Phantom Hollow a slab in the morgue

In Sorina’s head, her opinions mattered. Every little thing that she could think to say was meant to be listened to with eager ears and, should her words deem it necessary, obeyed. She’d been born with this sort of mindset, with the growth and development of it later being fueled by the members of her family—namely, her father. To even consider that someone might not value every thought she could concoct was impossible; she refused to humour the possibility, even as it played out right before her. She just kept throwing verbal punches, oblivious to how little force she had backing them up.

Pulling back her lips to reveal a set of glistening incisors, she snarled at the male. “Some rogue?!” she growled out, deciding right then that the comment was the worst of insults to ever be uttered. “I am so much greater than a lowly rogue.” Whilst she had lived her entire life thus far without a pack to back her up, she had never viewed herself as a rogue. Each time she heard the word, all she could imagine was a mangy, flea-ridden scoundrel that could hardly speak; where this image originated from, she couldn’t remember, she knew only that it popped into her head each time she heard the word. The notion that she could be anything like that infuriated her, tempting her to lash out and show him what she was made of—yet, she held back. He wasn’t worth her wrath, he was hardly worth the attention of a field mouse—

—or, maybe not.

Each time she tried to get past him, he moved in front of her, blocking her exit. Snapping, she threw her previous thoughts to the wind—he was deserving of much, much more than her wrath. Without much warning, she threw herself towards him, intending to collide with his body and send them both rolling; she’d fight to be on top should he fall, though, given her rash decision and impulsive actions, she was unlikely to succeed.