Karma Police [Sabra/James]

[♥ Nathan ♥]

There comes a point in every young man’s life when responsibility begins to win out over the ever-attractive follies of youth. When the rising sun brings with it a new day to wake to, and does not simply herald the end of an impossibly long night; when reckless and wild behaviors are curbed for the greater good of age, wisdom, and adulthood. It is called growing up; it is called settling down. For a man with an intense and demanding career this change should come sooner, rather than later; it should demonstrate the measure of importance he places on his future.

Today is not that day.

The sunrise is no blessing, but a curse. The alarm clock that blares from Nate’s nightstand only a few short hours after drawn is a call to duty that he cannot heed; in his stupor, he knocks it from the table entirely, and refuses to rouse himself from his nestled comfort of twisted blankets. Somewhere in the morning’s endless death march he manages to achieve something like lucidity, and at last calls in to excuse himself from the meeting he clearly wasn’t making. Nate declares himself officially working from home for the day, takes two aspirin, and resolutely falls back asleep. It is a dreamless, bleak thing, a respite from his headache and the worries of the world both.

It is not until the early afternoon that he manages to rise, and Nathan is blearily pleased to find that the pounding migraine of the morning has faded. The aftereffects of his lingering hangover still cling to him in nauseous waves of pain and misery, but without the throbbing pulse dancing behind his eye at every subtle motion, simple thoughts like getting out of bed become easier. The previous night is something of a blur of alcohol, dancing, and wild indulgence – and while the absence between his sheets would imply that it hadn’t been entirely successful, the werewolf is still left with a lurking, smug satisfaction. It is enough of a motivating memory to spur him on through a shower and stumbling into a pair of jeans; through finally exiting the bedroom for the kitchen, where he dares to meet the day.

Nathan is making coffee, eggs sizzling in a pan, when there is a commotion out in the hall. His floor, with only one other flat to call it home, is not known for frequent visitors – much less apparently rowdy ones in the middle of the afternoon – and the change in routine has him keyed into the chaos even before it reaches his door. The ensuing knock is violent in its intensity, loud enough to be startling, and Nathan turns off the stove and pauses before making to answer it. That his visitor knocks a second time – and that it manages to be even louder – finally spurs him into action, fully expecting to chase off an idiot at the wrong apartment.

What greets Nathan through the crack offered by the still-locked chain on his door seems to support this theory; the man there is certainly unfamiliar, and he is more than a little angry. The werewolf is still groggy enough to not be immediately suspicious. Instead, there is confusion written into his features, an absolute lack of understanding as to why this man would be at his door – apparently intent on pounding it down. His brow furrows in something like irritation; Nate opens his mouth to send the stranger on his way.

”Is there something you wanted—“

—and that is likely all the man will be able to manage before James loses it completely.

[James Morgan]

Once upon a time, James Morgan had thought himself a rational man. One that was not so easily swayed by foolish things like jealousy— but it seems that changes too quickly the day that Sabra comes home in another man's clothes, reeking of someone else and quickly causing his emotions to elevate from highly aggravated to infuriated in less than a second. He jumps to conclusions as most men would, naturally manages to make himself more worried than Sabra could have ever done on her own. And it ends in a heavy dose of arguing— Sabra insisted that she technically did nothing wrong, and James insisting that he couldn't give a flying fuck how innocent she claimed the meeting to be. It had been innocent enough to require someone else's clothes, and completely ignoring the logic that she had been a wolf at the time, James goes into his own jealousy-fueled rage.

A possessive man he is, but James finds himself unable to admit that when he's tracking the werewolf down without the help of the woman at all, and in no time at all (tailed by her) he's in his car, dropping his daughter off at his sister's and driving at speeds that are probably not safe for any road. He finds it incredibly easy to ignore her the entire way, leaning back against the seat with his animal's leafy-green eyes glaring ahead, allowing the rambles of the werewolf beside him to fall upon deaf ears. It takes a few minutes for him to allow himself to draw out of his mind, glance to Sabra, an angry, lopsided gaze that doesn't quite meet her eyes. "I'll fucking kill him." He growls, the curse coming smoothly and easily from a man who is usually so opposed to anything other than the King's English. His grip on the wheel is firm, knuckles white and tendons showing clear through his wrist.

And eventually he's at the apartment building, and James looks up with a brief look of recognition before parking in the most half-assed manner, not wasting any time in throwing the door open and exiting the car, paying mind to nothing but the sounds of his boots hitting the ground and the apartment building in front of him. And when he finally makes it up to the door, his fist banging against the wood is anything but gentle.

