The Sentinels revenge is in the creator's hands

The spindly little wench had failed.

In the moments that it took for her to scurry back to where she belonged, Ford had already lost any interest he had once had in her. The glint of light against his mismatched gaze held her own features with a disinterested expression on his face. The spike of Velen's coat was not missed; he knew that his brother was capable of wicked things when provoked. He carried the blood of the Cairn in his rugged limbs, and he was adept in more than just the swell of the ocean.

Once the female had placed distance between them, her tone changed. It seemed that she was no longer interested in offering them her skills and traits, but a quick lash of her tongue. Ford would have laughed if she wasn't quite as pathetic as she had made herself out to be. It would have added insult to further insult. The titan curled his dark lips downward in a disappointed frown.

The ragged little bitch suggested that they were close to being neutered. The warhound fixed her with a clenched jaw and canted his head. She moved as though she was attempting to make it difficult to follow her movements without making a move himself. The snippy little thing was no supernatural beast; she was very much ordinary in her capabilities. Ford was not phased.

“If you are seen in the forest again, a hunting party will be sent to collect your skull,” the warhound drawled to her in a tone that suggested he was entirely unimpressed with her display. To Velen, the titan clenched his jaw and released a huff of a breath. Childish games had no place in his world.