The Tangle The stick, the thorn, the briar

He ended up close enough to breathe on her through all his talk, which was about a league closer than she had thought she might allow him willingly. She wondered with a distinct air of skepticism if he would ever actually make good on his decided debt if she happened to oblige him in his wont, but he soon proposed a different sort of arrangement that prompted a raise to his wiggle (of an eyebrow, of course). Instead of balking, she rose to match him.
 
To his credit he was direct, but Fenix had no intention, much less inclination, to extend the same courtesy once she was struck by the thought of angling for something else. She had never done the thing he was after, she wasn’t in heat, and she was months away from reaching sexual maturity. She simply didn’t see the point to his advances, and imagined he was better off making them at someone who could satisfy the procreative facet of his fervour. He himself, however, in the peak of physical health and with none-too-shabby-looks to boot, would be a considerable ally if he consented to be so.
 
She twitched her sleek red ears at him as her eyes gleamed with what could only be construed as delight. “I really don’t settle for anything less than one of every animal and the severed heads of all my enemies,” she said with falsely grave sobriety. “And I keep a running list, so you’ll have to check it twice.”