She can feel the reins pulling her back as if she'd tried to buck her rider, but she fights the pull. Hunches her shoulders forward, leans as far as she dares and even squeezes the table between them with her free hand. She has to do this so she can stare at Machia. 

She has to stare because she can't speak. Or rather she won't speak. Not another word through this stupid, garbling piece of (really hot) garbage. (Shut up, shut up, you are not helping) Not another word so long as the place they're sitting is inside of an arena. If there's a contest to be won (for my sake, for her sake...) then there's nothing she can say with words. So she says it with her eyes instead.

Her amber eyes are burning like molten pools of gems inside of a furnace. Liquid, shimmering, fierce. (Go to hell, Machia) She leans in closer. (Get over yourself, Machia) So close that her bit could touch those lips if she could just strain hard enough to close that final gap. (Look at me, Machia. Look at [i]me.[/i] See [i]me.[/i]) Her eyes shimmer, flicker, endlessly deep and endlessly mesmerizing, haunted and watching and... no, not angry. Not if you can tell the difference. She is once again feeling competitive.

(I am going to bury you).

Madeleine releases the table and allows herself to be pulled back, all the way back into her chair. She sits herself down again with as much decorum as she can muster. She cannot tell if it is a lot, or none at all. It occurs to her that this all might have been easier if she'd simply submitted, if she'd bowed her head and let herself become a beast. She'd been tempted, several times. The image kept twisting through her with its unseen claws: the cup on the table and Madeleine on her knees. She could push her tongue out underneath her bridle and lap at pitch black salvation like the Pet the table reservation called her. 

It would be simple. Without risk, so long as she paid attention. It was the fastest way to win.

Unless she did this.

Yes, Machia, this is about to get weird. She glances down at what's left of her coffee and brings it close to her face. The wonderful thing about a drink like this is that when you don't pull its temperature down with cream (like some sort of coward) it remains [i]delightfully[/i] hot for quite some minutes. Even this extended struggle has barely dipped it below serving temp at all. Oh yes, this would quickly become quite unpleasant. Madeleine grins at Machia, as much as she is able, and then she sets her expression to one of detached composure. 

She brings the cup to her lips. 

She pours it, carefully, into her mouth.

She does not swallow. She [i]cannot[/i] swallow. Neither can she completely close her lips. Rich, hot darkness, bitter and bottomless and endlessly complex and nutty dances across her tongue. The heat builds up in her cheeks and still all she does is hold it there. She tilts the cup toward Machia and even runs her fingertip through the center to show that there is nothing left.

But the contest has not ended. It cannot, until this delight slides down her throat. And she cannot compel it to do so without losing half of it. She holds it in her mouth, head stubbornly tilted up to keep from losing.

And, like this, this ridiculous creature, this equine shadow woman slides down from her chair. Her posture is not that of a beast, whatever she may be wearing. She is regal and careful as she bends on one knee. Not a princess as she'd been called earlier this evening, but now a knight. She picks up her sword (fork). She cuts a delicate slash through Machia's cake and steadies the bite.

She rises and lifts the reward toward her trainer's lips. This is how the battle is to be. And if she can win... if she can win!

Well, if she can win, maybe there won't be that much to say.