Bearclaw Valley violent disposition

In his vibrating rage he could see nothing. Nothing but the spilt blood on the snow, distant memories of a life he promised to shut away broken through the dam. He was surrounded, cornered, a violent animal that was not destined for captivity. He wasn't destined for anything— matter, he ain't worthy of none of it.
But it didn't fuckin' matter when Winnie crashed into his chest. A fit of sobs escaping her, drenching him in both her muddled blood and salt brine tears. He flinched backward, falling back to reality. Shaken, but not contested.
She muttered apology after apology. He took a tight breath in through his clenched jaw.
And then he wrapped around her.
Paw to her back, nose against her neck. He breathed her in— jasmine, so tender, so soft— diluted with crass iron.
It's alrigh', he breathed, hearts beating out of their chests. I got 'ya. I got 'ya, baby girl.
There was so much blood. So, so much. He was covered in it, but more importantly, she shed it.
Holding her close, he gripped her chin with a gentle tug of his teeth. Where 'ya hurt? He shifted her face from side to side, inspecting, looking down, down, down. Until he saw her legs.