Sasha shoved her off, and if it had been to pin her down she wouldn’t have minded. But the mood changed, and as she fell back braced on her hands, catching her breath, her expression darkened. Danger or not, it wasn’t the action that riled her, it was that he ignored her afterwards – fire in his hands, tense for a threat he couldn’t see. And neither could she.
She had some guesses though.
The night the refugees fled the tunnels for the church there’d been a storm. In the morning everyone had been whispering about the omen of a skull in the clouds, its cavernous eyes electrified with every flash of lightning. She hadn't seen it but Zeke held all her Almaz debt, and Ori had some investment in digging out his secrets, so she’d point blank asked him about it. Satisfaction lit his own eyes for the accusation. Between puffs on his joint he’d only giggled. But the sly look said everything. It wasn’t the only time people had remarked on the weather around the church – it seemed to have been the last place in Moscow to clutch the final tendrils of summer, long after the cold claimed everywhere else. Blessed, that's what the rumours said.
Ori stood, lifting her face to the stinging rain. She had no idea if her nose was still bleeding – she couldn’t tell, the entirety of her was soaked through, hair plastered, leathers cold and heavy, her tank a second skin. She opened her mouth to wash the blood from her tongue. Every lash hurt, and it only wound her tighter.
“Zeke!” she yelled. The shrieks of surprise and dismay in the shadows around them had long faded as those who shared the night fled for the safety and shelter of the church. She had no real idea if he was out there, or if he could just rummage around in the heavens from the enthronement of his comfortable cushions. She didn’t care. “You’re a cunt!”
Sasha had crumpled, as washed out and useless as the now dead fire. Which she supposed had been the thing to rouse Zeke’s interference if someone went running scared about the towering inferno. She glanced down at him, still irritated with how quickly he forgot her; how quickly he went from blazing her pulse to looking so pathetic.
Her fingers laced through his sodden curls, lifting his face to her, and the gentleness of the gesture might have almost been affection but for the disdain in the shadows of her expression.
“Sweetheart,” she said, intentionally scathing. “You aren’t going to make anyone pay from your fucking knees.”
Her chest was still heaving; partly because it was fucking freezing, and partly because the heat between her legs was still begging her to do something about it. But a man on his knees held no interest for her unless she put him there. She pushed his head from her hand in dismissal.
Oriena didn’t give second chances. You had to wrest them from her. She didn’t tell Sasha to get the fuck up, but the challenge of it was there in the heated contempt of the look she gave him. It was as much of an invitation as he'd ever get, but since no one ever really dared she wasn’t going to wait for him to wilt back into the shadows from which she’d dragged him instead. So she began to walk away.
She had some guesses though.
The night the refugees fled the tunnels for the church there’d been a storm. In the morning everyone had been whispering about the omen of a skull in the clouds, its cavernous eyes electrified with every flash of lightning. She hadn't seen it but Zeke held all her Almaz debt, and Ori had some investment in digging out his secrets, so she’d point blank asked him about it. Satisfaction lit his own eyes for the accusation. Between puffs on his joint he’d only giggled. But the sly look said everything. It wasn’t the only time people had remarked on the weather around the church – it seemed to have been the last place in Moscow to clutch the final tendrils of summer, long after the cold claimed everywhere else. Blessed, that's what the rumours said.
Ori stood, lifting her face to the stinging rain. She had no idea if her nose was still bleeding – she couldn’t tell, the entirety of her was soaked through, hair plastered, leathers cold and heavy, her tank a second skin. She opened her mouth to wash the blood from her tongue. Every lash hurt, and it only wound her tighter.
“Zeke!” she yelled. The shrieks of surprise and dismay in the shadows around them had long faded as those who shared the night fled for the safety and shelter of the church. She had no real idea if he was out there, or if he could just rummage around in the heavens from the enthronement of his comfortable cushions. She didn’t care. “You’re a cunt!”
Sasha had crumpled, as washed out and useless as the now dead fire. Which she supposed had been the thing to rouse Zeke’s interference if someone went running scared about the towering inferno. She glanced down at him, still irritated with how quickly he forgot her; how quickly he went from blazing her pulse to looking so pathetic.
Her fingers laced through his sodden curls, lifting his face to her, and the gentleness of the gesture might have almost been affection but for the disdain in the shadows of her expression.
“Sweetheart,” she said, intentionally scathing. “You aren’t going to make anyone pay from your fucking knees.”
Her chest was still heaving; partly because it was fucking freezing, and partly because the heat between her legs was still begging her to do something about it. But a man on his knees held no interest for her unless she put him there. She pushed his head from her hand in dismissal.
Oriena didn’t give second chances. You had to wrest them from her. She didn’t tell Sasha to get the fuck up, but the challenge of it was there in the heated contempt of the look she gave him. It was as much of an invitation as he'd ever get, but since no one ever really dared she wasn’t going to wait for him to wilt back into the shadows from which she’d dragged him instead. So she began to walk away.
![[Image: orianderis.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/orianderis.jpg)