He waits with little patience, shifting his weight to the other leg, practically seething at the man who shows only a crack of his face through a chained door.

”Is there something you wanted—“

He doesn't even let the Werewolf open the door all of the way before his fist winds half way back, barreling forward to make contact square in the middle of Nathan's face with all of the force that he can muster with every fiber of his furious being. His next move was one of more calculation, walking straight past the door to grab the werewolf by the collar and pull him close to his own face, "You motherfucker!" It's such a rare thing that the Tiger is so easily upset, so easily shoved around by something as simple as the smell of another man on his woman's body. But the recent memory hits him again and that same emotion wells up, compelling James to do nothing but beat the ever loving fuck out of this son of a bitch. And given that Nathan did not strike back just yet, James would ATTEMPT!!!!! to go for round two at the man's face.

[Sabra]

She does finally makes it back to James', expecting a warm welcome and being able to slip into her own clothes. Instead, she's thrown head first into a vicious argument with the man. It's the first time she can really recall seeing him this angry and the only clear thought that runs through her mind the entire time is 'It's too early for this.' There isn't enough caffeine in the world to prepare someone for dealing with an enraged tiger shifter questioning (and that's the polite term for it) their fidelity. He makes Izzy cry with the shouting, and makes her want to throttle him black and blue until he is willing to listen to her.

And no more than James is willing to admit the fact that he's a jealous bastard with less sense than God gave little apples, no more is Sabra willing to admit that, while plummeting down the traffic jammed Boston streets, his anger nearly palatable, she is scared. Scared of what the man who embodies his animal's heft and mass in almost every way humanly possible can do to somebody. Even if that somebody is a werewolf who had himself hinted at being a wee bit more scary than her 'puppy dog' form.

Still, when James gives her the crazy smile, the one that doesn't quite meet his hazel eyes and shows too many teeth, it's enough to make her fear for the man's safety.

"I'll fucking kill him."

"For the last damn time, James, I did not sleep with him!" Is her immediate reply, teeth gritted and the growl that follows after matching well with the air of an bestial rage. He parks crooked and it's half a miracle he manages to turn off the engine before slamming the car door shut.

For everyone of his strides Sabra has to make two. She follows after him, bellowing curses in a scene that feels all too reminiscent of a soap opera. "Wait! God bless it, you stubborn asshole!" Wild strands of dark hair flying around her face in an uncombed mess, hands balled into fists at her side. It's like trying to control a natural disaster or something, from the moment she came home to the second he'd taken a healthy whiff of werewolf and the musky scent of another man, James had become a hurricane of rage and jealously. There was no eye of the storm either, there was simply the feeling of being tossed about helplessly, grappling for purchase and finding none.

"You motherfucker!"

It's the last thing she hears before the sickening crack of his fist upside Nate's face. She bounds up the last step just as James begins to wind back his arm for another strike, small hands wrap around his forearm with all the strength given to her by curse and years of physical labor, be it small in the comparison to the tiger shifter's, Sabra can only hope it's enough to slow him down, that and the other hand that lunges forward for his long hair, grasping around the thick pony tail to yank him back.

"James! You--"

And for the first time in a long time, she really doesn't know what to say.

[♥ Nathan ♥]

James’ fist connects, and the world spins. A flash of light cracks behind Nathan’s eyes and his head snaps back; he staggers from the doorway with the force of the blow, hands drawn up to his face even before he’s realized what happened. The coppery tang of blood erupts in his mouth, running from his ruined nose in torrents that flow between his scrabbling fingers, and as the room slowly returns to wavering focus his already sluggish brain makes a vain attempt to simply process. It’s not the first time Nate has had karma catch up with him, but the werewolf generally prefers to have some idea of what the hell he’s getting hit for. He also would prefer that the owner of that fist didn’t look twice his size, but beggars can’t often be choosers.

Nathan is still clutching at his nose in shock and surprise when the man lunges for him again, and the werewolf is further caught off-guard – stumbling away lamely – as James grabs him by the front of his shirt. A reciprocating wave of nausea turns his stomach and settles low in his gut. His hands drop from his face to grip at James’ fist as he’s hauled bodily forward, his fingers leaving blood-slick trails along the shifter’s wrist and forearm; rid-rimmed eyes widen as James raises his fist a second time.

It is a weakness that evaporates in an instant, and all at once the werewolf is moving.

