Blackfeather Woods Angel of small death

He drew closer, tested her mettle and resolve; which she had plenty to spare; still, she was a little unnerved by his silence and his hungering, golden eyes that flayed her as they roamed across her figure. 

Strangely, it made her chest ache, too. Despite the threat that lingered, the looming possibility of aggression; the way he stared was too familiar, and in that moment she was in his shadow again. She was meant to hate, she should have hated, and still she struggled to even do that. Even when pieces of her were stolen for good. Even when she came all this way to get away.

She still wanted that comfort. 

She let out a brief shudder, banished a face non-present from her mind and focused on the one that was, blackburned and chestnut. She made no move to back down as he inched closer, keeping her leg firm in its facade, and holding his gaze with that of her own as he circled. ...Typically when someone speaks to you, you're supposed to answer. She chided softly, flicking an ear.

If it were a battle of composure, she'd seek to stand on equal ground.