Evil is a point of view. God kills indiscriminately, and so shall I. Anastasiya Spassky | Russian Scarlett Burroughs | 30 | Assassin var sc_project=11053335; var sc_invisible=1; var sc_security="1b63790f"; var scJsHost = (("https:" == document.location.protocol) ? "https://secure." : "http://www."); document.write("");
Scarlett rarely regretted her decisions. Partly it was because all of her actions were always excruciatingly premeditated, and partly because even if something did happen to go wrong, she would only take it as a challenge, and have her fun. And so she waited for almost two full weeks for that feeling of thrill to come, only to find herself awake at night, a drink in her hand, her mind racing through odds and possibilities until she finally had to admit to herself she cared far more than she let on. She needed to do something.
This was why she walked into the tech room that late afternoon, glad to find it completely deserted save for the solitary figure lit by the artificial light of the computer screen - Piper. âDarling.â, she said, knowing full well there was no need for any other announcement - her accent and cadence wouldâve already given her away, and she closed the door carefully behind herself, âItâs late, I was wondering if you were hungry?â Truthfully, had it been any other techie, Scarlett wouldâve just barged in and made her request - but this was Piper, and over the course of her time here, Scarlett found herself particularly fond of the young girl, even protective. And so she walked up to her table, leaning her hip against it like she always did, and tapping some obscure beat with tips of her red nails as she decided to get straight to the point, âSo... How do you feel about lasagna alla Bolognese? Because I want to talk to you, and I need your help, but we canât have you starving to death.â, there was a smirk on Scarâs lips and she leaned forward to push the keyboard slightly away from Piper, âYouâve been boxed up here all day, you need to get some air. I promise theyâre amazing. An Italian chef taught me. Besides, I see you eating that microwaved sorry excuse for a meal and itâs criminal.â And though Scarlettâs features remained in their usual, charming state, there were traces of genuine concern in her voice - she wanted to talk to Piper about her suspicions as to what hid beneath that carefully arranged sleeve (though she didnât want to startle her by being too forward), as well as to ask the girl for a favour, because it felt as if she were the only person left Scar could trust with something as delicate as information about Mitchellâs daughter.
âYouâre taking a break from being a bitch?â he said, feigning shock as he let out a laugh, âYou know, I would be more convinced that was the truth if I, well, didnât otherwise know you.â Of course, Jeb had realised within minutes Scarlett wasnât acting her normal, slightly scary self. Afterall, before then, she wouldnât have even bothered to look his way, nevermind talk to him, nevermind talk to him civilly. âHey, surprisingly, if youâre nice to people, theyâre nice to you,â he smirked, âMaybe you could learn a thing or two about being nice from this experience.â As per usual, Jeb was just stretching it out; teasing her a little. He knew very well it could go a different direction, but right now he was enjoying it too much to stop.
To be honest, Jeb was surprised to see Scarlett laughing. Pleasantly surprised, but still really surprised. He couldnât recall making her laugh once, and right then he felt like heâd achieved something great. It didnât seem like she was being sarcastic either, or even false. âYou do realise I have an endless supply of sarcasm and memes up my sleeve, right?â he asked, unsure if Scarlett even knew what a meme was, âAnd leave my tech alone. What did it do to you?â Jeb shrugged, letting out a sigh. âYeah, well, Iâm just saying, you were gone for a shit load of time,â he said, but continued to laugh. âPretty sure âshooting shitâ kind of constitutes getting it taken away,â he raised his eyebrow at her. If his own mom ever found him âshooting shitâ, there would be hell to pay. He was surprised his punishment was so mild when he found out he had one in the first place. âI mean, I wasnât going that fast. Sure, 70 on the highway is kind of fast, but the roadâs pretty much flat. Plus, I already have a record and I didnât know how thatâd shape up if Iâd tried to outrun them. The main problem was because I was apparently driving dangerously. I had complete control of the car.â
