[He sees it from behind the fall of his pale hair, the dark little smile that cleaves her face, the shadows lurking around its edges. It's not a pleasant thing, and the subtle change that comes over her sends small sparks racing the length of his Spine, a cold sharp feeling welling up inside of him.
She starts to circle, and he keeps his breathing calm and even, face devoid of all emotion even as his anxiety spikes exponentially, the concern that they've given him to some sadist who - with her rank, with her bloodlines - he'll have no choice but to endure come what may. An honour then, or some kind of double-edged sword, praise laced with punishment? It's difficult, right now, for him to say.
Then she's behind him and even before her hand snaps out there's the prickle of awareness in him, the knowledge that she's going to act, to strike perhaps, and it takes all the restraint he has (speaks volumes, even if she can't discern it, in regard to his self-control, the very thing that so many of his 'kind' sorely lack) to prevent from moving, from countering her action and gripping her wrist and attempting to slam her to the ground. He succeeds though, and so he's rewarded with the sharp tug of fingers buried in his hair, head yanked back and flesh shifting against the metal collar buried deep into bone (it wakes up the ache of it, the dull pain that never really goes away). He makes no sound and gives no indication of discomfort or fear aside from the quick glitter of his red eyes as they meet hers once again.
When she speaks, he knows the words aren't for him. He's the 'it' she's referring to, that much is clear, though who the words are for remains an unknown. Vaguely, the thought unsettles him.
Though not as much as the dagger's quick rise, its presence so near (too near) to his exposed throat, and there's that flicker in his eyes again, distant but discernible-- the faintest trace of fear. Still he doesn't look away. Does nothing to defend himself even as, internally, that fear blossoms like the spread of blood from a stab wound. Will she do it? Will she cut him? The truth is, he doesn't know.
She moves and her lips hover close to his ear and though he remains still and submissive in her dangerous grip there's the slight raising of hair where her breath susurrates against his skin, a subtle sign of his anxiety. Still, to his credit, when his voice comes it's smooth and calm and controlled.]
Yes. I know that, and I understand. Ma'am.
[He's not sure if it's the title she'd want to go by, but it's the only one he's heard used in her presence and, in this moment, she doesn't strike him as the sort who'd appreciate him speaking out of turn.]
no subject
She starts to circle, and he keeps his breathing calm and even, face devoid of all emotion even as his anxiety spikes exponentially, the concern that they've given him to some sadist who - with her rank, with her bloodlines - he'll have no choice but to endure come what may. An honour then, or some kind of double-edged sword, praise laced with punishment? It's difficult, right now, for him to say.
Then she's behind him and even before her hand snaps out there's the prickle of awareness in him, the knowledge that she's going to act, to strike perhaps, and it takes all the restraint he has (speaks volumes, even if she can't discern it, in regard to his self-control, the very thing that so many of his 'kind' sorely lack) to prevent from moving, from countering her action and gripping her wrist and attempting to slam her to the ground. He succeeds though, and so he's rewarded with the sharp tug of fingers buried in his hair, head yanked back and flesh shifting against the metal collar buried deep into bone (it wakes up the ache of it, the dull pain that never really goes away). He makes no sound and gives no indication of discomfort or fear aside from the quick glitter of his red eyes as they meet hers once again.
When she speaks, he knows the words aren't for him. He's the 'it' she's referring to, that much is clear, though who the words are for remains an unknown. Vaguely, the thought unsettles him.
Though not as much as the dagger's quick rise, its presence so near (too near) to his exposed throat, and there's that flicker in his eyes again, distant but discernible-- the faintest trace of fear. Still he doesn't look away. Does nothing to defend himself even as, internally, that fear blossoms like the spread of blood from a stab wound. Will she do it? Will she cut him? The truth is, he doesn't know.
She moves and her lips hover close to his ear and though he remains still and submissive in her dangerous grip there's the slight raising of hair where her breath susurrates against his skin, a subtle sign of his anxiety. Still, to his credit, when his voice comes it's smooth and calm and controlled.]
Yes. I know that, and I understand. Ma'am.
[He's not sure if it's the title she'd want to go by, but it's the only one he's heard used in her presence and, in this moment, she doesn't strike him as the sort who'd appreciate him speaking out of turn.]