She must admit there's a certain allure to the forest tom. She's never met anyone like him before, never fought anyone his equal. He is gruff and charming and callous. She laughs, though he doesn't try, yet she is still so afraid of him. The wildness never leaves his eyes, and it remains coiled in his muscles, clutched close to his heart. And he would have killed her, she knows, without a second thought, relishing it all the while. Perhaps this is the allure; the dance with death, a slow and ceaseless seduction. The thrill of the chase; she revels in it, and loves the way she runs, like a mouse from a hawk, but she will be caught. This is just another hunt for him, the beast who flees from nothing, who has known nothing but the chase. He can't wait to catch her.
lookit, a drabble
ya she still does this. well she tries.