Bitterroot Valley space is about to fold

It is instinct—pulled between the thin line of fight or flight after being disturbed so violently. Takes him back to teeth, to tail pulled and ear ripped, to flesh and blood being the alarm bell every morning after the young pup passed out. A mind scrambled from fear and sleep deprivation.
He has his attacker in his clutches, holding onto the forearm harder than he would have—if he knew who it is in his clutches. The snapping, however, makes him release eventually, one such snap snags his nose, hanging on for a moment until the release is done—no damage done but a gasp of breath and a heaving of his chest. Kratos pulls away with a growl in his throat, spine spiked and tail uncharacteristically tucked.