The whole of the stallion's attention seemed to be focused on the painted mare that stood before him: dark ears cupping forward, satin nostrils quivering with the scent of her, and the full weight of the male's crimson gaze resting on her dun-marked form. He paid little mind to the sound of waves crashing on the beach or the cacophony of avian lifeforms hidden in the jungle at his heels. Instead, he observed.
Parvati looked pleased to see him, if Carthage trusted the smile spreading across her lips, the thrum of her voice in her throat as she spoke. Did she come, he wondered, because she was curious about his newly established hold on the Ridge? Perhaps Parvati had simply enjoyed their previous rendez-vous and hoped to repeat it in the future. She was comfortable in the Inlet, and he was an intrigue. Was this push-and-pull of theirs something she'd be keen to hold on to once she realized the true brute lurking beneath his skin?
"A welcome compliment," he drawled in low contented tones. Carthage, too, was pleased with the development. Had Sigurdr not come along, he might have claimed Paradise for himself some time ago. However, time-- or fate, if you'd rather-- had a way of working things out in his favor, if he was clever or patient enough. "And you--" the male clucked appreciatively, "look fit to be queen." His words were a coy flattery, but they held an implication, a lure. If he was going to dangle the proverbial carrot, why not get it out of the way?