Bearclaw Valley the masque of the red death

"yes." but it was not the hunger of prey that stole into merrick now, raked teeth along his spine. whatever his red-girl wished, however, the bearwolf would grant; whatever blood would slake her. for she belonged to him, to the possessiveness of whatever he could muster that was akin to love.
the sound of her voice surprised merrick in a way he had not expected; avicus had always given more talk than her wordless mother, but she used her own as punctuation. blood. dead. alive. pride swelled into the places between his bones, and he strode out into the field, jerking his scar-wrapped muzzle to indicate she should choose their quarry.