Bearclaw Valley all i want

song i've been obsessed with for them

He never let her get far from the den. Neither was he, ever. His patrols had changed meticulously over the past week, changing routes that were always an ear shot from where Winslet rested from her attack. The radius at which she slept, if at all, had reeked of his scent markers. An angry hound, determined to protect his fox.
Her whimper passed his ears ad he answered as a moth would to a flame. A dangerous, tempting flame that heeded the most sanguine feelings inside the brutalist's chest.
And he was there, barricading the entrance of her den; where did she think she was going to go? Her legs, wrapped in palm leaves and other medicinal uses, still healing. Least she could walk.
But she was frail. Gaunt. Cheeks hollowed, bones in her hips protruding where soft tendrils of fat should have gathered. It made him want to look away— it happened because he was not quick enough. Because he wasn't there, when he should have been. His fault, his fault.
What's the matter, sweet girl? He finally breathed, taking a cautious step closer to her. His figure shadowed hers, toppling over what remains of her body left as hunger evaded her. He wanted to hunt for her. Fatten her up. Y'hungry?