02-05-2014, 07:02 PM
He was offended.
She didn’t quite realise it until the look on his face when she pushed him away. Poor little rich boy receiving some of his own medicine? And not liking the taste, apparently. Pure vitriol blanked the lines of his face. Without the armour of her gift, she might have had cause to fear the casual violence promised in the dark of his eyes. But when he chucked the cloth, it was with childish spite. Because she poked a few jabs at his ignorance? Because she didn’t swoon under his attentions? It was probably inappropriate, but she laughed; not, this time, out of abject cruelty, but in amused surprise that he was so god damn sensitive. Whatever type of woman he was used to, whatever type of woman he was judging her against, his expectations continued to fall short. She’d offered no pretence as to her nature; he’d known full well what manner of creature he invited into his bed.
“Precious little flower. Did I bruise your ego?”
She hadn’t imagined it’d be so easy to hook frustration under his skin, and a measure of satisfaction released the grip of her claws. She purred the words. He was delicious to play with, but she wasn’t in it for the kill, just the game. Once mollified, she’d lick the wounds she inflicted, unapologetic – knowing full well she’d only rip them open again later. She touched where his fingers had knifed her side like a vice, and smirked at the tenderness. “It only makes us even.”
The towel was thoughtful enough, if venomously meant. The insult left her unfazed. Given the circumstances, she wasn’t in a sentimental mood. Growing up in the shit-hole streets of Moscow, she’d suffered worse backlashes of disregard. She slipped down from the counter, left it obscenely beside her empty coffee cup. Oriena was poison, and he’d do better to kick her out the door rather than spar words with her. But she had no intention of withholding information from him, if he asked for it; had no reason to. She understood the currency of knowledge, and knew that sometimes there was value to offering it freely. She might be a relentless tease, but she very rarely fell short of actually delivering – though she might insist on a little effort or exact a little recompense.
His lack of faith in her integrity was insulting, blocking the door like he thought his physical presence would be enough to stop her leaving if she chose too. She indulged the attempt at intimidation, insofar as she did not grasp at a defence. Or an offence. The temptation shivered under her skin, though, to test herself against him. For all she knew, he already burned with the power and she was oblivious to whatever trouble she walked into with every step closer. She almost hoped he was crazy enough to try.
“Think I’m going to run?”
Her hands snaked up his shoulders, brushed his neck, ignorant of the shield his arms made across his chest. Casually possessive. You think you could stop me? She touched him because she thought he might detest the intimacy after the crass disregard they showed each other, because his skin might still hum with sensitivity, because she enjoyed fucking with him. But it was only an intrusive second before she withdrew, running a finger along the line of his jaw. “There’s no need to pout. You didn’t exactly give me the opportunity to explain.”
Wickedness lit her gaze, but she didn't smile.
She stepped back, folding her own arms, turning her back to pace. Bluntness marked her words. She didn’t colour them anything pretty. “People like us, we have enemies. They hunt us like fucking dogs.”
She remembered Cara; the tense paranoia, the hollow-eyed caution. And she remembered the brittle crunch of fingers, the acrid stench of burned flesh. It tightened impotent rage in her gut until she felt sick. Worse was the memory of running. Of real, gut-wrenching fear. The day she discovered she was not invincible. The day she discovered the gift of power was not always there. She turned, drew a nail against her wrist. “They mark themselves with snakes, and you’d better fucking hope they haven’t found a reason to watch you.”
Cold disgust cut sharp on her tongue, for once not aimed at him. She stamped it down, though it froze tension in her shoulders. “Whoever taught you enough not to kill yourself did a shit job of filling in the other details huh.”
Or you were a shit student. A grim smirk forced out the hard line of her mouth, followed by a shrug.
She didn’t quite realise it until the look on his face when she pushed him away. Poor little rich boy receiving some of his own medicine? And not liking the taste, apparently. Pure vitriol blanked the lines of his face. Without the armour of her gift, she might have had cause to fear the casual violence promised in the dark of his eyes. But when he chucked the cloth, it was with childish spite. Because she poked a few jabs at his ignorance? Because she didn’t swoon under his attentions? It was probably inappropriate, but she laughed; not, this time, out of abject cruelty, but in amused surprise that he was so god damn sensitive. Whatever type of woman he was used to, whatever type of woman he was judging her against, his expectations continued to fall short. She’d offered no pretence as to her nature; he’d known full well what manner of creature he invited into his bed.
“Precious little flower. Did I bruise your ego?”
She hadn’t imagined it’d be so easy to hook frustration under his skin, and a measure of satisfaction released the grip of her claws. She purred the words. He was delicious to play with, but she wasn’t in it for the kill, just the game. Once mollified, she’d lick the wounds she inflicted, unapologetic – knowing full well she’d only rip them open again later. She touched where his fingers had knifed her side like a vice, and smirked at the tenderness. “It only makes us even.”
The towel was thoughtful enough, if venomously meant. The insult left her unfazed. Given the circumstances, she wasn’t in a sentimental mood. Growing up in the shit-hole streets of Moscow, she’d suffered worse backlashes of disregard. She slipped down from the counter, left it obscenely beside her empty coffee cup. Oriena was poison, and he’d do better to kick her out the door rather than spar words with her. But she had no intention of withholding information from him, if he asked for it; had no reason to. She understood the currency of knowledge, and knew that sometimes there was value to offering it freely. She might be a relentless tease, but she very rarely fell short of actually delivering – though she might insist on a little effort or exact a little recompense.
His lack of faith in her integrity was insulting, blocking the door like he thought his physical presence would be enough to stop her leaving if she chose too. She indulged the attempt at intimidation, insofar as she did not grasp at a defence. Or an offence. The temptation shivered under her skin, though, to test herself against him. For all she knew, he already burned with the power and she was oblivious to whatever trouble she walked into with every step closer. She almost hoped he was crazy enough to try.
“Think I’m going to run?”
Her hands snaked up his shoulders, brushed his neck, ignorant of the shield his arms made across his chest. Casually possessive. You think you could stop me? She touched him because she thought he might detest the intimacy after the crass disregard they showed each other, because his skin might still hum with sensitivity, because she enjoyed fucking with him. But it was only an intrusive second before she withdrew, running a finger along the line of his jaw. “There’s no need to pout. You didn’t exactly give me the opportunity to explain.”
Wickedness lit her gaze, but she didn't smile.
She stepped back, folding her own arms, turning her back to pace. Bluntness marked her words. She didn’t colour them anything pretty. “People like us, we have enemies. They hunt us like fucking dogs.”
She remembered Cara; the tense paranoia, the hollow-eyed caution. And she remembered the brittle crunch of fingers, the acrid stench of burned flesh. It tightened impotent rage in her gut until she felt sick. Worse was the memory of running. Of real, gut-wrenching fear. The day she discovered she was not invincible. The day she discovered the gift of power was not always there. She turned, drew a nail against her wrist. “They mark themselves with snakes, and you’d better fucking hope they haven’t found a reason to watch you.”
Cold disgust cut sharp on her tongue, for once not aimed at him. She stamped it down, though it froze tension in her shoulders. “Whoever taught you enough not to kill yourself did a shit job of filling in the other details huh.”
Or you were a shit student. A grim smirk forced out the hard line of her mouth, followed by a shrug.
![[Image: orianderis.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/orianderis.jpg)