weep not, poor children

The story that she gave came out fluidly, but punctual. Mordecai listened, but felt the nagging spark of ire rising up from deep within. It was not so much over what she was doing or what she was proposing, but rather the insubordination he felt creeping up into her features. She had met his gaze. The spark there that he saw did not come from her, but rather from the memory of Cara meeting his gaze with her demands. And that very spark was like the flash of fire to oil in a hot pan.

Mordecai let her finish, but answered her with pure dominance — he honed in on her smaller form with a flash of teeth and a guttural growl, reaching out for her muzzle. If it was one thing he was coming to terms with in a new position, it was keeping himself from being trodden over. As Mordecai had learned, even the smallest cracks in any facade were easily exploited by those seeking it, whether it was willingly or not. He felt confidence in his actions, hoping to silence her pleas and drive her into submission of her own. Only then would he asset the situation from there… provided his confidence and luck did not betray him.