Stolen Away In The Dead of Night

The Warlord could not lose her. The strength of that conviction shocked him to his core, even as he felt anger replace all his other senses. It was almost with a feeling of Déjà vu that he charged in to rescue her from the slavers.

He took down the first slaver with the strength of his momentum. They hit the ground hard, but he didn’t take the time to finish them off. He kept on coming, deeper into the cave as he found the wolf that straightened first. That looked the most likely to be in charge. The fight was short, and brutal. The leader was determined, and no stranger to a dirty fight. By the time they were lying cold on the stone floor, the Warlord was bleeding from numerous cuts, and limping slightly on one paw. Bast and Bear had kept the others off his back as he fought, and those fights were shorter. With the help of his companions, there were soon only two wolves breathing in the cave. The rolling sound of thunder grew closer as he limped slowly to where Isa was lying. He extended his claws, and cut through her binding. A strange energy seemed to be zipping through his limbs, and it was hard to remain still enough not to cut her.

When she was released, he grabbed her and hauled her to her paws. His blood and the blood of the slavers mattered the polar bear fur… he would have to apologise for marring it. But later, when commonsense returned. For now, there was a wildness in his eyes as he grabbed her again, and mashed his lips to hers. There was nothing gentle or tender in the motion. Only anger - possessive and wild. His lips vibrated against hers with a growl almost too low to hear

"Speech"