At the faux display of shock on Jebâs features, Scarlett only huffed a laugh, shrugging her shoulders almost innocently, as if there was nothing to be done about it. âHey, itâs a full-time job. You have no idea how much energy it takes to constantly come up with ways to agitate you.â Truth be told, the only reason Scarlett kept it up was probably because it was just a part of the persona everyone believed she had, and because she would rather die than admit she might have gone overboard that night at the gala. It was the same reason why she kept bickering with Ares, or acting all menacing around Mitchell. Besides, it was easier, falling into a light-hearted banter, now that he seemed to play along with the genial mood established between them. âIâm nice to people, Iâm just not nice to you.â, she remarked, but a smile was tugging at the corners of her lips, one that had nothing to do with her usual sly smirks, and she leaned forward to rest her elbows against her knees, chuckling as he bent her head down, âWhat, like being nice to people for no reason at all? That sounds absurd. What do I even get from it?â She was joking, of course, one could tell by the way the incredulity in her voice was far too pronounced, but it was only fitting - given how for once those two werenât at each otherâs throats, and she was rather enjoying it.Â
When he spoke again, Scarlett straightened up, a crease appearing between her eyebrows as her eyes turned to him, baffled. âOkay, sarcasm I get, even though my comebacks always completely annihilate yours, but memes?â, she shook her head, entirely unfamiliar with the reference, and not particularly pleased, âIs that a teenager thing? Like that awful app that makes everyone take pictures of bullshit or walk around like blind sheep trying to catch some kind of creatures. Poke something.â It was ridiculous really, and whenever Scarlett got annoyed over it, she tried to convince herself it had nothing to do with her getting older, and everything to do with how dumb kids these days could get. âI was about to say when I was your age, but I realise youâd just use it against me, wouldnât you?â, casting away the annoyance Scarlett turned to look at Jeb and shook her head as a disapproving teacher might at a kid in trouble, only with an exasperated smile. âNothing, it was an ugly phone I thought I might relieve the world the pain of seeing it. Plus, I was trying to help you improve your social skills, god knows you donât have any.â, she said, but despite the nature of the words, they came out sounding almost fond - at this point, Scarlett had gotten used to having Jeb occasionally annoy her, and found that she preferred to let it make her laugh instead. âHey I mean she shouldâve been glad I wasnât shooting anything that moved. And besides, my father gave me that gun. I think she was just bitter I was off shooting shit, and my twin was practicing ballet or something. We came out all wrong, him and I.â A certain glint of fondness entered her eyes at the memory, but she realised how all of this might have sounded when taken out of context, and so she let out a chuckle and looked at Jeb again, âLook, you donât become the way I am by coming from a normal family, so trust me when I tell you, me shooting was actually kind of expected. Hey, I never asked - did you ever shoot a gun?â She listened to him talk about his car quietly, only letting out a chuckle at the way he seemed to get all worked up about it, and interrupting him when he mentioned the speed, âWait, is that miles per hour? Whatâs that in kilometers - around... 112? That is slow, Iâm talking... narcoleptic old lady - slow.â, she sighed, as if this fact disappointed her and she had expected him to say a bigger number, âOkay, what the hell were you doing then? Probably some vanilla shit like not turning on your turn signal.â, she was teasing now, and couldnât really keep the smile out of her voice, âWere you drunk? Oh come on give me something - youâre trying to be a bad boy, and in so far Iâm not impressed. At least blast NWAâs Fuck the Police while they arrest you the next time.â
     There existed many things that brought Mitchell Clayton indescribable pleasure â or at least waves of it â hits of cocaine early in the morning, the sound of brittle bones breaking under his own pressure, the sight of a long-legged woman in a shamefully short garment, and a seemingly endless list of more⊠yet, attending a gala, in a fit, elegant, black tailored suit did not belong among them. As he did his best to hide the slight occurrences of annoyance that bloomed in the area of his cheeks once his jaw was clenched, Mitchell held a glass of whiskey in his right hand, mirroring the behavior of the man on his right: a statuesque posture of a soldier, blinking every dull five seconds while pretending to be attentively listening to the ongoing conversation about oil resources in Middle Eastern countries. Careful not to interrupt anyone while speaking, Mitchell meticulously awaited for a moment to excuse himself in pursuit of another glass of whiskey; he made a mental note that the flirtation with his drink must continue throughout the whole night, if he truly wanted to hold onto the crumbs of his sanity before the remaining of his brain cells are completely extinguished by the crĂšme a la crĂšme of New Yorkâs elite. Just as he approached the bar and ordered a glass of whiskey, Mitchell felt the hands of a certain someone glued to his butt, which shook the man out of his stiffness â a blonde appeared a second after, next to him, locking the space between them that Mitchell observed as a âcomfort zoneâ (or the do not invade my personal space zone), with utter disregard for his comfort due to the belief that she was wanted there, by his side. âI am awfully bored,â complained the girl (there was something childish