Redsand Canyon days of creation

If Colin understood the verbal pinball, he had little interest in continuing it. “Are you?” he asked Renard; “Didn’t you offer?” in response, less cryptic than it could have been. Then, to her: what she sought would not be denied, of course. It seemed Renard was just as eager to gauge Finley’s physical skill as she was theirs. There’d be no bluffing in a fight, nothing more long-term than a feint here, a gambit there.

Simple. Straightforward. She craved this on as primal a level as Colin had attacked her last round. There would be little room to think.

“Nor would I.” Invitation accepted. With a small spark of glee Finley realized she’d get what she’d come for, without ever needing to ask. Her head lifted, she strode forward—and stopped behind Colin, paws planted firmly in the dirt. Renard would be direct and meet her, if not halfway then at least further out of the trees, if he wanted this too. And if Colin didn’t want to fight, it’d be his loss—but Finley had no intention of letting him fade into the background.

With a sidelong glance to the grayscale male, flitting just as quickly back to Renard, Finley hoped to make her message clear: she cared little who, if anyone, he sparred for. What mattered to her was if he stood at all.