The drawl forces a chuckle from Baptiste's chest. Even as a hand grabs at his hair and steadily pulls his head back. His heart hammers in his chest, feeling the exposure of his neck to the air between them. Baptiste shudders. The heel of a sandaled foot digs into the ground for purchase.

"Oh, mon cher," Baptiste's voice is smooth, low as if to compliment the tone the werewolf had used with him, "No one will ever hear me say that."

Straight-forward. Spoken as if Baptiste had told Chika one of the universal truths: The grass is green. The sky is blue. Baptiste LaFontaine will never say he gives up. Has he given up before? Of course! His defeats are seen in action and concessions - but never so bluntly stated.

Blue eyes stare up at the werewolf with a playful defiance. The ache in his thigh continues to grow and the pull of his hair causes a bowed tension in his back. The sensation causes a soft groan to escape his lips. The draped cloth of his short toga has mostly pooled to join with the dirt and oil on the ground. The little that remains stubbornly clings over his hips and abdomen.