in her personality that Mitchell could not bear to swallow â hence the association with a girl rather than a woman in his mind). âYou do understand that we cannot leave right away,â his voice quite authoritative, as if he were a teacher and surprisingly, it worked â causing the girl to only pout and mumble something under her breath. Mitchellâs focus steadily emerges from the girl to his own whiskey, as he entertains himself by swirling the drink around, âWhy donât you go and mingle with the family⊠Youâll be occupied in the following days,â He uttered an order that was masked as a suggestion simply out of sheer courtesy and she was off â not immediately of course, there were a few sparks of rebellion, yet Mitchell decided to shut her existence out, in order to enjoy his whiskey. Â
     The girl that he just sent off was his ticket to this gala â a textbook example of a spoiled, rich socialite â a young girl with no ambitions other than to annoy her parents out of pure spite; and Mitchell gave her the credit for successfully doing so; she knew exactly which buttons to press once she brought him in as her boyfriend, an older, unknown, cryptic man. The utter shock his appearance painted on their faces pleased the couple, yet Mitchellâs ambitions were not exactly aligned with the ones of his date â prowling about was just his idea of a good enquiry, among people such as â after all, the Halloween party had a similar setting and a bonus of a Sixes sighting. Just as he was entertaining the idea of mingling, he saw a color familiar â and his thoughts traveled back to the Halloween party, tracing the very same sight â the very sight of the strong red was certainly not the sight that he bargained for. It caused his heartbeat to pick up a pace, which he deemed rather unnecessary and went on trying to suffocate the jolts of his heart and in an attempt to completely distract himself he decided upon going straight to the epicenter of the sudden earthquake. There suddenly came a rather strange wave of self-confidence, radiating through each of his steps taken towards the targeted person. The prosodic spurs of confidence took their roots deeply in Mitchellâs mind, the basic, essential need for self-preservation. The very appearance of Scarlett Burroughs managed to disrupt the lull of tranquility, summoning nothing but calamity. Attack is the best defense, was the philosophy under which Mitchell operated as he revealed his presence to the woman.
     She wore her arrogance just as she wore her Chanel; brutal in her demeanor, gracefully outlined with aristocratic elegance and a face decorated with a predatory smile â all the things that welcomed Mitchell in her company. Her teasing was rather beguiling, luring out a smile on his face once she brought up the past, âI would say that we both changed,â Mitchellâs eyes travelled nonchalantly to her own, the established eye contact almost forming an electric shock, âWouldnât you agree? If that was not the case⊠Iâd say you would have already turned this gala into a slaughter house with as much as an army behind you.â As he timidly conducted the end of his sentence, he bit his cheek in an effort not the let his lingering smile evolve into a grin â after all, their conversations were much like chess, with a bomb glued under the chessboard. Tick, tock, tick⊠What followed next sure managed to creep on Mitchell as nothing less but unexpected â a compliment, was it? After letting a few seconds to pass on his behalf he decided to say nothing on the matter of the before-mentioned compliment for all he knew it was a Pandoraâs Box, full of all things bloody awful. Instead, he allowed himself a look â which would onwards prove as a mistake â his wandering eyes searching through the intricate details of her dress; he decided to, without invading the borders of the sacred space between them, change his perspective â which would not only allow him a clear sight of the rather dull ongoing affairs at the gala but also serve as a distraction from the devil that was her dress. Having been caught red handed, Mitchell detected instances of the tone he used before while conversing with the girl â rather patronizing â and the realization of it was a bitter, lingering taste in his mouth that he washed away with one sip of the liquid in his glass. There was no need to protest (although it would offer her a certain pleasure), which forced Mitchell to let yet another thing pass uncommented. âNot at all, not at all,â he responded to the asked curtesy and as she reached for her cigarettes, he had to bite his lip and wait for her to retreat to her previous position before uttering the following comment, âYour ass looks big in that dress.â It seemed, too, that Mitchell Clayton himself had a bit of a death wish. The unsavory comment called for a reaction, to say the least, an in order to slightly ameliorate the eventual outcome of the given situation, Mitchell fetched a zippo out of his pockets, as well as a cigarette pack of his own. âDo you mind?â He held out the lit silver lighter in front of her with a raised eyebrow, his tone steady, anticipating either the consequent loss of his preferable right hand or a pass.
