Whitebark Stream crawling back to you

his name upon her tongue; it is a lance through the shoulder, the chest, striking like flint upon stone. a match lit, pressed to kindling and imploding to wickering flames of lapping heat. he centers blood gaze on her and snaps teeth, a silencing snarl.
do not call me that. not her. never her.
he is silenced by the manful urge in his gut. water slipping from her skin in gleaming trails, clinging to the curves of her body like melted silver. it beads along her chest, her hips—he inhales sharp breath. not letting his gaze betray his long held desire, but only his wrath and scorn and fury.
she means to provoke. with the tilt of her chin, the arch of her spine. her arrogance was beauty—her beauty arrogance. blackfell takes four strides and is upon her, shoulder meeting wet, pale fur, but not with longing. with brutish touch.
shoving her. his neck craning, his head tilting to let crimson, beady, malicious stare seek down a scarred face and lay upon hers. and if i had? he asks, showing her teeth. why do you haunt my north? he demands answers of her.
why do you haunt me? he wished to ask.