Molten fury shifts through her bones, a conspiratory hiss, and she can taste the blood in her mouth — not his, but her own; it tastes of hunger, of rust. Her blood is alive with voices, telling her then that she was made of longing, a corrosive violence; the sound is thick in her ears, it is incessant. For all the violent insult rising in her throat, she swallows — a taste of apprehension also fills her mouth, saltwater and black ice. He was wrong to think she did not force him, with caustic mouth and heavy hands — they would force each other to ruination; whether by passion or hatred, it did not matter. She would force him, and he would force her. But in his indifference, she eases her bite — slightly.
Rejection softens her for a fleeting moment, pausing the brutal advance and reining in the savagery hung by a crimson thread. She could be delicate, couldn’t she? For a moment, perhaps — all ivory bird bones and gossamer wings; she could be, but she was not suited for it. She could be, but a breath of venom and brimstone rests on the back of her tongue where it slides down her throat, and it pushes forward. Rhea could be soft, but just as quick, she could be steel — a knife poised to draw blood. Rejection may soften her, for a girl’s heart had occupied her once – longing – but there will always be the ache for something red, and something vital. No matter that she finds her mother’s scorn in his eyes, the loathing of her father in the bite of his tone.
It had been that, after all, which turned her to violence in the first place.
“Do you think I’d have even given you a second glance if you had the capacity to be so easily manipulated?” she echoes disinterestedly, if not a bit amusedly, a short-lived look of incredulity ghosting over her countenance: brows knitted and vermillion mouth pursed, as a blooming rose. And what contradiction she was capable of, because for all her argument, she did not shy from the foal lagging behind the herd — naivety not unlike sickness, and making for the most vulnerable prey. Easily achieved conquest did not revolt her, though she enjoyed the sport of a challenge, and she did not shy from gullibility. Except, maybe, in a lover. A half truth makes for the most believable lie, doesn’t it?
“Is that what you’re attempting to discern, lover? My purpose,” she pauses, to laugh — a rich, silken note elicited at his inquiry as she retakes the board; as though that were all space between them was: a board. Her lips curl upward, and for all the restraint in her reply ( from insult, which has proved itself incapable of serving her ), something sinister pools inevitably in her gaze as she looks up at him. “— I thought I had made it clear to you.”
Another lie, or at least, in part. Her desire has been made abundantly obvious.
“But it is — misplaced,” she soothes, though a contradiction rarely is so. Her fingers snake softly around his neck as her teeth had, and it is a familiar gesture between the pair of them: Rhea pulling in, Vasily pulling away. But for now, she refuses to be denied, palm sliding down over his cheek gently – and it’s cold, as she is. “You are mine, Vasily. There is nothing between us but possession, don’t you know? You belong to me, I belong to you.” Her voice, deceptively soft though the menace cannot be mistaken; her veins still burn with anger, for his prior indifference.
“You can hold onto your pride, if you wish, but don’t delude yourself. Don’t seek to insult me for sake of your dignity, Vasily — you embarrass yourself,” she advises him, and though the threat can be easily discerned from her words, her tone is absent of its abrasive edge. There is only softness — as if she were the meek, fragile lamb which she had been often mistaken for, though she was not. Then, she supposed that Vasily knew this. Even if he was not yet aware that he would bow, in spite of his claims.
Twisted satisfaction. Vasily could feel it, writhing and coiling inside him like a serpent. His eyes, having sharpened like the most lethal of knives, took in the dormant fury encompassing Rhea’s demeanor and all he wanted to do was smile. He could find no logical explanation for it but then again, logic was rarely involved when they came together like this--lustful for each other and at the same time, defiant. They seemed destined to be enemies but with how stubborn they both were, it was not surprising that they went against what they were destined to be and instead, carried no labels for each other, made no effort to define what took over them when they were in each other’s space. Or at least, Vasily tried. He was always trying to define and analyze the threads that tethered him to Rhea. Clearly, he hadn’t been successful and had no hope to be, if the soft confusion lingering beneath the intensity of his eyes was anything to go by.
His confusion quickly morphed into anger, however, when Rhea called him lover. Again. The word grated against his nerves because Vasily considered it a mockery on Rhea’s part. She knew that Vasily found the nameless nature of their affair distasteful; she knew he did not like the unpredictability of it and the lack of control it prompted in him. So, when she called him lover, a word which was attributed to the notion of romance and intimacy--a label, a definition--when what they had was anything but, it always seemed to mock his silent quest for answers; he always saw it as a subtle offense to his constant efforts to tame himself and set boundaries between them.
The embers of his anger burned in the hazel of his eyes like earth turned ashen. And he resisted the urge to scoff disdainfully when Rhea’s words made it clear that she had picked up on the subtle signs of his confusion, momentarily turning his face away from hers. It gave her a chance to grip the back of his neck--to sink her claws into his flesh. Vasily’s eyes flashed back to hers and their gazes met like two hurricanes colliding. Rhea spoke, her lips inches away from his, the cadence of her voice soft and lilting; as if she meant to hypnotize him with it. But Vasily knew better, he could see it in her eyes; wide and glaring despite her otherwise calm demeanor. Every bit the offended predator that she was. But then again, so was Vasily.
“I do not belong to you.” He whispered, the words seething out from between gritted teeth. Her breath feathered across his lips like the smoke of a tempting narcotic and her grip both anchored him in place and pulled him closer but in his rage, Vasily registered non of it. He was momentarily immune to Rhea’s seduction, although he did not realize it. Without even touching her, he took a wide, sideways step; the movement sharp and quick enough to dislodge her grip on his neck. Without even looking at her, Vasily adjusted the neck of his suit and the cuffs of his sleeves, silently attempting to restore his control and cast away his anger.
He took in her finals words, received her final strike and glanced her way. He was quiet, his anger having dissipated, albeit without fading completely, and his lips parted. Only Vasily did not know what to say. He was tempted to allow his shoulders to sag and his eyebrows to furrow, if only to make Rhea glimpse just how exhausted he truly was, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. His lack of control when it came to his anger had already cost him; someone must have taken note of their sharp interaction by now. The damage had already been done.
So Vasily’s mouth thinned into an aggravated line and he said nothing.
