“Easier said than done,” comes her quiet reply to his lazy, apathetic response. “But thank you. I think.”
She can never quite tell if he is purposely trying to get under her skin; if he thinks by being so nonchalant and casual that it will frustrate her. And maybe to an extent it does, if only because she thrives on heat and fear, on things that make her adrenaline surge and her heart race. A mere glance of Carnage is enough to send her pulse jumping and cool fear lacing across her skin, and Ashhal makes her ache with want because she always knows what their interactions will bring.
But Atrox is eerily calm, nearly unreadable. She doesn’t know what he wants – from her, or from anyone. She cannot fight that sick, twisted part of her that needs to be wanted, that needs to feel like she is doing something right, but his lack of emotion does not hint either way.
When he snaps at her she is internally repulsed at herself for the way she reacts. Her heartbeat rushes like a wave meeting the shoreline, and instead of recoiling away her nearly black eyes lock briefly with his bright yellow ones. Her gaze rests there for one heartbeat, and then two, and she hopes he cannot sense the way want was the first thing to rush through her veins before fear followed suit. “My mistake.” She says softly, and only then do her eyes cast momentarily downward apologetically. When she lifts them again he is simply simmering, and though her heart is fluttering in her throat she is placid when she says, “It seems like it would be dangerous, for you to be bored.”
