.

gatherin’ shit, she says flatly, tossing a bundle of supplies into her satchel with more force than necessary. why? y’ wanna help, or just get in my fuckin’ way?

crowell recoils just enough to dodge the full force of her warning snap, a grin curling across his face—wild and infuriating, as if her irritation is exactly what he’d hoped for. he circles slightly, keeping close but not enough to press her further. yet.

hah! his laugh infuriatingly smooth, like seafoam slithering over jagged rocks. don’t reckon i’d last long if i weren’t careful ‘round a lass like you.

his eyes follow the supplies as she tosses them into the satchel, flame-bright gaze flicking between her and the task at hand.

gatherin’ shit, aye? sounds mighty excitin’. he steps forward again, tail swaying lazily behind him. but maybe i’m feelin’ generous today. reckon i might lend a paw...

meredith doesn’t bother looking up at him as she works, but the sharp flick of her ear says she’s listening. of course he’d take the bait. predictable bastard.

careful? she echoes, voice flat, unimpressed. reckon you wouldn’t last long, period.

she shoves another bundle into the satchel, movements efficient, precise. no wasted energy. not even on him. but crowell’s the type that slinks into whatever cracks he can find, and there he is again—stepping closer, offering help in that mocking way of his.

meredith snorts. ain’t this a rare sight. crowell, bein’ generous. she finally lifts her head, eyes cutting to him, unreadable but assessing. she rolls a strip of dried meat between her teeth, thinking.

then, with a careless shrug: fine. make yourself useful. she juts her chin toward a pile of supplies. start packin’—or piss off. don’t much care which.

crowell’s grin widens at her words, slick and devilish.

hah!

his crooked tail flicks once while he glances at the supplies. he knows the line’s thin, knows just how far he can push without breakin’ it.

’n, maybe i’m turnin’ over a new leaf, he croons in her ear. or maybe i’m just bored. bet ye like the second answer better.

her gaze cuts to him at last, sharp as a blade, and he meets it with his usual swagger, holding her stare a moment longer than necessary. then, without another word, he saunters toward the pile of supplies she indicated, lips still twitching with amusement.

ye like me, don’ya, queenie?

you keep tellin’ yourself that. her voice is flat, unimpressed, devoid of even the smallest hint of amusement. she doesn’t give him the satisfaction of rising to his bait. doesn’t even spare him a second glance as she turns back to her work.

she can feel his eyes on her, can practically hear the smirk in the way he breathes, but she doesn’t entertain it. doesn’t acknowledge it.

just grab the damn supplies and shut up, crowell.

he has no intent of shutting up.

the bastard snorts and slings the supplies into her satchel with more force than necessary, like he’s already bored with following orders—from her of all wolves! and it had nothing to do with the fact she was a woman. his mother was a woman, a damn fierce woman at that.

meredith's mistake is that she glares at him—to which he returns; her sharp-eyed gaze met by that greasy, insufferable grin plastered across his face.

what? i ain’t got one o’ them fancy bags, do i? reckon ye could make me one, eh, queenie? put yer lil’ touch on it.

but he doesn’t stop there—no. he slinks around to her other side like a shadow with teeth, snapping playfully at the base of her tail, chuckling when he sees her hackles spark to life.

hah—what’s wrong? he croons and his tail banners high, an arrogant flag of defiance. how much ya wanna bet, huh? when ye hit yer season, i’m the one ye come lookin’ fer.

meredith’s patience was running razor-thin.

the snap at her tail was the last fucking straw.

her lip curled before she even thought about it, and in the next breath, she lunged—not fully, not enough to give him the satisfaction of thinking he got to her, but enough that her teeth clicked just shy of his ear, a warning, sharp as the edge of a blade.

you really are fuckin’ desperate, huh? her voice was low, quiet, the kind of quiet that meant danger. y’think i’d come sniffin’ after you? please.

her tail lashed, stiff with irritation, but she forced herself to step back, shaking her head with something between disgust and amusement. crowell was a snake, slithering around her, always testing, always pushing. it pissed her off, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her break.

not yet.

now shut the hell up ‘n do somethin’ useful, or i swear to god, next time, i won’t miss.

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crowell’s grin cuts wider, teeth flashing. he moves slow, snake-like, tension tight in every step.

hah—t'ere’s the bite. knew ye 'ad it. taunting, like a splinter stuck in flesh. his eyes follow the lash of her tail and he dips his head low, breathing in a gust of her scent. not nearly as sweet as it would be.

ain’t instinct, queenie. it’s nature. ye’ll bark now, but when that itch hits... his laugh is coarse, eyes burning as he leans in close. ye’ll come crawlin’.

he sneers, teeth flashing.

but don’ fret, queenie. i promise— his voice dips, taunting, drawling. i’ll be gentle. knows it’s yer first time, ain'it?

meredith’s snarl cuts through the air like a blade, raw and vicious, her hackles bristling along the sharp lines of her spine. her patience—thin as sea-foam on a gale-wind day—finally snaps, and she rounds on him with fire in her eyes.

you don’t know shit about me. her voice is a low growl, each syllable weighted with the promise of violence. not where i been, not what i done, and sure as hell not who i’d ever crawl to.

her lip curls, teeth flashing in a warning meant to be heeded. he played his games, always testing, always pushing, but she wasn’t some bitch to be toyed with. not by him. not by anyone.

i ain't afraid of you, crowell, she hisses, stepping in close, nose nearly brushing his. and if you ever talk like that to me again, i’ll make damn sure you regret it.

she doesn’t wait for his response—doesn’t need to. instead, she turns sharply, tail snapping behind her like a whip as she strides away, leaving him in the dust.