Luneshale Pass [m] casado dicha

Doesn’t use her real name.
Doesn't matter.
She’s Sangre to him.
Blood.
That surge in his veins when her nose is at his cheek.

“Sangre,” he rumbles and shoulders her against the gritty dirt wall.
He runs his teeth through her dark fur.
Settles his mouth against the silver pulse in her throat.

His hand undoes the wrappings of a fresh mince. He takes the green powder onto a paw and lifts it to her lips.

He'd be whatever she wanted.
Long as she kept looking at him that way.