Draco is almost distracted enough by Desire's touch that her words fall on deaf ears. Almost. But they don't, and he wonders what part of himself is brooding and not just entirely dark. It strikes him, suddenly, that others perceive him (so differently than how he perceives himself), and he can't reconcile those two views.
I'm not brooding, he thinks, nearly frowning. But he certainly is, especially to those that can't climb inside his mind, or those that know nothing of his wrath.
If the demon were to know that Desire can see the wrong way he loves his sister, he might scorn her, or chase her from Pangea, nippping her hard enough to draw blood and leave scars. Only Ghaul knows that their children our their own, and not ones adopted from random one night stands, and Draco intends to keep it that way. To him, it only makes sense that they would keep their bloodline to themselves, but most of the world will see it entirely otherwise - and he knows it to be wrong, deep down, when he isn't convincing himself that this is the only way their world can be.
"What girls, Desire?" the demon whispers, lifting his head to peer down at her. The ghost of a smile barely lifts his lips, but it turns his expression into something dangerous, crimson eyes not glowing but glittering with something almost sweet.
"I only give attention to those that deserve it and . . . that is very few." This is arrogant, and he almost knows that, but it's nearly impossible for him to hold his tongue when he falls into charm.
Suddenly, Draco steps back, lengthening the space between them, and laughs. The tension he had desired to create dissipates.
"Tell me about my heart, then, Desire. What do you think is there?" he says, flirtatious now. Then he adds, almost as an afterthought, brow furrowing with something suggestive, "And then I can tell you all the reasons you're special."
@[Desire]
