Swiftcurrent Creek cowpoke

One down—Akavir would have felt bad if they hadn’t started the entire thing first and went for blood.

He was slowing though—the exertion from the foul-mouthed she-wolf, who still refuses to even stop trying to coax the feisty redhead in front of them. She was a quick little thing—taller than the other one, but thinner.

She was an angry ball of hate—lunging, jabbing, snarling. Probably spitting, like the man she followed. He covered his throat, her jab catching him to the cheek, just below his eye and for a moment, causing his vision to blur. He took that moment to duck down and then pivot from her teeth, feeling them scrape above his head, breaking skin. His jaws sought the tender areas below her muzzle—aiming to latch on to the tender flesh where her chest meets her forelimb.