He finds it hard to focus, his burning gaze going in and out as he follows her gaze; he’s wary yet unyielding, which is so unlike his years spent in the darkness. The way he acts with her is muscle memory from their youth, a war-hungry soldier looking for some kind of outlet for all his rage (and his insignificance) when she met him with a purpose, giving him the opportunity for more than he could ever dream of. Things that he hadn’t wanted until she had come along, guided him and directed him, wielded him into the weapon he is now.
Skandar would never forget it.
Perhaps that is why he may never find the strength within him to kill her. It would be easy; he could have done it countless times before now - in the meadow by encasing her in lava, in Pangea where the burning tree would watch his own eyes incinerate the cavity in her chest. He could do it now, with a subtle blink of his eye, splice her in two or become those monsters that she had been so eager to sacrifice him to and quite literally rip her apart.
The stallion does none of those things, despite how rampantly and lusciously the thoughts run through his mind.
Instead, there is a twitch of his deep navy lips into a scowl and if he had been in any other shape, a growl would have loosed from his throat. Skandar feels tension stretch across his spine while heat simultaneously brews in his stomach. He thinks about answering her for only a breath, for when his mouth opens to speak, fangs have replaced the bluntness of his equine teeth, and (with something instinctual and terrifying) he snaps his mouth around the thickness of her exposed throat.
The fangs of the beasts he had lived with do well to quickly puncture the rich copper of her neck. The warmth of her blood (and her smell, and her utter closeness) brings the ultraviolet red glow to his eyes as he bites down further to increase the flow, unsure if he could find the strength to release her from his grip.
Almost immediately (perhaps she has just enough time to register what has happened), Skandar releases her with a toss of his head as if to throw her from him, skittering backward from her with glowing red eyes. Her blood drips from his mouth, bright red and watery, staining his chest. The light in his eyes begin to dim as he watches her wound, licking his lips.
“Why do you ask me questions you already know the answer to?” Of course he could rip her into shreds - but the real question to ask is this: would he? When Skandar finally replies, he realizes for the first moment how his ribcage is heaving.
He wants more of her and he is not sure in what way - beneath him, or torn apart? - and perhaps the adrenaline pulsing through his veins gives him the idea to foolishly step towards her again.
skandar
@[Aela]