She rather liked the way her sheer presence seemed to disrupt the austere manner in which his features were usually arranged, the ever-present distaste he held for almost everyone around him, occasionally disrupted by vague flecks of interest that would come and go. Years have made him even more arrogant, but it was a different shade of arrogance â sharper and self-righteously patronising. She couldnât quite bring herself to pinpoint what it was exactly that she thought of him, other than the usual mistrust and animosity â Scarlett had always been a rational woman, an objective one â she knew and valued the virtues of her enemies, especially her enemies, and yet with him they only angered her. He was charming in that way women liked and men admired, in that way that made her pupils constrict and her jaw clench â he was hubristic and disdainful and effortlessly so, that it was positively infuriating. She only smiled. âTell me dear, did you not recognise me before it was too late and I turned around, or have you become suicidal? I see no other circumstance under which youâd approach me willingly.â, the words were uttered so pleasantly that the underlying threat wouldâve gone unnoticed by anyone else, but Scarlett didnât give him much time to mull over it. She preferred to keep their conversations quick-paced, perhaps because the threats were only half-serious, and perhaps because she enjoyed the fact he was able to follow her pace. âSeven men.â, she said vaguely, turning her eyes back to the crowd and observing it with disinterest, âSeven of them have tried to start a conversation in past⊠hour or so, six of them walked away with bruised ego and the seventh is right over there still lurking and waiting for me to shoo you away. NowâŠâ, her eyes lingered on the man before she looked back at Clayton, âSince I admire your gall, and since pretending to be French is starting to bore me, Iâll give you the option to leave before I bruise your ego tooâŠ. or you can stay. You seem to get off on the whole, tempting the beast, playing with your life thing, and who am I to deny you the pleasure? Besides, however tragic it sounds, even you are better company than those idiots over there.â By the time she had finished speaking, her voice had gone from that weary, half-annoyed drawl to something that dangerously edged towards amusement, still a bit menacing, almost daring â but certainly inviting. She would never admit to it, of course, she preferred to think of it as a way of establishing control in this situation and ignore the fact that she was strangely thrilled by the way air between them suddenly felt electrified and she rather liked the taste of danger that came with the two of them... talking.
