Bearclaw Valley the sharks and the minnows

the fur that hugs coiled muscles nearly bristles. he can feel the old, but still painfully familiar anger swell in his barreled chest. directed toward a stranger, all over a woman he had no claim to. she wasn't his, but that reminder did little to nothing to wash the acrid taste in his mouth. she and this man had been close, in ways he only could wish for. it makes his teeth ache, itching to sink onto flesh and muscle and bone. 

it makes him forget that he'd left the grizzly life of violence before thought behind. 

he composes himself with a deep breath in, forces himself to ignore the way her scent clinging to the dark man before him makes his stomach churn with bitterness. he's grown enough to realize the stranger is right; and forces aside pride that threatens to swallow him whole. he wouldn't thank the man for the hospitality, but he would ease his tension, resume a more neutral stance. 

the man was right. dolce wouldn't ruin the chance for redemption over a petty squabble for a woman. and so, begrudgingly, he turned with heavy paws to lumber, side by side. 

"you know my name, but i don't know yours. less you wanna go by stranger." he grumbled, tone less hostile, but not quite friendly.