Swiftcurrent Creek cowpoke

The red-eyed wolf was offering what Akavir imagined he felt was some profound goodbye under the duress of oncoming death—a death brought only by his own paws when he had decided to charge into a battle and risk he and his comrades.

The prices were always high in these matters, and the flurry of motion he saw from the peripheral of his vision as the gravely wounded woman tried to coax the redhead away. He snarled, pale gaze finding Arric who had slammed the ringleader to the ground—“Grab her,” he growled, hoping the man would be swift enough to do so.

Akavir was preoccupied himself.

Colt’s hefty form slammed and flayed—paws scouring, gouging. The Mayfair—his teeth locked upon the man’s neck, held fast, blood from both opponents pooling to the ground as he begun to drag him along the ground.

There was a sick sense of satisfaction as he imagined dragging the bastard through the vile spit he had promised to make him clean up.

The creek’s edge was there, and with a hefty fling that resembled nothing like an iconic ‘this is Sparta’ moment in time, because damn, Colt was heavy, he pushed the thief into the creek.

The rapids were fast—they would ensure a quick exit of the man and if there was luck on his side—they would drown the world of one more hotheaded fiend. Panting--he stood, gaze watching the creek do the rest of the work for him--a tongue swiping the blood from his lips.