Fox's Glade thank goodness

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her scent hit him clean, that sharp ginger-warm thread cutting through the cold like a struck match.

one ear tipped. nothing else moved. he rose, then, from his lounging. 

blood slicked his muzzle, steam rising faint from the open carcass. he tore another strip free, jaws working steady, unhurried, the way a wolf eats when he’s earned the kill and fears nothing that might come for it.

her scent drifted again. closer this time. threaded with rabbit fur and the tight, metallic edge of fear.

smoke only breathed it in. held it in his chest.

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