09-04-2013, 06:01 PM
“If it were a secret, Jon, I can assure you: you wouldn’t know about it.”
No threat there, just a hint of amusement. Her investments ran far deeper than Kallisti, and secrecy had been inured to her blood from a young age; a skill hardened and sharpened as she grew older. So many necessities of survival seemed dependant on the censure of information, and the wrong secret betrayed had all the potency of mortally spilled blood. Worth protecting. Also worth cultivating; Kallisti itself was testament to that.
But there were secrets and then there were secrets. Oriena’s identity was inconsequential, really – a tool of amusement she refined against the unwary because she found the anonymity entertaining. Offer a better game and she did not dwell on an old toy, and right now Ori appreciated the tartness of Jon’s banter. If she was disappointed he had proved not to be a blusher, then she was at least pleased to discover he had a sense of humour. Well, she took it for deadpan humour anyway.
Surprisingly, it was Jaxen who diffused the situation – though not without barb. His palm on her knee was warm, and too casually intimate beneath the flare of her heightened senses, though it served the purpose of garnering her attention. Her eyes tugged up to his face, hazed with impulsive and alcohol-fused lust – though it was dissected sharply by a scald of warning. She was not his, and that pat had erred dangerously on possessive condescension. To her misdirection – or at least her negligence in correcting his assumptions about her – she was defiantly unapologetic; not that he seemed fazed. To his smile, a cynical smirk returned.
She was content to let him pour, docile to the jibe but for a quirk of her lips, and faintly entertained by the reversal of roles. The sly look he threw her earned a flash of playful dare, like the swish of a cat’s tail; an invitation, certainly, but not exactly a benign one. She didn’t take the drink immediately, perhaps expecting some catch, and when she did the brush of her fingers against his was not accidental. She laughed. “Not your sweetheart. Sweetheart.”
If her tone held a reproachful edge, it still sparked against his playful undertones with a reciprocal fondness for banter.
Jaxen didn’t prop his feet back up, though for a moment she thought he had been about to, and she smiled at that, utterly gratified with the victory. Afterwards she tuned out a little on the talk of cufflinks, nursing her glass in her lap and making a study of Jon. What had made Jaxen call him over? The mystery was maddening, and she drowned it in a sip of burning cold. Ori hadn’t been drinking vodka either, and it was a poor idea to mix liquor. Not that she had plans to listen to sensible inner-monologue.
“What’s life without taking a few chances?”
One shoulder tipped in half a shrug in answer to Jon's question, and she flickered her gaze to Jaxen.
No threat there, just a hint of amusement. Her investments ran far deeper than Kallisti, and secrecy had been inured to her blood from a young age; a skill hardened and sharpened as she grew older. So many necessities of survival seemed dependant on the censure of information, and the wrong secret betrayed had all the potency of mortally spilled blood. Worth protecting. Also worth cultivating; Kallisti itself was testament to that.
But there were secrets and then there were secrets. Oriena’s identity was inconsequential, really – a tool of amusement she refined against the unwary because she found the anonymity entertaining. Offer a better game and she did not dwell on an old toy, and right now Ori appreciated the tartness of Jon’s banter. If she was disappointed he had proved not to be a blusher, then she was at least pleased to discover he had a sense of humour. Well, she took it for deadpan humour anyway.
Surprisingly, it was Jaxen who diffused the situation – though not without barb. His palm on her knee was warm, and too casually intimate beneath the flare of her heightened senses, though it served the purpose of garnering her attention. Her eyes tugged up to his face, hazed with impulsive and alcohol-fused lust – though it was dissected sharply by a scald of warning. She was not his, and that pat had erred dangerously on possessive condescension. To her misdirection – or at least her negligence in correcting his assumptions about her – she was defiantly unapologetic; not that he seemed fazed. To his smile, a cynical smirk returned.
She was content to let him pour, docile to the jibe but for a quirk of her lips, and faintly entertained by the reversal of roles. The sly look he threw her earned a flash of playful dare, like the swish of a cat’s tail; an invitation, certainly, but not exactly a benign one. She didn’t take the drink immediately, perhaps expecting some catch, and when she did the brush of her fingers against his was not accidental. She laughed. “Not your sweetheart. Sweetheart.”
If her tone held a reproachful edge, it still sparked against his playful undertones with a reciprocal fondness for banter.
Jaxen didn’t prop his feet back up, though for a moment she thought he had been about to, and she smiled at that, utterly gratified with the victory. Afterwards she tuned out a little on the talk of cufflinks, nursing her glass in her lap and making a study of Jon. What had made Jaxen call him over? The mystery was maddening, and she drowned it in a sip of burning cold. Ori hadn’t been drinking vodka either, and it was a poor idea to mix liquor. Not that she had plans to listen to sensible inner-monologue.
“What’s life without taking a few chances?”
One shoulder tipped in half a shrug in answer to Jon's question, and she flickered her gaze to Jaxen.
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