Wapun Meadow running home, running home

He thought she'd push him away with a firm shove. A slap, maybe, to his muzzle. And he would've taken it. But she didn't. Instead she bared herself. It quelled the beast beneath his skin, reveling with her indirect submission.
Gently, he pushed the guard hairs away. Spreading the white needles from her skin. It blemished, sure enough. When she spoke, he shot his head up to look at her. Worse enough t'make 'ya squirm. He reminded her.
With a snort, he pushed himself away. Dolce's scent still lingered on her, his jaw clenching in inadvertent protest.
And then she confirmed his own suspicions, her worry, evident in her pleading question. Blood dripped from his muzzle, a tantalizing, vicious sight. Y'll be sore. He was lucky himself to not have catered any more injuries, not like that would stop him from hunting, protecting.
No huntin', that's f'sure.