It would have been easier, if he had not struck her face. She would have been poised and calculating, and used the tactics taught to her in order to wear down and kill the stranger. Now, though, her mind was gone. A typhoon swallowed her thought and she struck him as if she could tear him asunder even as he stood. No thought remained about presenting a pelt, or keeping him as a slave—nothing at all remained but the singular desire to destroy.
Somehow, he freed himself. She roared again, the sound of a tiger, the bellowing of her father as she recalled him from the night Harlowe died. He made to run, but she was fast, oh faster still. Her teeth sought his haunch but she miscalculated and instead clamped down on the bony appendage of his tail. This too, failed her; she ripped his fur and skin free and lost her advantage, sliding in the sand as he broke out of her reach. Yet so terrible was her wrath that the girl spat out this prize and ran after him yet—she would run him to the border if that was what it took.
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