Her poise pales before him, though his display doesn’t flinch; for the first time in his life, he feels adequate, motivated, and the sunlit shaft within which he has paused, illumines the demonstration all the more. ‘He’ is the illusion now, gilded paint-pelt rippling above formidable, flexing power – but there is humility, gentleness, in the soft caress of his voice, the humble touch of his gaze upon her. She is hesitating, watching, speculating in the private corridors of her mind. One critical cobalt eye is set upon him, teeming with ravenous doubt, chipping savagely at the façade he so desperately wants to uphold. She won’t break him, he will hold firm.

Pretty, pointed ears flick forward until their tips nearly brush – it’s progress, she is listening!

She challenges his resolve and withdraws once more into the silence of her secret contemplation; his being swells forward, utterly intrigued, captivated, though heavy knees never shift. He wonders with glittering attentiveness just what the breath of her conscience murmurs; will she yield to his offer of sanctuary? Will she flee into the jaws of this foe? Each out-breath is hot, sharp, brimming with anticipation and golden cups quiver in their flaxen bed as she dares his patience to thin. The engrossed stallion has an eternity to wait.

Like a mouse before the owl, she comes to life so suddenly, pupils practically bursting from their nest of brilliant blue; thickly threaded crest balks back (a mere creature of prey himself), when her chin dips without warning, to touch near a succulent breast – what was she searching for? It only added to her enthralling queerness, that incredible exquisiteness she embodied. ‘Sweet’ skull returns a second time, still lower, following the guidance of her own, yet he suppresses the urge to touch it too. Lost in the moment, he startles when her eyes drive abruptly into him (she has returned to their den), and beneath the shallow bounce of ivory mane, the hero holds true.

An encouraging smile pulls temporarily up his lips.

‘No’, is what she tells him almost feebly – and testosterone spurts instantly from bulging glands. Fine golden hair tracing his spine bristles boldly, though invisibly. Her voice is small, almost infantile in pitch, which only serves to strengthen his ambition. With baited breath he waits, hanging from the spasm, the twitch, of her split-toned, whiskered lip; it is a volcano on the brink, and its boiling belly stirs excitement through him. She speaks again and his expression mimics hers, though instead he is enthralled; ‘chassé’… forms no picture in his mind. Thankfully, the fairy’s meek sound lifts again and this time he understands (though her speech clearly struggles).

There is no mistaking her fear.

Body language shifts as she shrinks back beneath a cloud of fresh, spicy pheromone, and the stallion drinks it deeply; his crest arches slowly, turning eyes fill with new vigour, waterfall tail gleams as the dock snug beneath lifts. “I’m Noah,” smooth drawl answers reassuringly, sincerely, while examining the web of shadow as it swayed beyond the grove. This was seamless; they were perfect. His skin rolled visibly above the contraction of his burly, young body – he was the lion and she, the lamb. “Who follows?” he queried in earnest while his ego fancied visions of mere vermin, bending to his will.