Qeya River i like it when the bite marks cut through the skin.

she doesn't move when he noses the head, but the muscles in her jaw twitch. the fetid rot in the air is thick, a reminder of what she has done, what she carries—what she is.

"blackfoot forest," she answered finally, her voice low, rough like the scrape of metal on stone. "alone."

she shifts her stance, her claws clicking softly against the frost beneath her paws. a storm inside her churns with something dark—not quite regret, perhaps the violent rush of delight. the faintest, bitterest taste of satisfaction lingers on her tongue.