Raven's Watch tìvilar

“What are you expecting? For me to swoon?”
It’s the only answer she’ll deign before rolling to snatch with fierce paws the hare, revolving it under cheek to feel the velvety fur. The sharp lined mouth gnashes into soft flesh, tenderizing. She can smell his oils there; the balsam of wood and sweat, crushed against ankles and lips. 
There was fear in incurring his wrath, but a greater fear in shunning the part of her that would always be Ashēer. Those images of home she could no longer return to curl cruelly in mind. She shifts up, looking out into the port of bridal woods warded by Faust. The last of the winter sun sets red as she turns over her foot, pressing the sharpness into her lips again.