He was not fighting for his life; he was not fighting for the woman and her child. Larkspur did not believe he belonged to his pack, and for this reason, he put no value into this combat. For this reason, the D’Angelo was playing a game—a dangerous one, no doubt, but a game none the less. From between his teeth a pink tongue was exposed, tasting the toiled dirt and the steel in the air. Orange eyes narrowed, focusing on the shining blade as she moved it. There was no direct action from the girl yet, for she circled him. Larkspur mimicked the movement, his head low, white tipped tail a flag behind him. In battle, the can tah did not whisper.
It screamed.
Yet he was silent. Larkspur’s muscles tightened, reading her body language. Her motions were trained, fluid, as lithe as a hunting cat. Then, suddenly, he rushed forward again. Lark feigned once again for her side, and sought to throw his weight into her legs.
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