Bearclaw Valley had wild dreams walkin' the streets

the man might have fit;
but as soon as ash appeared, his attention cut to her. and boldness grew. merrick saw why; scented why —
at once;
and as much for the disrespect as his own misplaced sense of possession he drove off the would-be joiner with a resounding snap, but pursued only some steps. when the bearwolf returned it was to glower at ash with a myriad things burning in his remaining eye.
his body urged him;
his mind cried for astara.
ash was not the blackbird, and taking her would only whet the long hunger inside him that grew more painful with each week.
it did not stop merrick from crossing, from seeking to press his muzzle into ash's feral guard hairs for a single moment;
it compelled him to draw away, to turn, to halt her following with a flash of teeth, to search out disappearance over the borders of ursus.