I step closer, breathing in her scent more intently as she squeaks below me, her voice a whimsical little thing. Is she daft? Every inch of her smells like the prairie. The grass there is a different, as is their dirt. It finds its way into one's very fur, marking them as part of its terrain. I will let her stew on her question for several moments, giving myself time to truly look at her. I examine her, watching her face and eyes for the telltale signs of emotions. There is fear there but there is something else, too, something more difficult to place.

"The distance," I begin, taking another short step towards her as I lean in, meeting her eyes with an unshakable intensity, "I don't think you would make it. No matter how hard you tried."

I wonder if I can get her to run. If it would give me the same thrill as a hunt. It is something I ponder as I glance to the north, raising my head and watching over in the far distance. Somewhere out there, her pack is waiting. Would they come looking for her? I am almost tempted to see. Satisfaction for the sake of satisfaction. For now, I ought to not. Instead, I will continue to observe her, feasting on the fear that works its way into the creases of her face. I'll show her nothing - just the hint of an amused grin, a certain tautness in my lips. I want to see her squirm.