Firefly Glen Follow the Signs

Given his recent encounter, Hydra could understand and not feel affronted by his declining of her offer. Hydra simply nods. Though she suspected he might die if he slept without someone watching his back, he could not know that she had no interest in killing him. Is his smell still on you? She inquired, ear flicking. Hydra took a step toward him, though no more than that so as to respect his personal space until she knew. The scent of his own blood was overwhelming, new and old, but if he permitted her near enough she might be able to differentiate between his and theirs if the scent still could be gathered. 

As for showing mercy, and not wasting time, Hydra drawled: neither is in my nature. Hydra was a defender, not a woman known for compassion toward those that she considered even a potential threat. She was certain this male before her had fight left in him, but she was also certain that between the two of them should things come to blows because she had been incorrect about him all along she would still be the victor. Not without gaining some of her own wounds, naturally. Hydra's instinct demand she keep on guard and alert, for more reasons than just him being there before her. 

Hydra did not want him dead; despite his appearance, that sixth sense that most survivalists seemed to carry did not give her any intuitive feeling that this, he, was wrong. That feeling that made your skin crawl, that made your stomach sink. When you were around something that was abnormal or not quite right.