Hoshor Plains and no one's going to save you from the beast about to strike

It was not personal. In his breast he harbored no hatred for the species, nor did he for the other half of his blood. The coyote's fate was the same he had delivered to the fox, which was the same the fox had delivered to the rabbit: to be hunted, to be killed for the food its body provided. It was nature's grim chain, and the black coywolf was the one to profit the most. Laid at his feet now was enough to feed him for days.

He released the coyote and lifted his head to sniff for the rabbit. It was then that from the corner of his eye he saw the fox's body move, and in an instant he was upon it, slamming a foot down on its face as his lips lifted to expose the entirety of his deadly fangs, ready to sink into its spine. But the fox had not come alive, no. He found himself staring into the face of another coyote, who had dragged the red predator into the den he had not known was there.

The creases in his muzzle disappeared as his lips slid back down over his teeth, save for the lower portion of his long canines. His dark eyes stared into hers.