Blackfoot Forest [m] only devils left

my fingers slipped

towhee’s scent had been a beacon, a thread that he followed with the unswerving devotion of a lover. but the closer he came, the stronger the scent of another—the rogue—became, and the fire in his belly ignited tenfold. fury, possessiveness, protectiveness.

towhee stands in the shallows, the icy water lapping at her legs, and relief warms his chest—she is unharmed. untouched. but the relief is drowned in a tidal wave of rage as his gaze snaps to the rogue male, a pale brute who stands far too close.

unwelcome. jealousy licks at his gut like a flame.

cole is here too—but tvar is far too focused on the rival male encroaching on towhee. practically circling her like a shark, as far as tvar was concerned. unfortunately, not even cole is exempt from his conquest. no other male should be near her—not now, not while she burns with the fire of her season. so, without hesitation, tvar strides forward, pushing past cole, positioning himself squarely between towhee and the rogue. a living wall. a living wall with teeth that he now bares, followed by the distant storm of thunder raucous and raw within a vibrating throat. a gold and black tail arches high; a proud flag, striking dominion over what was his.

you know what's good for you, rogue, he spits, you'll get walking.