Blackfeather Woods Angel of small death

roan held still as she approached, her hesitation and fragility laid bare before him. his pale eyes tracked her movements, sharp and predatory, but his body remained composed, a pillar of silent strength. he allowed her nose to skim his fur, his scent an earthy mix of frost and musk, marked by countless miles of solitude.

when she was close enough, roan shifted his head slightly, leaning down to brush his muzzle near her ear. his breath was warm against the cold air as his voice came low and deliberate, the first word he’d offered her.

roan.

he let the sound linger between them, his head dipping just enough for his nose to prick against the flesh behind her ear. she was small—fragile, even—compared to him. merely an observation, one that stirred a primal sense of possession in him. something like her needed protection, guidance, and he was the kind of man who would claim it if he chose.

he pulled back just enough to meet her gaze again, his expression unreadable, but his presence heavy and deliberate. roan didn’t need words to assert himself; the way he loomed, quiet and unmoving, was enough to speak volumes.