Violence in this form still doesn't come naturally, to her. The Hunt made her an animal but it didn't make her an animal. This has always been something else. Something new. Something she shies away from until suddenly she doesn't.

The way she rears back from Dahlia's claws is clumsy and unpractised, someone moving in a body that's mostly-but-not-quite-right. And so the strike catches her. More than distance, it's blood that spread between them as the flesh of Daisy's flank tears.

She lands spread-pawed and braced. The pain only invigorates her. And though the blood stains her pale fur, mats it together in dark red clumps, the gored skin beneath starts to knit back together.

The wolf bares her teeth. Snarls. And lunges first.