Phoenix Maplewood The Traveler Meets Her End

The appearance of another of his packmates was completely disregarded, her commanding tone falling on ears that did not care, atop a wolf who would not heed her regardless of how important she thought herself. His relaxed nature was no more; the tumultuous white wolf would never allow control over himself or his life to fall into the paws of another again, and he would take control by force if it was required of him. Such was the case now; though his teeth met their mark and drew blood, the stubborn old fool refused to take her leave. She could not have been a bigger moron in his eyes if she had declared it herself.

The time for talking was long since over; she would not get past the raging wolf so long as he stood, and he did not pause to hear her stammer out another desperate plea. It was with unstoppable savagery that he threw himself toward her again. His gnashing fangs would cleave flesh from her face and neck until she died at his feet, or she wised up enough to run with her tail between her legs.  

Whichever came first.