i am the violence in the pouring rain
i am a hurricaneThey would never be some summer love. She could have her summer loves, certainly. Malach had been something of that sort, with a conversation, but never bit at her mind the way Weed does. Kushiel could be a summer sort of love as well, fun to flirt with and nothing more. She never found that she missed them, and in these instances love was far too strong a word anyway. They were fun, and she was bored. There was little more to it than that.
But Weed? Weed was the opposite of them. A winter love, perhaps. Something that could only exist in the darkness, in the feral part of her mind that longed to rip at his flesh and he ripped at hers, inside and out. She can pretend well enough that this isn’t the case, but of course, they both know. They both want, and it is a beautiful, dangerous feeling.
She doesn’t flinch as he rakes across her skin, but almost leans into it, her blood boiling beneath his touch. It isn’t love. It is more than love. It is deeper and darker and more impossibly real than love. She would never miss him in some quiet, sad way. No, instead he simply flitted into her mind as she plotted, reminding her of everything they are, everything they could do to pull the world down around them.
Because in the end, should they succeed, she wants to watch the world burn with him at her side.
A grin curves her lips just slightly when he finally says, ‘I like it.’ The bird, for it’s part, digs it talons just slightly deeper into the plants on Weed’s back, though Straia says nothing. But then he goes one step further, and she cannot help the smile now that plays on her lips. Sly and pleased, and she slips slightly closer, bending into him, her skin tingling where they touch.
The vines hold her in place then, and she does not try to break free. She could protest, of course. Perhaps she should. For who dares to hold her so possessively? But in the end, she cannot bring herself to mind. After all, she’s also the type of girl who really likes being pushed against the wall, so to speak. “It’s growing quickly. Larger every day,” she says, admitting indirectly that she checks on her tree daily. It is her ritual.
“I do enjoy it. Not quite as much as this, though.” Her grin is wicked now, and she turns her head to bite at his skin again, nipping at the places she can reach without breaking the vines that hold her in place.
straia
the raven queen of the chamber
