Duskfire Glacier blood of my blood

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—yield.
he snarls it as he slams her to the earth. his weight drives the breath from her lungs. hot blood runs from a split in his brow, dripping onto her cheek. his chest heaves. his fangs flash.
yield, damn you.
his claws dig into the earth on either side of her skull, caging her in. she struggles, still, stubborn, wild-eyed—but her limbs are shaking. spent.
say it.
his muzzle is close to hers, voice a low growl, ragged from effort and fury and something else—some savage joy that she lasted this long.
her response comes in the inevitable, begrudging relent. a victory that is sweet and well-earned, against a woman of his same creation.