iron, he tastes iron. blood. it isn’t his own.
she’s a wily little thing. petite, but with enough determination to make tahir look like a bitch. he isn’t tahir, though. the blonde breathes loud, exertion spent on trying to wiggle from beneath him, but he knows better than to think she’s spent. he braces himself with a knife - her own - at her throat, her hands pinned at the wrist in his other. this isn’t the first time she’s been pinned down with a knife to her. last time it was four men. and they carved her up just to rais’ liking. now, she’s a fox caught in a trap meant for bigger prey. a fox that should’ve known better.
“fuck you,” she spits and it’s red.
“pretty as you are, you’re not my type,” he replies, wiping his cheek with his shoulder, unbothered.
“y’know, usually, i’d be offended,” she grunts, making a show of writhing beneath the straddle he’s got around her, but he can feel the effort doesn’t match the noise. she’s planning something. “but it sounds like you’d be a drag in the sack.”
roman’s mouth splits into a grin and deanna’s temper strikes flint again, igniting in a blazing fury. he’s amused.
“you gonna off me already? i got shit to do. people to see.”
he ignores her, drawing the knife away from her throat to check the time on his watch. the curtain of sunset drops soon. in that split second, he feels the mistake he made. deanna brings up both knees to force him closer to her, in the sweep of momentum that follows, she drags down both hands from his grip and sends her elbows at a dig in to roman’s collarbone.
something snaps. a bone. his or hers, it doesn’t matter.
there’s a scramble. a flurry of movement. he out pounds her when it comes to muscle and mass, but she’s quick. perceptive and a loose cannon. he tastes gravel now.
she’s on top with his gun, the barrel of it presses against his forehead. cold steel against hot flesh.
but her own blade is wedged between them, tip teasing at the point just below where her ribcage meets. every breath she takes means a pinprick of pain despite the fabric of her shirt. one wrong move and the plunge won’t be a pretty one. his other hand is caught in the tangle of her hair. a stalemate. for now.
“i told crane he should’ve killed me when he had the chance.”
knife be damned, she doesn’t hesitate to bring the gun crashing against his temple in a side swipe. his head torques to the left and his vision sparks with stars. red creeps into the edges of his blurring vision. a ballsy move. an emotionally invested move. in the distance, biters rustle and make sound. further still, to their left, he can hear virals. they’re coming. roman doesn’t move the knife, doesn’t counter the hit.
“you don’t get to fuckin’ talk about him, you piece of shit.”
“do you know how many times i could’ve killed him and haven’t?”
“you want a goddamn cookie? you got a rep of trap and release then tear gas, bud. we’re not playing this fucking mind game.”
“rais is going to get what he wants. he always does,” roman presses, she stiffens and he gauges the reaction. it’s personal. “he sets his eyes on something and he’s blind to anything else. he wants crane.”
“i said shut the fuck up.”
“ignorance is bliss, isn’t it? you and the soldier don’t like to listen to what you’re told because of who it’s coming from. pride is the downfall of most heroes.” she squints, trying her best to obscure the confusion that tries to make itself known. he can see it in her eyes. green, not unlike the countryside here in harran. the shadows behind her darken, the buildings stretching out for the volatiles and their run. soon.
but it’s a particular set that grabs deanna. tahir. another of rais’ masked men. they came. sooner than he thought they would, they came.
no one helps roman up. he works out the pain in his shoulder, tucking deanna’s blade into his gun holster. two men hold her, despite her struggle, but she stills when rais himself takes hold of her jaw.
“women like you are like stallions,” he says, roman takes up place at his side, but rais doesn’t acknowledge his presence. “beautiful and strong-willed. but even the most stubborn horse can be taken out to pasture and put down or made useful. sometimes all it takes is a good ride for you to be broken. the stronger they are, the more broken they end up. get her out of my sight. keep her quiet or she won’t be the only one to die tonight.”
tahir is swapped out for another of the bigger men and it’s rais that hands roman his reclaimed gun. they each lay a strike on the blonde. her mouth still runs as they drag her away.
a stallion. a horse that need only be broken. harran’s backdrop shifts, but the narrative remains the same. a man in a suit clasps his shoulder.
“we’ve made contact, but - your sister is wild, roman. the contact we made went ignored. slighted. she wishes to be nothing more than a ghost. she follows her own whim. much like a stallion, all she need be is broken. she’ll joins us in time. she needs to see reason. you speaking with her won’t go well. she’ll run again.”
there’s the sharp, precise sound of a woman in immense pain and then silence. the weight of it extends out. the warlord smiles, satisfied.
“i’m surprised, roman,” rais’ dark gaze presses against him from all sides. roman doesn’t flinch, doesn’t break eye contact. tahir is watching, too. watching not unlike a vulture, waiting to pick from his bones. “that you didn’t set this one loose, too. tahir,” he still hasn’t broken eye contact with roman. “she’s yours to do as you please. though -” he’s all teeth, “i’d suggest being careful, crane’s soiled her and poisoned the well.”
every man breaks into laughter save for roman.
the men all move as one, out of the shadows, out of the night.
