[i]“Tsk-tsk-tsk.”[/i]

Each curl of his tongue, the front base of it pressing smoothly against the roof of his mouth like a promise of more, caused her to sink further and further into herself. She didn’t feel like herself, but standing before him now when so much of the world didn’t make sense left her ego with a gaping wound. More than disapproval, the sound of his tongue clicking seemed to imply that he was trying to spit out the taste of disappointment. And surely she was that if nothing else -- a massive disappointment. Hadn’t he loved her, once upon a time, because of her fierceness, her spirit, and her relentlessness, but what aspects of those virtues remained now? He called and she came, like a well-trained dog.

[i]“Do not cry, lovely one.”[/i]

He had his hands on her. While she sank and drowned in a sea of black failure and the bitter taste of it, he had freed his hands from their metal gauntlets. The weight of his hold upon her shoulders felt like the violent weight of hands shoving her head underwater, keeping her below the surface until the bubbles stopped. And surely that was his intent, to show her, in the most subtle way possible, how capable he was of ending her existence. But she did listen -- she dried the well of tears that had sprung from her eyes, and forced the emotion down her throat via a difficult and painful swallow. 

Hot fingers threaded through her hair, which was mostly trapped in the intricate loops of her braid, but he still managed to catch those wayward strands, combing them free so that her dark hair floated and danced around her head. However, it wasn’t enough to simply dishevel her hair. The wide expanse of his palm cradled the back of her head while the other hand circled around to hold her under the chin. She had been avoiding his eyes, especially at so close a distance, but he was having none of it. 

Pulled in and tilted upward, her face was exposed to all of the silvery moonlight that managed to break through the bleak night. What she had tried so hard to hide under the cover of her hood’s shadow, was revealed then and there. Her pretty face was tilted up to his, and her golden eyes stared right back into those bloodied-crimson orbs of his. 

It could have been something sweet. There was some rhyme behind it initially -- his lips touching hers, and the fingers in his hands curling into claws to cause her head to tilt into his mouth fully. There could have been romance then, a sweet and hungry need. But it came and went like the gentle breeze that had pushed her with gentle lies to come upon her fate rather than running from it. And now she was trapped.

The kiss turned into a savage sort of claiming that pulled the breath out of her lungs and straight into his. Her hands were wrapped around his wrists, one before her -- where she was held by the chin, and the other reaching behind, trying to unclasp his grip from the back of her scalp. And all the while his mouth crushed her own, and his tongue penetrated past her lips with desperate need. The hunger seemed predatory in nature, especially as he tightened his hold around her head and pulled her aside, causing her entire body to pivot on the balls of her feet or risk tripping and falling to dangle by her slender throat. She moved with him of course, moved until she was turned away from the curiously peering eyes. And gone was the moonlight and the shape of her face, hidden under a dense mass of shadow cast by him. 

And then, with smoke and spice, there is the unmistakable sharpness of taste -- of burnt sugar and of concentrated citrus. It’s a splash of a taste, like a brushstroke of cherry red against a canvas of white, and she feels the flavor of his blood in other parts of her body, in more intimate places.

His blood was her favorite.

[i]“What have I done?”[/i] he asks, and her eyes barely flutter open.

She watches the way he sweeps his tongue along the bottom his bottom lip, painting it with his blood.

[i]“You’re the one that cut me,”[/i] he smiles -- she does not, her head is still locked within tight constraints of his hands. 

Perhaps he notices her discomfort, or perhaps he had his fill of her mouth -- for whatever reason, he lets her go and sets her back down. Free of his hold, she almost immediately takes a step back, but her retreat is stopped by a heavy hand on her shoulder. 

[i]“How are you?” [/i]he asks, but she knows he doesn’t want an answer -- he’s distracted with smoothing out her heavy cloak over her small shoulders.

[i]“Mmm, you’ve led me on a bit of a chase. Even I don’t know where we are, or how to get home. You must have been very afraid indeed if the Threshold City sent you here.” [/i]

Tension crept upon his handsome face and she grimaced under the weight of his hand squeezing her shoulder. 

[i]“I take a very dim view of mothers abandoning their families, Gabriela.”[/i]

The tension is near palpable and she fears, if she takes a breath, she might choke on it. But she holds her ground, as much as possible, standing under the pressure of his squeeze and with her golden eyes set on his crimson ones. He breaks first and glances over his shoulder -- clearly distracted by their audience, which has grown now by one more -- a woman in a military-type suit. 

[i]“Another tavern, another pair of friends…”[/i] he softens but she does not. 

“I don’t have friends,” she speaks up, seeking to draw his eyes back -- along with his attention. “I also do not have a family -- my children died on Orisia, my children are dead and gone, as I should be.” 

There were fingers on her throat, a touch against her cheek with the back of his hand, “...don’t be scared,” he urges, but she isn’t scared -- she’s angry. 

“I forgot something inside,” she manages to pull away, to escape before his fingers curl and grip, just out of reach -- just beyond capture. “I’ll run in to get it, then we can go back [i]home[/i].”

Home…

She glances at him over her shoulder, just a fleeting thing -- they both know she’s not coming back, and then she lips through the tavern doors. 

Inside, into the swirling smoky room, the dense perfume of alcohol, and the waves of voices, laughter, and singing. Inside, she goes, and this time she does not take in the aspect of the room with curiosity. She doesn’t care who she sees or who turns to look back. She goes on her way, forward and out, toward the double doors behind the bar -- the kitchen perhaps? 

A back exit for sure.