I don't hold back, I hold my own
White dragons were known to be dramatic.
With every breathe that Maeve took, Abraham could tell that he had truly gotten under her skin. Had he been a different man, he might have smiled at the satisfaction he felt from this interaction. She was proving to be a fun little mouse caught in his cat trap, snapping her teeth at him with venom lacing every word. It was almost musical to his ears. Mismatched eyes travelled over her frame once more, the fact that she was hardly clothed not lost on him. If she would take herself in public looking as she did, then Abraham had every right to look.
He paid no mind to the statement she made about consent. There was no room for guilt or moral within this man's chest, and he took what he wanted when he wanted without asking. Instead, he rolled his shoulders back and chuckled -- it was dark and dismissive, as if she could disappear at any second and the brute truly would not care. Gwyn would have been delighted if that were true. "Other than what I have seen street performers do? Very little." He was honest, but the way he worded his sentence was meant to show where he truly thought the value of what she was doing was. But, the dragoon did know of body mechanics and balance and strength. Even if his judgement, his rating, was a lie intended to play with the woman.
