Firefly Glen in my veins like fire

he eats without rush, stripping meat from the hind with practiced precision. no sounds but breath, bone, and blood.
he feels her eyes then—measuring, weighing. he does not meet them, but he knows what she’s thinking. wolves do not glance like that without cause. he laughs lowly in response, giving her his own look of knowing.
she can smell her scent. it is inherently masculine, the scent of a well-endowed woman; a warrior, furthermore. but her scent is not just that; it is twinged with the beginnings of something more sultry.
it is meant to attract him—and it works, but he is no ball-brained brute. women like this did not roll over and present themselves. he must work for the right to lay with her.
finished eating, the man settles upon muscled haunches, beginning to clean his forelimbs of the blood that stains them.
again, he speaks: ic wuna nēah þā dagas þe cumað. wit huntiað, etað, and campiað. þonne mæg hit bēon, ġe-liegan wit, ġeā? it is said mostly for him; to cement this decision with the universe. he feels he has figured this situation out—sees it for what it is.
or perhaps he is being daringly presumptuous? the woman would decide.