Sun Mote Copse but you're holding me like water in your hands

No, Wren's eyebrows grow firm in a display of something like mild annoyance. you eat. What, I can't do somethin' nice? Mouth curving downward into a frown, she leans further back on her haunches in a slouch. Bringing one forepaw towards her mouth, she runs her tongue over a cracked pawpad. 
She studies him, now, following crimson eyes with her own, the yellowed smirk on his face growing with pride as if he'd won something. It unnerved her, though she only expresses such with a mild-mannered scoff. I can handle my own hunts, y'know. You don't gotta flex your muscles to impress me or some shit. With her now dampened paw, she shoves the bird further towards him. 
Men and their audacity. Why is everything always a game?