His words were picked out carefully, not that it surprised her, but the fact she made him uncomfortable enough to watch what he was saying more than he usually did, the fact that the arrogance he usually wore so effortlessly, now didnât seem as certain (it was still there of course) â it made her tilt her head slightly, the corners of her lips slightly upturned without her even trying to suppress the desire to smile. The liquid in her glass swirled in sync with elegant movements of her wrist. She didnât say anything at first, her eyes trained on his long enough to notice there was something intense in the way he looked back, that same inexplicable desire to see what was going to happen next, and instead of speaking she broke eye contact suddenly with a soft bubble of chuckle that escaped her lips. âIs that what I was like? Oh come on, donât be so theatrical, Clayton, you paint me as if I were some irrational murderous maniac on a rampage. That was one time and I was in a hurry. I suppose I couldâve just had one of them shot and the rest wouldâve scattered, but I wasnât in the mood.â, she seemed to contemplate the memory for a moment, albeit without losing the look of amusement on her features, âBesides, those friends of yours were lowest of the low, I did the world a favour by having them shot, and to you too â or at least that nose of yours. Really, all that meaningless fighting was a waste of a perfectly good face. You were too green, back then, you wouldnât have been able to take on all five of them at once. Besides, it was my way of introducing myself to you. Made quite an entrance, wouldnât you say?â It was back when James and her first picked Clayton out of the crowd, one of the first field missions James approved after he thought her trained enough, and even that wasnât without a few snipers tailing her at all times. In all fairness, she did signal the snipers to take them down just for fun, simply to exercise power, but it worked â for all his youthful arrogance, Clayton listened. âIt was a tactic of a sort. I killed all of them, let you know I couldâve killed you too, right there and then, if I wanted to. But then I offered you quite a deal, and made you feel like you had a choice. So it wasnât entirely without a purpose. Oh darling, itâs no wonder you hate me so much now, I was such a bloody bitch.â She was smiling again, not one of those quivering smiles in the corners of her lips, but a full-fledged grin that didnât disappear even as she tipped her glass back to take a sip, her eyes never quite leaving his. The smile wasnât there to mock him, though she did enjoy reminding him of the amount of power she had over him then, it was there because she genuinely felt amused by the memory of both of them, still oh so very young and oh so very violent. These days she never really had a chance to talk, or even think, about her past, and Clayton was a living proof it was more than a formless memory â she liked that. âYouâre not wrong, for sure. But I donât waste bullets anymore - Iâm a killer, not a murderer, thereâs a difference there, and I am a one-woman army â much more efficient, youâll find. Come on, darling, killing is an art, and I rather enjoy the chase â why would I just give all that up?â She had stopped speaking then, and as she did, her eyes roamed his features with a half-hidden curiosity â she was almost shocked to find that he was smiling too. Scarlett was used to those hostile displays of sardonic amusement with him, shark-like smiles with underlying threats and bad intentions â but right now, by the way his features were arranged and his eyes trained on her, she sensed that he was on the verge of almost grinning. It wasnât like she could explain why she noticed this, or what on him gave it away â it was just a feeling she got, and it was the reason why the smile on her lips didnât fade right away, or turned sharp and hostile again. It was then, and with a vague feeling of something more akin to genuine amusement than a haughty sense of success for luring the smile out herself, that she realised it was entirely out of his control too.
âOh come on Clayton.â, petulance coloured her voice as she spoke, turning sideways to change her position and lean against the railing again. It gave her another perspective of his profile - he had fallen quiet in midst of her talking and was now pointedly looking at the crowd instead of her, something tense entering his bearing as he sipped his drink. A whiskey, just like her. The muscles in his jaw quivered, probably at the tone of her words â patronising and as if she were talking to a child that was caught with his hand in a cookie jar. Not that it was all that far from the truth. âItâs very rude to ignore absolutely all of my attempts to agitate you, let a girl have some fun, I did let you stay after all, much to their dismay.