Sunset Valley stepstones

The squeal should have delighted him and should have flagged some sense of relief to his hunger, even if only momentary.

Instead it squealed because someone else had brought an end to it. A woman who seemed plump had crushed its skull in a display that offered saliva to his own mouth. Yet it had so suddenly not become his own meal. She had tasted its blood, she had struck the killing blow to it.

His halt was an unbecoming sight. Paws wedged into the earth enough that his limbs tightened to a painful point. His body language flipped through nerves and uncertainty. He hunkered himself down some, uncertain if he truly wanted to fight her for the rabbit.

There was no use in sharing it — but if she could maintain such a figure (if she could support life with her life) then maybe she knew a place that had more than just rabbits.

For now, he could take a metaphorical knee to her upper hand.