Blackfeather Woods Angel of small death

he stepped closer, his movements deliberate and unhurried, his presence heavy as he loomed over her. his breath steamed in the cold air as he let out an aggressive snort against the limb, the sound low and dismissive, as though the injury was as inconsequential as her mention of the man who had caused it.

nasty man, she’d said, her words laced with a hiss of amusement, but roan’s response was far from playful. he didn’t speak, didn’t need to. the disdain etched across his features was enough—a silent condemnation of the unnamed husband who had left her marked.

he circled her slowly, his posture neither overtly threatening nor entirely safe, as if testing her mettle. she was small, fragile, her leg a glaring vulnerability, but roan wouldn’t stoop so low as to strike her for it. no, his aggression didn’t lie in violence—not toward a woman. it rested instead in the unrelenting way he assessed her, the silent challenge in his stare as he returned to stand before her.

his tail flicked once, sharp and purposeful, before he huffed again, the sound curt and final. whatever judgment he’d made of her, he wasn’t going to share it. instead, he stood like an immovable shadow, watching her with the same invasive intensity that had burned in his gaze from the start.