â, her eyes skidded quickly over the watchful few sets of eyes that looked at them with curiosity from different points in the crowd, and she couldnât help the playful smile on her lips. But she didnât particularly care if they kept looking or not, just so long as she didnât have to deal with them, and so she reached for those cigarettes, placing one to hang precariously from her blood-red lips and reaching to light it with an intricate old lighter she had in her purse, when he finally broke the silence again. Time came to a grating halt. It felt as if the entirety of the world around them disintegrated in a matter of milliseconds it took her to process his words, fading into blurred images of colourful dresses and flashing jewellery, voices and music muted into only vague background noise. Her eyes were still trained on the lighter in her hand when he spoke, and the process of looking from the lighter and back to his eyes was an agonizingly slow one â a calm before the storm. She wasnât breathing. She wasnât doing much of anything except staring at him right up until the point he extended his hand. Her reaction then was a purely instinctual one, she didnât look at what he was doing, or what he was holding in his hand, she didnât look at anything except his eyes when she reached out for that extended hand and her fingers wrapped around his wrist. The fabric of his shirt had shifted a bit upwards when he reached out, exposing the skin to her grip, and it was warm beneath her fingers, soft â soft enough to break if she dug her nails in hard enough - make him bleed. She couldnât wrap her fingers entirely around his wrist, it was too large, but it gave her the opportunity to sink her nails into it, little crescent marks that would be there tomorrow, and they wouldnât be the good kind. If they ever shared a touch that was more than a handshake, she couldnât remember it, and perhaps had she not been so focused on the way anger flared through her veins, and the sudden urge to hurt him, she wouldâve noticed how close she had gotten and how her holding his wrist like that might have looked to anyone unaware of the true nature of their exchange. Instead, her eyes were trained on his, pupils dilated under adrenaline that burned in her blood, her posture so unnaturally still that it reminded her of the way she always got right before she was ready to pull the trigger of her rifle. If you asked her later that night how long they stood like this, her nails so deep they almost broke the skin, their eyes seemingly unable to break contact â she wouldnât be able to tell you exactly, only that it was a while, and that at some point the shock and anger melted into cold fury, and then realisation, the familiar rational workings of her brain, and then again into some other nondescript sensation that made her hyperaware of how his eyes attained a certain shade of blue here in the dark, when he looked at her, intense and filled with something she couldnât quite discern, how he was deadlocked too, and couldnât look away. She hated how distracting it was. It was a very silent threat, fury running cold beneath the pale of her eyes â she let him wait for her decision, let him know what a grave mistake he had made when he dared talk to her like that, her lips set into a thin line, the grip tightening menacingly with each passing second. But it was also more than that â one of those moments in time that seem to exist in their own separate bubble, away from the rest of the world, one of those moments that bring the object of your attention into sharp focus and dull everything else â for those moments the rules of time donât apply, everything runs slower and when one remembers them, they remember only the feeling â the sound of blood rushing, and the way his skin feels beneath her fingers and the anger and a certain helplessness in face of your own nature â the rational thought to move away, and the primal need to stay in place. She could tell what this was about, once the initial shock had ebbed away and she had calmed down â she knew how, to someone as prideful as he was, and forever in perfect control of every tiniest motion, losing that control even for a second as his eyes searched the intricate details of the lace of her dress, it made him act rash and stupid in an attempt to salvage that control. He looked just for a second too long, long enough for her to catch it and for it to be more than accidental â he looked and she knew that he liked what he saw, and that he was tempted to look again, because why else would he act like a twelve-year-old boy with a crush - defensive and lashing out. It hardly excused him, but Scarlett could understand the reasons behind it â she too had felt that simmer of defensive anger inside her whenever her eyes caught something on him that she liked despite the amount of dislike she preferred to believe there was between them. With a strange sort of surprise, she found that it almost amused her â to have that sort of effect on someone like Clayton. She had to pry her fingers away because the nails seemed to have almost perforated the skin, and readjust them slowly to a much gentler position around the wrist of the hand holding the lighter. She hesitated for a second, caught off guard by the gesture. âThank you.â Her eyes were now on the flame that played against the wind, bright and reflecting in the signet on her finger and the small diamond of her wedding band that slipped from underneath, and slowly, still holding his wrist she leaned forward, eyes fluttering closed as she steadied the cigarette between her fingers and let it light up. She straightened up then, though her eyes were still closed as she took a long, satisfying drag from the cigarette and slowly pulled her hand away from his wrist, tips of her fingers brushing over the small crescent marks her nails had left behind in his skin. The smoke seeped from her lips slowly, and she finally opened her eyes to observe the red tip of her cigarette for a few quiet, contemplative moments, before she took another drag and moved without warning so that she was standing in front of him, violating every barrier and every idea of personal space, close enough to feel the material of his tux against the skin-tight surface of her dress. She didnât say anything at first, her eyes level with the bowtie around his neck that she reached out to carefully readjust back into perfection, entertaining the idea of strangling him with it even as she smiled. âHereâs what weâre going to do now, honey.