Bearclaw Valley violent disposition

he should scold her. he should snarl, and yell, and tell her what she did was stupid. he should be angrier—but he holds her close, cradles her against him. gentle as if she was fragile glass seconds away from shattering, but firm enough that she knew he was there. that she was okay.

her sniffles and whimpers are muffled into his fur, broken noises that make her quiver with each breath. "i—was so scared," she gasps between cries. it was pathetic, or so she thought; she couldn't hold her own against coyotes. she couldn't hold her own against anything. a rose without thorns, one who'd been sheltered and coddled and hidden away from the ugly, terrible cruelty the world has to offer. 

perhaps she deserved more than just the wounds to her legs. winslet is teary eyed and vulnerable, and she just wants to sink into his warmth and protection and disappear. shelter herself again, because she isn't sure she can handle the real world.

her once pristine white fur is smeared with blood. if she wasn't so shaken, she would've been mortified. so, so much blood. but all she can focus on is cole; his voice, his face, how his eyes rove over every inch of her, searching. she frowns; she doesn't deserve his tenderness. 

her eyes follow his and fall to stare at her slender legs, and she chokes on a sob. blood oozes slowly out of the heavier wounds, but it didn't hurt. not with the adrenaline still coursing through her veins. but it's terrifying. 

"i can't feel it. why can't i feel it?" her voice was shaky, uneven with horror. glassy eyes wide as she looks to him for guidance, for comfort.