Bearclaw Valley there is nothing you can say to them

excitement flushed the coywolf as he stared from the dead thing that had once been rosina to the harsh-limned features of his beloved.
blood and thrum and pace and;
he could not hide the bite in his eye, nor the hunger that sank talons into his loins.
there was no terror within him, nor the far-reach of trepidation; merrick existed solely in each moment, for each moment, and rarely thought beyond.
her voice pouring from the cold nightbound marble of her columned throat; had he ever so loved?
and when she moved, the rook followed, bound to the jut of her heels, the turn of her flank, the flash of whitened teeth in that sharp and knowing jawline.
filled with love and wistfulness and eager lust for that which was to come, merrick drew a single breath.