As I snapped up my pack, a vicious low growl filled the room. Glancing toward the door as my hand loosed the Colt from the holster, I saw Max, standing in a statuesque pose. His head was low and his lips were drawn back, with glistening teeth shining in the dark. The black mask of his facial coloring was barely visible in the poorly lit room. Jacked muscles that looked out of place on a puppy were drawn tight, and his hips were coiled. The golden fur was standing along his spine, creating a full mohawk down to his serpentine tail, drawn curled and tense like a scorpion’s before it strikes.
Fire Sale - Death of an Eagle