I call him the devil because he makes me want to sin
(and every time he knocks, I can't help but let him in)
Bruise does not like being interrupted—not when he has his mind on greater things, on mapping out the constellations of his next masterpiece, the image of it hazy and forming on the edges of his mind. So it is with irritation that he responds to the voice that crackles across the space between them. His black eyes sharpen and he rolls his heavy-horned head toward the colt’s direction, taking in the size and shape of him but not recognizing him, not knowing him as one of their own. Perhaps he would have been softer for it.
But probably not.
He does not respond to the question that sounds like a demand, instead only lifts his head upward, his flat, shark eyes appraising him, studying him, lip curling into a smile that lacked any of a smile’s warmth. “I don’t see any reason to tell you that, boy,” his voice as hard as his gaze, low and guttural. Bruise never did enjoy raising his voice much. Let him whisper and let the world strain to hear it. Let them suffer for it.
“Be on your way,” he growls, motioning toward the trees that blanket the area behind the boy, the trees from which he had come. The silver of his tail snaps behind him, the edges of it cracking along the curve of his haunches, the muscle there hardening, maturing. He has no real desire to prey upon someone so young, but he also has no moral argument against it. He can feel his hand upon the edge of the Fear, the beast of it bucking and roiling beneath his palm, but he quiets it for now, soothing its temper.
If the boy does not listen, then they would play. If the boy does not leave, then he would have his fun. But for now, he presses his tongue to the back of his teeth, expression hard and unforgiving, and he waits.