Bare feet plant upon the scuffed hardwood and Nathan tenses under the shifter’s grip, no longer given towards confused inaction – or to hanging limp at the mercy of the stranger’s fury. It is the only warning the man will get before Nate presses forward with a wolf-born snarl, heedless of either danger or pain; there is nothing but adrenaline in his blood and the wolf beneath his skin, a dangerous combination in any circumstance. His forehead collides with James’ nose, his mouth – Nate doesn’t pay much attention to what the hell his skull cracks into – and he shoves himself off the James’ chest and scrambles for his footing, more reminiscent of a wild thing than a man. He scrubs a hand over his mouth and heaves in a gasping breath, scrambling for thought and coherence against the rush of anger and hurt.

Nathan composes himself in the brief lull allowed to him; he gets a hold on his ragged breathing, on the heated temper that writhes within his chest and screams for a violent release. The animal's arrogance is reflected in Nate’s demeanor and bearing as he pulls himself up to his full height and takes brief stock of Sabra; his wolf reacts, hot under his skin, and it is with a measure of restraint that the werewolf holds himself back. The beast demands that he fall upon the stranger in a flurry of teeth and claw and teach him about dominance – but it is the man yet in control, a ready set to his stance and a trembling quiver in his nerves.

There is a pistol in the bedroom, and while he hopes he will not need it, Nathan steps nearer to the hall preemptively.

”Who the fuck are you.” The werewolf does not question, but demands, his eyes narrowed and flickering between the stranger and the girl. There are assumptions he can make with her sudden appearance – certain degrees of similar fallout he’s experienced before – but none of them make sense. He hadn’t slept with Sabra – had done much of the opposite, in fact – and so James’ sudden appearance as vengeful lover hardly fits the picture. ”You broke my goddamn nose.” It is a shocked complaint aired from between clutching fingers, still vainly attempting to staunch the blood that floods his mouth at every spoken word, that soaks into the front of his shirt in dripping black stains. Despite the pain, Nathan does not seem particularly upset at his apparent injury. Supernatural healing is a thing he’s made ample use of, and the boxer has recovered from the same – and worse.

”I think you should get the fuck out of my apartment.” The statement is low and smoldering, spoken with a note of warning for all its cool calm. Nathan drops his hand from his face, leveling his gaze out in a hard and dangerous pinpricked stare, and his fists clench at his sides. Trespass and assault will be the least of James’ worries; the werewolf is primed for a fight, the animal riding high, and he will not be taken by surprise again.

[James Morgan]

"James! You-"

When Nathan goes stumbling back in shock, James finds that it's easy for the shifter to ignore her when he's in an irrational, jealousy induced rage. That is until he feels some kind of weight pulling him. A small hand around his arm and the sharp sting of his long hair being pulled too forcefully, and in the brief moment when the other Werewolf is clutching his nose, James forces his arms out of Sabra's weaker grip, only half turns his his torso to twist his arm around and physically push Sabra away from him, hopefully not too rough, but in this instant the angry tiger is in the process of throwing his weight and strength around, not holding back from it. "Back off, Sabra," He growls in response to her, while simultaneously grabbing Nate. Too many things that he's trying to concentrate on in one shot.

Perhaps he should have expected some kind of counter. For this is a Werewolf in front of him, and not only that but a man that James only outweighed by less than 50 pounds. If anything, James had mere length over him. They were almost an even match. Whether this means that Nate is stronger or whether it means that James is stronger, the furious man does not quite care. There's a sickening kind of thrill at seeing blood splatter across the man's shirt and his face, and he can't help but feel that trickling victory settling and making a home in his chest. Nate's struggles go unnoticed, and somewhere in the back of James' mind there is only the most bare recognition of the wet feeling on his arm— the blood of another man slick against his own skin. This changes in an instant, and James realizes that he's in for it the moment that he sees the werewolf's eyes widen in turn of his winding fist.

In a moment that's too fast for James to even comprehend there's a second sickening crack in the air that takes form of Nate's head meeting the center of James' face, busting his lip in more than one place and causing a familiar shattering pain in his nose. Instinctively, after the contact is made, his head flies backward in every attempt to prevent a second attack. James does not fight to keep his hold when Nate breaks away, instead letting go at the same moment that he pushes off, hand traveling fast to the damage on his face. There's a warm rush of blood that coats his front, trickles through clasped fingers and seeps down his hand— the sanguine fluid looking black against James' darker skin, dripping onto his chest and leaving ugly stains on his white work shirt. Somehow, James is now more pissed off over his shirt than he is over Sabra.