â, her eyes travelled up from the bowtie to his eyes, only slightly less intense than they were when they stared at each other only minutes ago â but there were still lingering traces of the encounter in the way her pupils remained dilated, her breath still slightly shallow, âI am willing to overlook this little⊠faux pas of yours, no matter how⊠distasteful it was. For now, at least â it doesnât mean I will forget it, it doesnât mean I wonât shoot you first chance I get, it just means someone here has to be a grownup and deal with that frat boy crush of yours. Nice tux by the way.â, her hand was now sliding over the lapel of his tux, taking it between her fingers and testing the material. When she looked up again, it wasnât without a smile, and she made a point of letting her eyes linger on the fine curve of his lips, just to make him even more uncomfortable than this violation of his personal space already was, âBecause we both know my ass looks amazing in that dress, almost as good as it does when I take that dress off. Almost. And Iâm guessing you took a good look before you approached, so that was an asinine remark. A blank shot. Probably picked it out because you stared at everything else on my body for a bit too long to claim you donât like it, and then you panicked.â, she let go of the tux, placed a hand on his chest to steady herself, and propping herself up, leaned forward a bit so that she was closer to his ear, âAnd since youâre obviously wondering â no, the lace is not entirely see-through. Not even I am brazen enough to come to a party when itâs this cold in only lace and nothing beneath. But you would like that, wouldnât you?â She moved away then, resuming her previous position that put a certain barrier of space between them that now felt strangely empty and cold, and leaned her back against the railing as if nothing happened, as if this strange exchange hardly affected her, and they could go back to their soft-spoken threats and sharp smiles and something that could be called flirting if only one wasnât aware of the dangerous, underlying context. She stayed like this for a while, letting the smoke fill her lungs with acrid warmth and tipping her head back when she let it out, mixed with the white of her breath in the cold night air, exposing the pale, delicate skin of her neck (it wasnât like he could slit it here in the middle of the gala). When she looked back down again, her eyes landed on the cigarette in his hand and she observed the way he held it, finding, not without a strange sense of bitterness, that though they were unmistakably male hands, the fingers were long and lithe, elegant almost. âWhat, for the love of God, are you smoking?.â, she said suddenly, forcing herself to look away from his fingers and to his face, her features rearranged quickly into that familiar look of sardonic amusement, âAnd would you stop doing that, youâre not enjoying the cigarette youâre⊠violating it. Itâs wrong.â She flicked the ash off her own long, black cigarette with a deft movement of her wrist, watched it drift into the darkness over the edge before her attention shifted back to him, her voice attaining a softer note, one part sensual one part playful, but not particularly antagonistic like it usually was, âI canât allow this. Here, Iâll show you how itâs done, boy. And while you observe, why donât you tell me what youâre doing here besides disturbing my hunt and enjoying my company, and which oneâs your date?â Her eyes glimmered in the dark, something strangely youthful about the way her lips curled in that playfully wicked way, as if she were daring him to stick around and to talk to her against all common sense. She was now leaned sideways against the railing, effortlessly elegant and feline with a few light strands of hair fluttering across her features in midst of slight breeze. She tipped her head slightly on the side, arched one fine eyebrow as her smile, not entirely out of her own volition, widened slightly, âProve to me I didnât make a mistake by staying here â I couldâve just thrown my drink in your face and left, you know. Well⊠not really, the whiskeyâs too good for that, and the kill is always that much better when Iâm slightly drunk, but you get my point, donât you honey?â With that, and with a flash of a charming, white smile, she brought the cigarette to her lips again and inhaled. A careful, delicate process that she didnât bother rushing, aware of each and every one of her motions, from the closed eyelids to pursed lips when she drew the smoke in, and slowly parted lips when she let it curl out of them, stark against the red. âGo on.â, she said, extending the hand where the cigarette was balanced precariously between her fingers, opening her eyes finally to look at him, âDonât tell me youâre afraid of a bit of lipstick? Itâs not poisoned, I promise, Iâm more of shoot them, stab them, slit their throat kind of girl. I look good in red, after all.â
Upon realising who the figure actually was, he couldnât help but raise his eyebrow. After all, he couldnât help but be suspicious of Scarlettâs intentions. Although she got him a new phone, she still smashed his old one, and he wasnât sure why she was talking to him like she liked him. âCanât say Iâm sad about it, no,â he said, his face originally serious but the corner of his mouth turning into a smile. Jeb didnât really hate anyone, and for that reason he tended to love to see other people, no matter who it was. Even though they didnât get along particularly well, heâd somewhat missed Scarlett.
