Lion Head Mesa do not assess a man who has nothing, and thus falsify your pen

This had gotten much more serious than she had anticipated.
Wide-open jaws with jagged teeth seek her throat. A wretched snarl rips from high in her nostrils, and instinctively, she jabs two forepaws at his open chest in the hopes of stopping him; her claws aiming to rake at the skin beneath the feathersoft fur.
She stares, pinpricked, as the realization dawns upon her. He has size and sheer muscle to his advantage, and she her wit and speed; but there is one crucial thing that sets them apart: he is a man. 
If he wished to cause her true harm, and if her ability to react quickly failed her, she would be powerless. No amount of vigorous training among the great halls of Akashingo nor prayer to the most Holy of Gods would save her, for this was biology, and she is but a girl to his hungry eyes. To him, she is weak. And that infuriates her.
Her chest heaves as her composure is forced into being rekindled. Focus. Her own jaws snap once, twice, thrice; anywhere, hind legs tucked to her stomach in an effort to keep the space between them.