That was his one good shirt damnit.

James is heedless to the knowledge that he's dealing with two pissed off werewolves. A situation that no smart man would ever get himself into, and yet, James finds it rather difficult to be afraid of what he, right now, would call a filthy fucking dog. He leans over only a moment, stepping backward to trail fingers over the bent and unusual feeling of his nose. He could feel his inflammatory system kicking in, shock and adrenaline transforming what would be immense pain into an uncomfortable warmth and a dull throb that pulsed with his heartbeat.

"Who the fuck are you."

James doesn't answer.

"You broke my goddamn nose."

James wants to spit out that he deserved it, that he was damn glad that he broke something, but instead his response is that of an aggravated growl as his hand falls back to his side, hands curling into fists. The blood on his hands had half dried into a sticky mess smeared across his skin, and the smell of iron in the air was becoming overwhelming. "You ruined my goddamn shirt."

”I think you should get the fuck out of my apartment.”

James can hear the warning in his voice, can feel the danger lurking beneath those words, but instead it does nothing but light a fuse that's already lit with dying embers, threatening to rile the man back up into the next onslaught. "I think you should shut the fuck up," He snarls, taking a step forward with curled fists and an accusing glare. It would take no more than a twitch to set him off again.

[Sabra]

It isn't the first time she's seen a fight and Sabra knows damn well it won't be the last. She can remember more than a few childhood incidents involving her and Tristan up against the trailer park kids, hopelessly outnumbered with nothing but sheer ferocity on their side (which was usually the losing one). It wasn't until her older brother started towering over everything in sight that the stream of challengers trickled down to a couple brave idiots every once in a while, but by that time she had learned to take a seat and watch the resulting fireworks rather than join in.

She could've sold tickets to the tri-county area for his fist fights, no doubt. Maybe her brother would have become a boxing champion, but after getting a knife slid between his ribs in a bar fight, his appetite for the sport it dimmed considerably.

Obviously, such a thing hadn't happened to James. He shrugged her off like she was made of air, although Sabra made a point to take some of his hair with her, stumbling back awkwardly and just managing to catch herself on the door frame. In partial shock, partial outrage she stares at him for a moment, the wolf jolting along her flesh along with the adrenaline in her veins. Stubborn fucking jackass, couldn't he use the head between his ears instead of his legs for once? Maybe even listen to her. Such things seemed out of the realm of possibility though, when Nate's nose was dripping dark crimson and the iron scent of it curled through her nostrils with enough force in it alone to call out the beast inside her by itself.

Sabra barely had the time to make a side step before he was lounging forward, bent at an angle like a bull charging--which turned out to be exactly his attentions. Before she could think of something to do James was bleeding like a stuck pig too and cussing up a storm on top of it.

Fucking idiots.

With a drawn in sound that was half way between a snarl and a hiss Sabra swung around, placing herself in front of James, back turned to the dark-haired werewolf for the moment. She rolled her eyes briefly at him in a gesture of 'what can you do'? Rogue tiger shifter boyfriends, maybe it was time she got a leash for her unruly feline. "Are you done yet? Satisfied with yourself?" It didn't matter to her that she had to crane her head back to even try to meet James' eyes, he was gonna hear her. With a movement much akin to a snake striking Sabra reached forward to sink her wolf lengthened nails into the soft flesh of his manly pride. If he was smart he'd stay still, and if he wasn't (James had been doing a fair job of proving his intellect and the lack there of this morning), well, then he was going to wish he had.

"Cool your fire before I cool it for you."

With the flair for point making that the Kentucky woman possessed she shoved her free hand against his chest, smacking him hard in emphasis to her threatening. "Open your ears up a sec, James Morgan and let me repeat to you," She made a half turn, grip still firm through his jeans to make a polite gesture towards Nate. She sure hoped he could clean the blood of his floor, it sure was a nice one and it'd be a shame if such stupidity from her party ruined it. "I did not sleep with this man nor do I have any intentions to."

Like a mother chastising a rude child she gave him a pinched smile, snorting and trying to dispel the uncomfortable sensation of her senses sharpening, the roiling in her gut as the wolf tried to shake her bonds off. "I can take a look at your nose if ya want? If...you're not pressin' charges that is." A pretty smile and a soft accent would hopefully be enough to persuade him to not to involve the fuzz.

