Curiosity had drawn him in, but his tongue had betrayed him—spitting poison without a thought, and invoking wrath. They had overtaken him, stealing him away into the night. Perhaps he wouldn't have minded, were it not for her. He burned with rage, pulling at the chains that bound him, snarling, though his muzzle was sealed shut. He couldn't make a sound. It was for the better.
Sensory deprivation outwardly calmed him, and he fell once again into apathy. He was helpless—utterly helpless. He knew this state. He'd encountered it before. Familiarity washed over him, and he knew no fear—only subdued anger. He wasn't afraid of pain, or bodily damage, and this showed in the prevalent marks across his body in the form of old scars. Death was another story, but he wasn't thinking of that now. He was only thinking of the woman, and his desire to tear her to shreds.