they call kids like us vicious and carved out of stone
but for what we've become, we just feel more alone
Shifting animals is one thing that does not phase Makai, and so he does not bat an eyelash as the bird becomes horse in front of him. It was one of his father's favorite tricks, the shifting mid-step, and his stomach knots at the thought of it. As if he needed one more thing to make him angry at the world; as if he needed to think about one more thing that became unburdened on his shoulders—hateful and unforgiving.
“I would like to see you try,” he snarls and means it. If there was one thing that Makai wanted, it was a good fight; he wanted to feel his blood pumping behind his eyes with good purpose, the feel of the rage against his skin, the anger directed toward a goal. He wanted nothing more than the release of pain and the hurt himself, the infliction as much pleasure as the simple act of inflicting on another.
He was practically begging for a good fight.
“Not that I owe you one damn good reason in the first place,” although part of him is hoping that the other stallion insists on it. It would give him an outlet and something to think about other than the blank stare that Oksana had given him, her words so final (‘Don’t expect me to come looking for you’). There is part of him that is relieved that it seems to have worked, that he had finally succeeded in driving her away; and yet, the larger part of him is wild with grief, sick with regret at what he had done.
Sighing, he dropped his head a little, nostrils still flaring with exertion, his neck still lathered with sweat. “There are some things that cannot be explained.” It was the closest that he felt like getting to the wound tonight; he certainly did not feel like unpacking his emotions to a stranger. Flicking his gaze upward, her considered him for a second before giving him one curt word: “Makai.” An introduction, of sorts.
