Bearclaw Valley violent disposition

Gulls. He ain't ever heard a word like that before. He'd listen to her talk about them over and over again, so long as she promised him that she would live. Through this, if they could make it, he'd worship the Lord over and over again.
He opened his mouth to respond, quickly snapping shut once he is ripped away from her. Fire, not the kind that Winslet feels, tears through him like a knife to an open flame.
He damn near snapped Rala's fuckin' neck.
Even as she knelt beside Winslet, Cole's dark eyes stayed fixed on her, his breath shallow, frantic, every instinct urging him to pull Winslet back into his arms.
He grimaced, watching Winslet's body tremble under the snow's sting, her cries cutting deep into his core. When Rala asked about the poppy seeds, he faltered, his mind racing. Yeah, he rasped, barely more than a growl. I’ll get ’em.
And then he ran. The scent of Winslet’s blood clung to him like a curse, driving him forward as he plunged into the woods. His paws tore through the underbrush, his nose to the ground, desperation fueling every step. Every rustle, every unfamiliar shadow sent his heart into his throat. He wouldn't come back empty-handed—he couldn't.
When he returned, his muzzle was flecked with dirt, a small bundle of herbs clenched carefully between his teeth. His chest heaved, his gaze darting to Winslet immediately. He dropped the bundle, nudging it toward Rala with a trembling paw, then turned to her.
Winnie, he murmured, his voice soft but weighted, trembling with emotion. He crouched low beside her, pressing his nose gently to her cheek. We’ll get through this. And after… we’ll go. His voice grew firmer, more certain. We’ll find that ocean you were talkin’ about. You hear me? Just hold on. Fight.
He looked to Rala then, a silent plea in his eyes, before his attention returned wholly to Winslet, his frame once more a fortress around her fragile form.