He might have killed Matteo had he the chance. Size and experience alone would allow such a thing; regardless of whatever strength the coyote thought he had Anatole was a wolf who knew how to fight. It was pack law alone that stopped him; he recognized that despite the fury for such an attack. Green eyes narrowed, dimmed, and he turned over the incident again. Perhaps he had provoked it; perhaps he could have stopped it. The instinct demanded otherwise though, and he would not break with instinct.
Startled back to his thoughts, the dark wolf furrowed his brow. “He was acting strange,” Anatole finally explained. “When I first met him he was crying about something; talking to himself. Said he had bad feelings about the pack’s leaders, whatever that means,” the wolf shifted his weight uncomfortably, thick tail curling around his haunch. “I’ve never met his woman. But she was afraid of him…and that’s just not right,” he struggled yet, unable to speak with any sort of literary clarity. While not a dumb man, Anatole was hardly well versed with a vocabulary that might allow him to speak of his feelings.
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