After dropping the raccoon off, Finley had taken another scrap from the cache and, having not been prompted to stick around, started leaving the arch behind for a rest or further woodland exploration or whatever the day brought. But clearly, Donovan had other ideas.

Without missing a beat she rebounded right back towards the Saints Den, where Donovan waited. With a small huff Finley announced her return, back on alert for whatever he had in store.

Finley’s ears flattened as Donovan broke into a laugh; had she sounded annoyed? She certainly wouldn’t have minded if he’d stopped her before leaving—but like hell if she was letting her unaffected facade break again, least of all around a superior.

Fortunately the Saint seemed to take it in good spirits; he dropped into a lazy play bow, inviting her to another spar. Like child’s play. Of course Finley didn’t have anything resembling “other business,” and it mortified her that he’d been given the impression at all.

But she shook her head quickly, again faking a casual dust-off, and dropped to her best attempt at a play-bow. It resembled a pre-attack crouch more than anything, but no matter. She wasn’t going to pull another surprise, figuring he’d be ready for it, and figured she might as well entertain his theatrics. Just to start.

“Not tired at all,” Finley said, gathering her senses. He was testing her, surely. She’d land a hit this time. She had to.

“Maybe I can make you tired, then.” Again with the teasing. Maybe someday it would grate on her, but for now she welcomed the challenge with a friendly snarl.

It was Donovan’s turn to launch the offense, bounding towards Finley in an unusually slow move. Damn, was he going easy on her? She sidestepped with a too-easy dodge, then lunged to knock him over before he recovered.

Nope nope nope nope nope not going easy at all. Finley made contact with open air and a stinging pain shot through her lower leg, as if stepping through thorns; but thorns didn’t grab her limbs and swing, kicking the rest of her limbs out from under her—

Thud. She wasn’t a lightweight wolf and the fall forced wind from her lungs; but if Finley had retained any of her training, staying down was never an option. A nip at her haunches told her he was behind her now, probably being a smug bastard again, god damn it not again—

Barely down for another breath, Finley snarled, lunged again at that stupid curly tail; jaws snapped around open air. Fuck it. She charged forward anyway, snarling, ready to rear into a tackle if she got close enough or even straight-up headbutt the brute in the chest. Anything to get him under her for a change.

The adrenaline surge did the trick—head met fur and Donovan was down. Sheer adrenaline kept any lingering pain at bay as Finley wasted no time throwing herself over him, as a hunter might guard their prey, and reaching to sink her fangs around his neck.

It’s a spar. Conscious thought kicked in at the last moment to hold her back; Finley raised her aim, sparing the throat, and instead bit into his neck on the side. Restraint forced her maw open, just enough to avoid tearing deep into flesh, but beneath the hybrid’s thick mane her tongue still caught the light tang of blood. Here she would stay, hellbent on keeping her hold, until his next move.

To her surprise, Donovan had no counter. He fell limp under Finley’s paws. A surge of pride nipped at her, but surely it was too soon to let her guard down? She released her bite, deliberately, as if stepping away from a house of cards, still tense and ready to lunge if he had any tricks.

Even then, soreness gnawed at her limbs, especially where he’d bitten her earlier in the fight. The wound hadn’t quite scabbed yet, but the bleeding had slowed, and Finley’s heightened senses teetered between their mid-battle sharpness and total forfeit. Donovan’s golden eyes gleamed and his lips were curled in a smile. Was that expression glued to his face, or was he just waiting for another chance to send her flying? She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a full retreat without absolute certainty.

Still no resistance. Finally she relented and Donovan rose, oddly silent. His abrupt movement sent another jolt of energy through Finley, almost making her drop in a steadfast crouch again to face him head-on, but! no. Fucker was just messing with her, topped off with a laugh and verbal jab. Whatever self-satisfaction she’d gained was stomped aside by annoyance, though Finley only showed it with a sidelong glare as Donovan kept talking. His antics were somehow less endearing after her victory—but he was the leader, and Finley wasn’t in the place to snap.

At least he admitted it was a good fight. Finley replied with a wordless nod, standing still and only turning her head to watch him. That sounded like conclusion enough; she’d let herself relax when officially dismissed.

As if reading her mind, Donovan gave her a nudge and oddly-teasing reassurance that she could tell him to stop. Finley didn’t see herself using that any time soon, never mind joking around—talking back to a superior and lighthearted jabs were foreign on her tongue.

The fight was almost definitely over, at least, and Finley let her stance soften. “Understood,” she said plainly. Maybe someday she’d have it in her to tease; for now she wasn’t sure if her leg was still bleeding.