Bearclaw Valley violent disposition

The meadow stretched endlessly behind him, the long haul scout weighing heavy on Cole’s broad shoulders. His mind was on the quiet satisfaction of returning to the valley, the routine of the borders, the solace in familiar faces. The thought of Winslet flickered unbidden—soft, fleeting, a warmth he hadn’t allowed himself to dwell on too long.
Then he heard it.
Clashing teeth. Snarls.
His ears pinned back, a growl rumbling deep in his chest. His heart hammered as his paws froze mid-step, listening, straining to confirm what he already knew. The scent hit him next—jasmine, sweet and unmistakable.
Winslet.
Fuck.
His voice was barely more than a snarl, and then he was moving, tearing through the snow and brush, each step faster, harder. A storm brewed inside him, fueled by fury and fear alike. The yips and cries of coyotes grew louder with every bounding stride, and his growl deepened until it tore free from his throat like a thunderclap.
When he saw her, his blood turned to fire.
Backed against a tree, surrounded. Blood pooled at her paws, staining the pristine snow. The coyotes snapped and clawed, their frenzied forms like a plague, but all Cole saw was her—helpless, vulnerable, and in danger.
His vision narrowed, darkened, until there was nothing but the enemy and the primal need to destroy.
With a deafening roar, he surged forward, a streak of fury and muscle. His massive frame collided with the nearest coyote, sending the smaller predator sprawling with a sickening crack. Before it could recover, Cole’s teeth sank deep into its neck, shaking violently until the creature went limp in his jaws.