Phoenix Maplewood half-savage and hardy

A young voice sounded in the air. Bronte turned sharply to face the granite-colored male with some mild interest. One ear swiveled to meet the tail ends of the inquiry that was presented. A small smirk curled his dark lip and the DeMonte shook his head in response. “Not by me,” his voice was a deep and husky timbre that sounded far older than what matched his true age. The swarthy thing canted his head and then turned his gaze on the woman who watched them. If it was her who sought to lay claim on the forest, she would need to work harder at it. There were no scent markings where Bronte had entered, and he wasn’t about to apologize for her poor mistake - if that was what it was.