Ravensblood Forest a man that’s down to fight

meredith doesn’t miss a thing. the way the dark-furred mutt squares up, the subtle shift of his weight, the lift of his tail—challenge thick in the air like the scent of an incoming storm. she meets it with nothing but a cool, detached gaze, like she’s already bored with him.

but it’s the woman that interests her more.

sobeille’s sharp, flinty stare lingers, and meredith doesn’t look away. she watches as the stranger makes her proposition, bold as brass, and she doesn’t scoff at it, doesn’t roll her eyes like she might’ve if crowell had spat out something equally presumptuous.

she doesn’t nod, doesn’t give a verbal answer, just lets her silence be the only acknowledgment the woman will get. it’s not a no.

her gaze tracks their retreat, sharp as a blade’s edge, but it’s the deliberate scrape of vermouth’s paws in the dirt that has her lip curling in quiet amusement.

cocky son of a bitch, she mutters, not quite loud enough for them to hear, but crowell certainly does.

only when they’re far enough out does she finally glance at him, sharp-eyed and unimpressed. they ain’t worth it. but there’s something in her gaze—something considering. like maybe, just maybe, she’ll bring that message back to the captain after all.