Stand face to face with your god
She has grown tired of her own game.
And she is grateful that she has loosed her grip on the damsel’s facade.
There is nothing here but the dragon. In her flared nostrils and narrowed eyes. In the sinister something that snakes its way down the length of her spine.
She has no taste for blood -- his or anyone else’s -- but she can still taste it in the corner of her mouth. Blood and water and something else, too. Something she does not know to identify. But she does not answer when he asks if she wonders about the taste of his throat. She is a hunter, a Pretty Thing with teeth, but it is not the flesh she’s after.
She exhales sharply but does not speak. She merely watches as he exposes his throat to her, confesses that he likes her (though she does not know what this means and does not know if she should wonder) and that he has taken offense to her lack of want to harm him.
“There are so many other ways to hurt one another,” she tells him, blinking slowly, “and when there is a whole universe of possibilities it makes blood seem rather boring.”
How easy it would be to sink her teeth into the meat of his throat, but she does not. She doesn’t feel even a glimmer of want to do so.
“It’s not the blood I’m after, it’s the soul.”
@[crowns]