âWhy didnât you run for a month?â he asked, nodding as he moved his backpack beside his feet to let her sit down, âI mean, I suppose youâve been kinda busy with everything, but could you not even get out for half an hour?â Jebâs head fell back, feigning annoyance. âFor fuck sake,â he groaned, sitting back up as he smirked at her, âI thought youâd died or something. Itâs been so peaceful without you.â In reality, heâd stayed out of the HQ as much as possible since David had been taken. Between the even-more-than-usual somber atmosphere and just, quite frankly, being scared of staying in the place longer than needed, or even being seen near it. It wasnât so much he was afraid of getting hurt himself, but he knew what the Hearts were capable of, and he also was almost certain that if they could find out about David, they could find out about him and his family, and that was what scared him the most. âItâs been taken off me for three fucking months,â he sighed, but continued to laugh, âGot a pretty hefty speeding ticket and now my momâs pissed off at me. So she takes it to work everyday before I even wake up.â
âIs that a smile?â, she said once the suspicion on Jebâs face was broken by the smile in the corners of his lips, âDear God, the world might just end right now. Donât worry, I wonât tell a soul if you donât tell anyone Iâm taking a break from being a bitch.â Amusement lined her voice, and Scarlett didnât bother holding back a chuckle as she sat down on the bench beside him, muttering a quiet thank you and pulling her knee up to her chest so she could fix the laces on her sneaker. âHonestly I thought youâd just straight up refuse to move the bag. But hey, itâs a progress.â, she even managed a smile as she put her leg down again and relaxed against the bench, eyes briefly landing on Jeb before she looked back at the distant treetops, devoid of any colour and swaying in the cold winter wind. It was only when she took in a deep breath of the fresh air, that she realised how much she missed this - the outside, the adrenaline, the exercise, and even Jeb and their arguments, âWell Iâll pretend to believe you, but letâs be real - life does get a bit boring when you have no one argue with. No?â
At first, when Jeb started talking Scarlettâs eyes snapped back to him and she could feel the familiar pang of anger simmering beneath the surface, but something about the cadence of his voice felt odd, and a realisation dawned on her that he seemed to simply be joking. One thing she never thought sheâd see them doing. And then out of nowhere she was laughing, another thing she hadnât done in weeks that wasnât forced or fake, and once she managed to get it under control, a smirk found its way to her lips too, but she couldnât quite get the amusement out of her voice, âOh excuse me, I promise to put in extra effort into annoying you now that Iâm back. Brace yourself, weâve got catching up to do and Iâve had time to accumulate all the animosity and sarcasm. Perhaps itâd be a good idea to hide your tech.â, then her features attained that cocky streak, and she smirked as she leant back against the bench, âMe? Dead? Please. Youâre not getting rid of me so soon, kid. And itâs classified, 007 type of business.â It was easier to joke than tell the actual truth, even though most people at the HQ knew that Scarlett had taken some time off to make sure Molly and the kids were safe. At his words, however, Scarlett raised her eyebrows and turned her head to look at him, âThree months?â, she huffed an incredulous laugh, âI actually kind of feel sorry for you. I got my first gun taken away from me like that - apparently, my mother didnât appreciate me shooting shit all day.â, she paused for a second, then in the spirit of their current interaction, decided to add, âHow fast were you going anyway? I mean not fast enough if the cops got you. You know, since it increases the likelihood of you getting killed, I totally approve of the speeding - next time just tell me you got the ticket and Iâll make it go away. I can do that, otherwise, Iâd have gone bankrupt by now with how I drive my baby.âÂ
 㠀㠀㠀㠀 㠀㠀㠀㠀 i know iâm not a conventional beauty. you can read a lot of painful things on the Internet, which criticise you aesthetically - but as far as Iâm concerned, thatâs not what an actress is.
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