warning signs
She comes, drawn to the bright scent of blood in the air. Saliva pools in the dark, warm pocket of her mouth, a hunger blossoming in the pit of her stomach. Of course, she's eating for more than one now -- the pups of the High Lord rest in her womb -- and her cravings are more intense.
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It doesn't take long for the male to be aware of her, and it takes even less time for him to call out. "Where do you hide?" Dark, glistening lips twist slowly into a smirk. And because she has no desire to hide herself, she lets his voice fade into the air before uncurling from the cover of the trees and appearing before him, moving slow and quiet in a strangely feline way.
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She lets him drink her in, feeding her narcisism, turning up her chin and gazing at him through dark lashes. The end of her long, fluid tail ticks at every compliment; is she really so restless that she entertains herself with flirting with strange men?
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Her pink eyes flicker with sometime dark, something knowing. "You and your words could get you in trouble." She knows he's only teasing, but she does have her words, words that can destroy kings and build cathedrals and, yes, invoke trouble. There's innumerable power in words, she knows, which is why she's so careful to string them together and breathe them, like a spider with her web. "A shame," she says in response, ticking her chin up a notch, peering at him through jewelled eyes. She nods to the entirety of him, gesturing his sure strength. "They hardly make them like you anymore. Even the pack wolves here, they're... fragile."
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Is Erövrare fragile? Leera watches him, thinking. She'll be lying if she says the pack is completely weak, although other than a few mean-spirited wolves here and there she doesn't believe Erövrare is indestructible. But she says nothing in answer, leaving his question up in the air for him to decide -- there are worse things than fragility.
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There is texture here, between the two wolves -- she can feel it, the slow burn of desire, the blossoming of amusement, the brush of a touch here and there. But as enamored as Leera is with him, she keeps her composure, the only hints of her curiosity present in the subtle glimmer of her eyes as she watches him move. She's always found it somewhat simple to smoothe away the expressions on her face, to veil what's going on in her scheming mind.
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Leera can feel the heat rising to her skin. His low, possessive rumbling is like honey to her ears, thick and mouth-watering. Yes, she could belong to him. She'd belong to his strength, his devotion, his so-called dangerous mind. And Tyranis? She does not belong to him, nor has she ever. The only thing that keeps her bound to him is the unborn litter of princes and princesses that sleep in her gut. After their birth, she'll owe him nothing.
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