A ferocity in her eyes and blood-lust in her heart. A thirst for violence only satisfied for the sake of nurturing, occasionally unleashed for the sake of order, niggling at the soul, and never completely quenched, because where would it end? When the claws came out and the teeth were bared, when would the blood cease to flow?
Power. In the shoulders, working down the spine and the sway of the hips, with a growl and a purr threatening to erupt. The need to pounce, to prove a point. Take them down, hold your place, save for one.
The King of the Pride, the sole reason for your kill, the excuse for your violence. Ruling over your rolling, adoring purr. The barrier, keeping the claws in check with those of his own. Test the walls with growls of your own, push the buttons, look for weakness. That despicable weakness, when self-restraint will fail and you choke down bile before you attack. When you tear at flesh, sink your teeth into the throat, claw and pin and fight. Taste the blood and bathe in the spray, praying on misunderstood weakness. Praying for the overthrow, praying on the King of the Pride to prove his point. To prove his place.
And When You're There... 
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