His other hand releases, grasping the lower end of the sword's blade for a firmer hold before he jerks it back—and if there's one thing about Geralt, it's that his blade is never not finely sharpened; it'll slice through any grip to free itself.

Not exactly a standstill.

The wolf has a mind of its own. Geralt no longer recognizes it as his because he holds no memory of the bard who once created it, then gave it to him. He doesn't think twice to let it distract as it will. What attachment he had to the animal has vanished. In return, it's entirely wild, no hint of any domestication. When the wolf leaps, it's not to protect him so much as it simply hungers—drawn to the blood dripping from Lucifer's hand.

Geralt puts distance between them as it jumps, waiting for what might come his way before he moves again: an opening, an attack, both.