Lost Creek Hollow There's delays on the planes out of Eastern Montana

drífa did not answer his words—not with her mouth. she didn’t understand them, not truly, but she knew tone, and tone said he wasn’t foolish enough to try and steal.
she liked that.
the calf’s neck was still warm beneath her jaw when she tore the first piece free, blood steaming against the cold. it smeared across her muzzle, copper and heat, but her gaze stayed on him—calm, steady, testing.
then, without a sound, she stepped back.
just enough to drop the kill between them, bones still twitching, heart long stopped.
she didn’t speak his language, didn’t need to. the kill was hers—yes. but she did not mind sharing. he had followed, not interfered. watched, but never took.
in the north, that was enough.
drífa dipped her head again, teeth slipping into muscle, slow and unbothered. her body was relaxed, blood-slicked, coiled like snow pressed under weight—but her eyes stayed on him, cool and curious.
an invitation.
and a warning.