The female is different. Her scent, the taste of iron and copper, and her very being are not from here. No, the wolves from here were tainted with goodness or wickedness. Blackthorne does not think Renja wicked. He thinks her something entirely different – stronger, sharper. It is too soon to think such things, the Darkbringer knows. After all, when he had come upon Azariah perched in the middle of a lightning storm, the taste of electricity had seemed to buzz around him. He had thought then that he had found an equal yet she had been subpar at best, lacking at worst. She had chosen the white knight of Diveen as her companion.
It was not as if Blackthorne was actively searching for a mate or even an imprint. How could such a violent soul be able to love another with such a fierceness? It was a curse. It was what made mothers cower when their children were gripped by the jaws of enemies. It was what tore families apart in their desire to protect and in failing to do so. He had seen it happen. Had been the very cause of it. He had taken their weakness, ripped it apart at the seams without even causing a death, and watched as those carefully laid plans collapsed into a rubble. Undignified. Wasteful was what it was.
That does not mean he did not desire to conquer. It was possible he could find an equal that he could navigate around. One that would make his blood sing and his mouth water. One who would have his attentions, distracting. Renja could be that, he thinks, as he inhales. Yet the female rises before he can lean down.
The Darkbringer does not step back, does not offer her space, his lips twitching into a small smirk, one tooth flashing as it was wont to do. It has been years since his first interaction with Azariah and he is older and wiser. More in control of himself or so he likes to think. He knows now that she rises because she does not wish to be dominated by his presence. It makes something rise up in him for but a moment, as it did then, the desire to force her down and to submit.
He shakes it off with a mere flick of his tail. Age had cooled his ardor somewhat.
I know. Two simple words yet backed by complete and cool confidence. His eyes alight with fire, interest burning in them. ”It has been a long time since I found another with such a sweet scent. What do you bath in, striped one, the blood of pups?” His velvety voice rumbles with amusement even as his lustful eyes devour her. It is hard not to, despite the fact that she is larger than him.
Blackthorne cannot hold still any longer. Indeed, he has done well to stay still for as long as he has. He begins to move in towards her yet angled so that he can walk by her. Brush her, if she does not move, drown himself in her scent and she in his. It is the bond and it is instinct the requires him to do so. ”What name does a tiger have?” He muses the words, fascinated by her coloring, enjoying the play of amber, reds, and blacks together.