Ankyra Sound sheepskin

As cocky as he was, Vigilante was not all-knowing, and his mental picture had fallen entirely short of Kierkegaard’s true thought process. Aged as he was, he was never frightened of youth for their potential, but the lack of it. This male was setting a stunning example regarding lack of potential. So far that the ghost nearly laughed in response to the flurry of verbose mistakes he continued to make. What the stranger did not know is that Kierkegaard did not care for his rank or the idea that another might take it from him. He cared only that his mate was within the pack with a swell of pups in her belly, and she would soon deliver them to the world. It was his family that he protected so fiercely at the edges of the sound, and it would be them that he would die for, if that time came.

Without warning, the ragged hound lunged to snap his fangs over the other’s muzzle and rake against him with his teeth. He may have been aged and stiff-legged, but Kierkegaard had seen far more battles than the whelp had, or possibly ever could. He was sure with his aim and drive, and even the limp in his limb did little to deter him from showing the greasy pup his place.

Pulling back from the insolent brat, the molten-eyed brute regarded him with a cold stare. “You’ve given me nothing but lip. Go find a pack foolish enough to take you.” As he stated this, the scent of Wylla was brought to his nose and he wondered if she would approach him and reprimand him for turning away a potential joiner. The ghost was not certain she would want him, but he did not imagine that there was any wolf who wished for another to make assumptions on their behalf. Instead of turning away, Kierkegaard waited. He would watch the disappointment leave and he would not move until he had.