Over my dead body, she exclaims and the threat hovers on my lips, caged between tongue and teeth: I could make that happen.

And perhaps I could. Not easily, of course. Khar'pern was far more adept in battle than most, perhaps even more than myself. But more than whether or not I could achieve such a thing… I found myself opposed to the idea. Not just apathetic, as I was in regards to a great deal of things in my life, but actively opposed to the thought of Khar'pern passing away. To the the point of knowing I would have to track down the perpetrator myself, and carve my vengeance into their flesh. After all, if not Khar'pern, who else would spit such sweet venom at me?

The lithe gray mare continues to protest that she had not intentionally orchestrated her challenge to bring us together again, and she's probably right. But there's enough gray area for doubt that I won't let it go. Not when the alternative is so much more fun to consider and elicits such a fun reaction from her. Either way, my distraction as I consider the possibility that she's right is enough to allow her pretty domed forehead to score a direct hit against my muzzle. I jerk backwards from the impact, heat already blooming on the lip she'd smashed against my teeth.

Rage boils - hot and fast - in my chest and I glare at her from eyes that had gone dark, suddenly still and quiet. No longer stalking, no longer prowling, merely poised and ready for the fight. She reaches again for me, and I tuck my chin to prevent her teeth from grasping the soft flesh of my throat, knowing that if she had the chance to kill me, there was no guarantee she wouldn't take it. As much as I might have grown fond of her, I had no real faith she felt the same, no matter what I might imply.

She offers more tidbits of information about the child we'd made before, but I did not care. The resulting children had never been my motivation for seeking the company of mares in autumn. Whatever came of our joining was their problem to deal with, not mine. I had no intention of being any more of a father figure to them than my father had been to me. Thus, when she implies that our daughter might be disappointed in me, it does not wound me the way she thinks it will.

The insult to me, though? To my ability? That one did cut deep, slicing right into that masculine bravado with the sort of blade that is so sharp that the pain takes a moment to register.

I abandon the pretense of speaking - though I hadn't said anything for a bit anyway - and launch myself at her. If I'm honest, I don't really know if my intention is to hurt her or touch her, or some bastard combination of both, but I don't bother to examine it. Digging into the soft loam of the Lagoon, I launch toward her, attempting to ram my shoulder against her ribcage even as my head ducks down - not to her throat but to the V where her neck meets her chest. As I do it, my intent was to harm, I swear it. To tear her flesh the way she'd ripped into me mentally, but as my muzzle got close to her, before it even (if it did at all) made contact, I found myself attempting to nibble where I should have bitten.

Annoyed, I shook my head, disarraying the dense tangle of my dark chestnut mane as I attempted to collect myself again without puting space between our bodies. From between clenched teeth I managed a growled command, my eyes still dark with loathing and lust. "Stop lying to yourself, sweetheart."

Stallion - Young Adult - 15.2 - Brown Overo