Luneshale Pass [m] casado dicha

Even if he could understand her,
Niño can’t say he shares Sangre’s ambitions.
Life was hard enough just getting by.
Wasn’t looking to add insurrection to the rap sheet.

But a new feeling came.
Couldn’t help it.
Maybe because she’s the only one that hasn’t run off on him.
He still rests on top of her like she’s gonna.
Like he has to keep a paw down or she’ll bolt.

He already decided he’d give her some work.
Little things, at first:
Take this message, be a look out, carry this delivery.
Little things.

She wouldn’t take much convincing.
The green was a product that sold itself.
She’d get profit participation.
A place to bed down.

And if she refused, he’d discipline her.
They’d both like that.

She’s still pinned beneath him.
Little meaningless words pressed into his skin.
Niño begins his grooming of her, starting with the underside of the chin.
Clearing their tryst from her red coat. 

Maybe it’s the beginnings of something.
Not what Juárez and Soto oversee.
But the operation that Niño and Sangre ran.

“Aqui,” the hound rises, allowing a modicum of room for his girl to stand.
He quaffs his jowls and rounds her by the hips, tail billowing high over his back.
Luneshale’s white stone scintillates in the sun and between the dirt and alabaster was dug a hovel. 
Crude, with scores of long claw marks that could only belong to one.

He herds Sangre towards his den.
Their den.