Valley of Gold We'll sleep when the morning comes

Oh — so he wanted to play? So did Dusty Rose, but there was a vindictive cast to his features even as an extra bounce found its way into his long lope. He closed the distance between them, his posture commanding mainly because the other man's was not.

Up close, he circled him like a shark, coming close once or twice before he lunged — delivering a sharp nip to the ass, if the stranger wasn't quick to get out of the way or otherwise retaliate. It was nothing wounding; only a harder version of the rude farewell his wife had given him a few minutes before. The message, however, was not go get 'em tiger but, What are you gonna do about it?

He smelled like Reverie. Not by much, but it was there. It incensed the coywolf as much as anything could, filling him with a cold, distant fury that could be easily transmuted to gentle violence, if not properly stoked.

Submission annoyed him, but it took the wind out of his sails.