Morningside Cuesta [m] vieja

she twisted around his arm, clawing it to welling weals, and yet, inexorably he stole her breath. there was none left with which to spit a last curse into his face; silvertongue only locked her eyes to his scarred ugliness and grinned in a hot defiance. let this be the end, then. not one she had expected but one no less courted — no less. the faces of her young ones danced through her mind, followed by wren's rangy, confident stride; yes. they would not suffer. they would thrive; energies pouring into a blessing for her babies as jetblack misting sparkled like bear fur at the corners of her staring, hateful eyes.