[♥ Nathan ♥]

There is a lick of satisfaction that runs through from Nathan’s wolf to his consciousness as Sabra handles her problem, clawing at the other man and forcing him to yield. She’d already won his approval, after all, and the animal is always pleased to see fire and fight in the partners it had found interesting – even when he hasn’t bedded them. James, though, twists that approval around into ego, into a level of dominance that has the threat of violence snapping at its heels.

”I’ll ruin more than your fucking shirt if you think you can talk to me that way—“ –and Nathan can’t remember the last time he felt so incensed. There is a violation, here, an invasion of his territory that has the wolf bristling more than usual; its stoic silence for the past days has been abandoned in one wild instant, bathed in crimson. It is with a practiced amount of restraint that the man can calm himself at all, fueled as he is by the blood pounding in his ears and the feel of it drying on his face, the taste of it on his tongue. What possesses him in retaliation is a cool and dangerous calm, a low anger that speaks of the wolf’s vehemence and the man’s dark intent.

With the situation more within his grasp – without the shock flowing through him that his life might actually be in danger – Nate rises with the boldness that injection of adrenaline gives him, his jaw set firm and his posture confident. He wants to ask this man who he dares to think he is, doesn’t he know who Nate is, but Sabra’s interjection at last clarifies, and suddenly the circumstances snap into place. This is Boston, not Vegas, and Nathan is no one: just a stranger who didn’t even sleep with some asshole’s girlfriend, and James has no idea the mess he could have made for himself. It is a point of pride with the werewolf that he knows when to let things go – and where he could easily have the tiger prosecuted, he is arrogant enough to believe he can handle this himself.

”Listen to your girlfriend,” he spits bitterly, waving a hand at the pair of them. ”I didn’t fuck her. Hell, you’d know if I did.” There are many things Nate could say to begin the process of smoothing this situation over, and a thousand more that would make it worse. Nate, in his righteous anger and still fuming inwardly from the broken nose he is pointedly avoiding thinking about, picks the latter. ”—She wouldn’t have gone crawling back to your sorry ass, that’s for sure.” He speaks with an air of matter-of-fact certainty, a nonchalance that makes the statement all the more grating.

A roll of his shoulders is all it takes for the little tension that the werewolf still harbors to dissipate – and though his senses are still locked upon James, still wary, he shows none of it as he crosses the room to the kitchen. ”I’m not pressing charges.” Nathan is brazenly playing the part of the bigger man. It’s only after he’s washed the blood from his hands and mouth that the werewolf even bothers looking at them, as though they have already been dealt with and dismissed, and are no longer worth is time. ”And I don’t think your boyfriend would like it if you put your hands on me again.” His smile is tight, and his eyes flicker between them. ”Probably best if I don’t tempt you.”

Nathan turns from where he watches them, and does not bother to meet either Sabra or James’ eyes when he speaks again – and his voice carries the weight of a wolf-wrought command. ”Get out.”

[James Morgan]

He doesn’t reply to Nathan’s threat, instead just snarls back at him with all of his rage present on his face.

Of all the things that James refuses to tolerate today, it’s Sabra trying to abuse him any more than Nathan already has. He flinches at first when he feels her nails digging into him, and practically bares his teeth at her when she shoves him. He doesn’t heed her words, doesn’t pay attention to them and hardly recognizes what they are. Instead he lowers one hand to her wrist, regardless of whether she’d squeeze her nails in, to forcibly remove her hand away from him, hold her wrist in the air for just a moment, if anything just to drive the don’t fucking touch me point home, before letting go. “Sabra Kross— Don’t fucking start with me.” No, he’s had enough. There’s a fire lit in his chest, solidified now by Sabra’s behavior, regardless of whether he’d basically asked for it or not. He doesn’t want her touching him. He doesn’t want to touch her. He doesn’t want to so much as look at her, or the other werewolf, and for that reason, his stare stays somewhere past Nathan’s shoulder. Because he cannot, and will not, look either of them in the eyes. James has never thought himself a man controlled by his animal, but he can feel the impatience and the impulse rising up, swallows it down and keeps himself glued in his current position. “Go fuck yourself.” He snaps it out before he can think enough to stop himself, anger controlling him with shaking hands.

