Her head jerks backward, immediately— though she doesn't move away, otherwise, the juxtaposition of expecting a threat and knowing, implicitly, that there isn't one. The need to examine it more closely, anyway, just in case. Gwenaëlle is always fussed about being misinterpreted — about people ascribing her secret motives she doesn't have, expecting complexity when she feels she's being very straightforward, actually, thank you — and it is, equally, her instinct in turn. To suspect. To presume. To question the face value, because it's never been trustworthy.

It isn't as if she doesn't understand why people question her.

Her good eye trained on him, she lowers her head back down to her paws, tipped a little to the side, deciding — visibly, clearly — that that was allowed, and she'll tolerate it.

Somehow, even as a wolf, she manages to convey the idea that this is a favour she does him. A grand little thing, on her lonely throne.