Sorry, Rosa; Peter had a healthy respect for predators, but he wasn't going to be uncomfortable when faced with one. He was still top of the food chain.

Instead, he was closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, then firmly shoving the memories of Hell back down and picking up his paintbrush to paint vines crawling up a wall from a home he'd lived in for a few years in France. The tendrils went like this, and the shadows like that.

Sorry, Rosa. He was painting flowers.