But things seem to change at Nathan’s next words, stabbing James somewhere in his chest and rolling his emotions from furious to sad in some way. His expression changes to just that, taking a glance at Sabra. And it somehow begins to only confirm his initial suspicions in the way that she speaks so kindly to him. James knows when he is defeated, and knows when to stop fighting. He accepts it wordlessly. Their words fly over his head and now he can only see Nate turn his back. Fighting every urge to take that opportunity and punch him in the back of the head, James turns just as Nathan tells them to get out. Because he won’t stand here, won’t stay to hear any more words exchanged, won’t stay to listen to Sabra talk sweetly to him and won’t stay to listen to Nathan’s finalizing words. He uses his forearm to brush across his face, smear the blood across his arm before it has the opportunity to harden and dry on his face, and starts walking forward. He pauses for a moment, only half turning his head towards Sabra. “Then I guess you can stay.” He spits the words out at her with disgust laced in his tone. The door is still open from James’ initial charge in, and with his hand resting momentarily on the door frame for that one pause, he lifts it and moves on his way to leave the apartment building. “I’m done. I’m out. Have fun, you two.” And then he’s out, walking away from the both of them, with thoughts of home and his daughter on his mind.

Because he has more important things he could be doing, right? More important things than waiting around for Sabra, more important things than to listen to any more conversation unfold. Because he is done in every way possible with this entire situation. His boots hit the pavement again and, ignoring the surprised looks of others on the street at the bloodied giant of a man. If Sabra is following him, James isn’t going to notice. Instead, furious green eyes lock onto his car, and with little patience he throws the door open at the end of his approach, leaving blood smears on the handle. Key in the ignition, the car rumbles on and he’s putting it into drive, leaving the area as fast as possible without his girlfriend in the passenger seat. He doesn’t think of later, doesn’t think of the aftermath of his actions or what may happen to her, or to them. Does not think of how she’s going to get home to him. And without so much as tapping the brakes in second thought, he continues on.

Going, going, gone.

[Sabra]

Sabra watches the man warily, waiting for his decision. This wasn't the backwoods of her home where things could be settled between one another, no one wanted the police back there, and the police didn't especially want to be stuck in the middle of an argument with shot gun wielding rednecks. No, this was the middle of goddamned Boston and Nate could likely take James for a hell of a spin through the legal system if he so wished it. It wasn't as if he had the money to hire a lawyer and there probably wasn't a judge in the country that wouldn't take one look at her (normally) gentle giant and slam the gavel down as guilty.

Not that her opinion of America's judicial process was the best anyhow, a matter of mistrust instilled at birth by her father, and only reinforced when her brother was landed in the slammer for defending himself. A crooked ass judge with a vendetta against her daddy, condemning the son for what he couldn't get Samuel for.

She's glad when he flinches, can't help but baring a few white teeth in response, but the beast's satisfaction is short lived when he grips her wrist, pulls her away from him with a snarl directed towards Nathan. "Damnit, let me go, James!" The space put between her and the tiger shifter is intentional, now closer to her fellow wolf, and the wicked words that pour from his lips, make her unsure of just who her enemy should be. Sabra presses nails into the palms of her hands, gritting her teeth in an effort to not spit fire back in pretty boy's face, or worse, finish the job James already started and make sure those good looks and cocky attitude were wrecked for a long while to come.

Caught between the two men Sabra can only watch as he turns his back on them both, the blood that drips from his nose and arm, hitting the cement steps. A cold sliver of something travels down her spine at his words, in a tone, that until now, she scarcely could have imagined coming from her tiger's mouth. She had anticipated just about anything but that, leaving wasn't his style, simply quitting like that.

Before she can even think of anything to say he is turning the keys to his truck, disappearing back down the crowded Boston streets and leaving Sabra with an abject feeling of wrongness. Suddenly, she had no reason to be standing, hair wild, the beast wilder, on some man's front steps, his home open and the air reeking of the iron stench of blood and an overload of testosterone. More than enough to poison the brain, that was for sure. "You're temptin' me to make sure your dick doesn't ever rise to see another mornin'." She calls from outside, head peeked around the doorway briefly. It is easier to lash out than crumble, easier still to blame Nate with his cheap talk.

Degradation rode heavy on her shoulders and with the wolf flickering in her eyes she steps back to grab the door knob, wrench it shut with a resounding slam that echoes better than anything the rage churning in her gut. It crosses her mind to slam her fist in the door, but Sabra thought herself better than that at least. She was a woman, not some bone to be chewed over, not someone to be grabbed, or a stray dog to be collared.

"Have a good day."

In a furious motion she brushes her hands down her arms where James had touched her, slips down the stairs to begin the long walk home, acutely aware of every eye on her.

Of course, what the curse was never able to achieve in making her feel less than human, two men could do within the span of a few minutes.