08-06-2022, 07:53 PM
Ryatah
Even though she had never known him well before, she can see that he is different. There is something about him that has changed, his skin electric but his demeanor subdued, though she is not foolish enough to trust it. She is no stranger to kind words being spoken between sharp teeth, and the only version of Gale that she knows is unpredictable.
She does not know what sets him off.
She does not know what causes him to go from being placid and unassuming to cold-blooded and ruthless; from smiling lips to a mouth soaked with her blood.
But she is a creature that has always thrived on fear, on walking fine lines and knowingly crossing them. If it weren’t for the strange feeling of darkness inside of her chest this would have felt like the same game she has always played. The darkness unsettles her, though, and makes her suddenly doubt her own usually steadfast nature.
Despite her uneasiness, she finds that she immediately shakes her head when he asks if he should leave. “No,” she says, even if the hesitation in her voice and wariness in her eyes nearly betrays her words. She thinks of telling him what she had been thinking earlier—how he is not the first to kill her, that she has died before—but finds instead that the difference in him is what has piqued her curiosity the most. “You seem different from before. Do you still hate angels?” This time there is a whisper of humor to her voice, as she slowly eases herself against the invisible boundary that resides between them.
She does not know what sets him off.
She does not know what causes him to go from being placid and unassuming to cold-blooded and ruthless; from smiling lips to a mouth soaked with her blood.
But she is a creature that has always thrived on fear, on walking fine lines and knowingly crossing them. If it weren’t for the strange feeling of darkness inside of her chest this would have felt like the same game she has always played. The darkness unsettles her, though, and makes her suddenly doubt her own usually steadfast nature.
Despite her uneasiness, she finds that she immediately shakes her head when he asks if he should leave. “No,” she says, even if the hesitation in her voice and wariness in her eyes nearly betrays her words. She thinks of telling him what she had been thinking earlier—how he is not the first to kill her, that she has died before—but finds instead that the difference in him is what has piqued her curiosity the most. “You seem different from before. Do you still hate angels?” This time there is a whisper of humor to her voice, as she slowly eases herself against the invisible boundary that resides between them.
EVEN ANGELS HAVE THEIR WICKED SCHEMES
@
Gale