Choices

[Oriena]

It took a while, but realisation finally seemed to dawn. Giovanni's expression shifted, or maybe just hardened. He reclaimed the cold confidence of before, clouded this time by the oppressive menace of the betrayed. It was an appropriate time to feel fear, but all she actually experienced was the keen blade of risk. And it thrilled her, the added dimension; enough that she watched unresisting as he made the call on his Wallet. Her chin sunk onto her closed fist, still nursing the glass in her other palm. The smile on her lips was treacherous. Minimal effort could have knocked the device from his grasp. Or wrapped his throat until the words choked. She did nothing.

Ori had no prints at the scene. Real concern at his actions was fleeting, but she appreciated the retaliation for its ruthlessness. The game enlivened her - an effortless win robbed the sweetness of victory - which was perhaps why she chose not to interfere. Giovanni thought he shucked her chains when he removed her leverage, and she didn't disabuse him. She even answered his question. "Divine."
No hesitation marred the reply, but the honesty was steeped in misdirection. A playful smile, dark-rimmed lashes shielding a glimpse into chaos. She meant both - as a woman in control of her own sensuality, and as one of the gifted. He could read either from her answer and he would not be wrong.

His contempt was the only thing that scratched a little irritation into her fun. Why was he so bothered? She used his own weakness against him because he offered out his neck, a blind sacrifice, and a willing one on every visceral level. Lack of control was his own fault. She thought his threat entirely unwarranted, but her reaction hung in a balance. Friend or foe, it was a minuscule distinction. Giovanni still toed the wire. "Though you're a very poor disciple."


She had more to add, but was interrupted by an arm curled around her shoulders.

If Ori was annoyed at the intrusion it only flashed briefly in her eyes before they turned to assess the stranger. A leather-clad shoulder. A young face. Dark hair. She had no idea what had brought him over, but the possession of that draped, uninvited arm rankled. She belonged to no-one. Other circumstances might have provoked retaliation to the obnoxious overture, but, of course, the game being what it was, her sly gaze returned instead to Giovanni. If he took the opportunity to walk away, he would be an abject disappointment. "What makes you think so?"