The threat-male is slow. He is a snail, frozen in time. The scent of his fear explodes from him, a hot, delicious wave that I breathe in.
I move.
I am not weak. I am not broken. I am power. I am a ten-foot storm of shadow and muscle. I cross the hovel in a single, silent thought.
He is still lunging for her.
His life is forfeit.
My hand—my claw—is faster than his lunge. I do not grab his axe. I do not grab him.
I grab his head.
My claws sink into his face. I feel soft skin and hard bone give way. I feel his scream begin in his throat.
He is small. He is a doll.
I pull him away from her. I slam him against the mud-wood wall. THUD. The hovel shakes. The wall cracks.
He grunts, dazed.
Not enough. The red haze demands pieces.
He tries to lift his axe.
I roar in his face. It is a fire-breath of rage and bloodlust. His eyes are white with terror.
My other hand. My claws are ready.
I find his chest. His furs are nothing. His leather is nothing. His ribs... they are nothing.
CRUNCH.
The sound is music. My claws sink deep. Into the hot, wet depths of him.
I pull.
I tear. I rip him open, from chest to throat.
Hot. Wet. Red.
His scream turns into a bubble of blood.
I throw him. He is a limp sack of meat. He hits the floor by her fire. His fur sizzles.
One.
The other one. The leader. is in the doorway.
His scent is pure terror. It is beautiful. He is fumbling, trying to pull his sword from its sheath. He spoke. He ordered the threat.
He turns. He tries to run.
NO.
I lunge. I am a shadow. I am a storm. I am out of the hovel before his foot hits the snow.
I grab his back. My claws sink into his shoulders, tearing through his helmet and fur. He shrieks. Good.
