The Sentinels revenge is in the creator's hands

Spider, who could not have known that her able body and willingness to serve held such little meaning to the savage yearlings, was instead confronted with a reality far more dire than just a pair of roguish roughhousers. They were deranged— with egos as sensitive as a mouse trap. She was glad for having not come into his long, razor-faced reach.

The wretch abandoned her post in a swift, dark blur, and now lurked in a position that would force the hellion to constantly adjust himself if he wanted to keep her in his sights, meanwhile making sure that his large body became an obstacle for the other male, should he feel the need to add his fangs to the count. Emotionless and brutish she could take; a spar, she could handle, but such senseless, ham-fisted violence, and the fact that he would seek to injure her, when all she had to depend on was her own limbs, was... well, in short it pissed her off.

"I'm too fast for either of you," she boasted, flashing them a salacious smirk. Seawolves. Always thinking themselves better, more adept. But Michael Phelps wasn't about to beat Usain Bolt in a footrace, and Spider was positive she could outrun (and by extension, outsmart) these wanna-be tyrants. Wolves who had seen true war didn't act like this; and they didn't have to respect her life, but she had given them no real reason to threaten it either. "Back off now, and no one'll get neutered today," she teased them further, her voice airy and dripping with mephitic playfulness; her tail lashing as she prepared to be lunged at once more.