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He feels his canines puncture flesh, then rake across it as something hits him in turn. Vermouth grunts as jaws wrap around his throat, the new opponent’s aim even truer than his own. At his own peril, he hadn’t anticipated any others might come, and so swiftly. Will he pay for his mistake with his life?

He won’t go down without a fight. Vermouth lets out a strangled snarl, his hind feet bracing as he twists in the other wolf’s grip and begins pummeling at him with his forepaws. He manages to yank himself free, his blood spraying the ground and the flowers strewn about it.

The wounded male backpedals swiftly, trying to assess the situation. His eyes dart from his attacker—a livid gray male who’ll be on him again in a second flat—to Etienne. The latter pushes at a bewildered Odessia as she cries out, “I did not know he was going to do that!”

He’s displeased her, he realizes. Furthermore, he’s frightened her. Vermouth’s brow furrows, freshets of blood seeping down his right foreleg as he realizes he’s made a grave error in judgment. He’s failed Odessia colossally. He isn’t worthy.

Vermouth makes no attempt to defend his irredeemable erratum, written in blood runneling among the flowers. He should’ve just stuck with them, he realizes, right before he keels face-first into the deconstructed bouquet.