It's a hollow threat, but the way Pheres is staring at you, eyebrows down and disapproving like you're a barkbeast that just shit the bed forces you to calm down. That, and the way he's holding your hands hurts. Your clawtips are basically nubs, constantly worn or broken off through frequent use, but his are long, pointy strips of polished lacquer that he keeps filed sharp, and they're digging right into your flesh, tip-first.

You huff through your nose, trying to pull away, but his grasp is firm. "Sorry," you acquiesce. Marduk's lusus pushes past you, and you shift, but pay it no mind. "No hitting. I'm a stupid bulgemunch. Sorry."

He does look fine, and that's a relief. Riccin wasn't lying: there's no bruises on his face, save for the slight darkness where your hand struck, and his clothes are sopor-green and damp, like he slept in them, but it doesn't look like he was rough-handled at all.

The ball of tension in your chest unwinds, a little.

"I'm still going to tie you to the fucking truck if you ever do this again, though." Pheres is alright, and now that you know that - you can see it - exhaustion is starting to set in. You are so tired. You drove all through the day, and you fought a fucking zombie, and all you want to do is go to bed.