Broken Boulder endless me, endlessly

it had been a long time since mahler had hunted with a wolf he did not well know yet. he had shifted while she did not, and his lavender gaze ached for a glance in sequoia's direction again. but he kept them trained upon the sluggishly moving figure not far off, ears upthrust as he watched the wounded animal lie down among the briars and brown ferns.
with a jerk of his chin that the woman should go the other way, mahler pulled in the direction he had turned, describing a small arc that brought him around the pronghorn. if sequoia mirrored him, he would pause to look for her again, to catch her gaze before moving in to strike the kill.