Results, he's always thought, are the cultivation of a good plan. So he plans her death, the precise moves he will take before the consummation of their dance, the moment he will touch her throat with his claws. He's heard she's beautiful, and gutting would be so messy.
He decides he'll be like smoke. She'll never touch him, will never lay a dainty golden paw on him, and for an impatient cat such as herself- her temper, of course, is legendary- that will anger her.
He doesn't let rage cloud his judgement. He got mad, got reckless once before. He prefers to forget about that, because although right now he's plotting murder, he's not as cold-blooded as the whispers say.