Bearclaw Valley just have the strength to know you're wrong,

you bastard.

offense broke stigmata's poise, and his grimace bulged into a frightening contortion - eyelids recoiling, teeth and nostrils flaring - as rage conflated by adrenaline ordained his response to the slight before he could even consider it. and still, he was not prepared for indra's lunge. a fact he would later blame on himself; for he had been unable (or unwilling) to predict the sheer magnitude of her unforgiving nature.

he reacted as he had been trained to: viciously and without mercy. a warhound's creed. the only thing saving the beta's autumn-red hide from turning dark with blood was the instinct to preserve the body of a packmate, which he still considered her to be. but because diplomacy had been shattered first, stigmata's retaliation was more severe than intended. he heedlessly defended himself with a wrought-iron savagery, and it wasn't until indra was crumpled and bruised beneath him that he realized she wasn't truly fighting him back.

stilling his onslaught with heavy, jagged breaths, stigmata loosed the folds of her nape clutched oppressively in his jaws and lifted his daunting weight from her summerfed figure. he looked down at her grimly, and felt stupefied by how small she looked; how ravaged he had made her, even without having spilled any blood. it was not how he wanted to see her... what he wanted to be the cause of.

"do not attack me again, indra." she deserved the warning, at least. his tongue lolled, and he yawned to chase away the stinging need to impose upon her further. "please," he hissed, unable to stop the quiver in his low, melting voice as he attempted to suppress the note of a whine. "i have not abandoned you. will you not listen to me?"