It seems they'd both come to the same conclusion.
After his snide and most ungentlemanly comment, Déodat assumed she would waltz away in an affronted manner, and he would be left in peace—not to mention he would have all of his and her dinner to himself. But alas, this was not the case. She choked and spluttered on her mouthful, and he couldn't help but wonder if she would keel over dead from shock. He chewed thoughtfully on a stiff stalk of tundra glass as she regained what remained of her dignity; the end of the stalk protruding from his lips and twitching comically with each slow rotation of his crunching jaw. But his expression remained quite serious, as always. His eyes always have a cold intensity to them—dark and striking and ever-burning.
Perhaps she thought him observing her figure, as any boy might do, for she was quite beautiful, but he was not. In fact, he was doing the same that she was at that exact moment. Sizing her up, analyzing her as if she were his enemy, as he did with every single new encounter in his life. It had once been forced habit, but had long since been drilled into his battle-hardened mind and honed to natural instinct. It took one thorough glance, and no more, to know she was not the tame kitten with soft paws he had mistaken her for.
Quite the opposite, really.
More like a lionness than a kitten, he decided. Her golden eyes glittered like a cold jewel in winter sunlight as she prowled towards him in quick, powerful strides, her unreadable expression sharp and remarkably feral and wild. She was neither timid nor aggressive, and so he settled on confidence. Her bold, straightforward manner was oddly refreshing.
He paused chewing as she spoke, her breath sweet and cool as it unfurled on his auburn face, and her words just as enticing. Without quite chewing his mouthful all the way, he swallowed audibly. She was quite in his personal bubble, to be honest. Frowning in vague annoyance, he moved a pace away with a proud snort, his brow glowered deeply over the bright intensity of his gaze as he scrutinized her.
"I'm not entirely sure why you think your opinion matters in the first place, but that is a most interesting conclusion you've come to, kitten. Beside the point though, really." He straightened up, his spine snapping to attention and his black hair cascading down the sides of his thick, muscled neck like a sleek black river. "The point is..." Her eyes had little flecks of a brighter color in them. He hadn't noticed that before. Aware he was staring, he snorted again and gathered his manly aura around him like a mother duck shepherding her ducklings beneath her wings. "The point is," he began again forcefully, "you, madam unicorn, are defiling my dinner with your hooves."
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Like slow-spinning redemption. [Déodat]
