I call him the devil because he makes me want to sin
He feels her on the edges of his consciousness. Feels it like a fluttering in the mind, a barely registered ripple on the water’s edge that has him tilting his head, shark eyes darkening even more, taking in the mare who dips her mouth to the water. There is something beneath the surface to her that catches his eye, that stirs his attention—and how unfortunate for her that she should catch his fancy.
Because his fancy is not that of sweet nothings and soft whispers.
It is not that of romance and sunsets—although it can pantomime it well enough.
It is something darker, more sinister, and it rises in him now. Even with the blood of Lucrezia barely washed from his skin, the baptism in her on the beach having left its mark, the hunger still roils within him. His gaze sharpens and then softens, the stallion tilting his heavy-horned head back and taking a deep breath of air. It is easy—easy enough—to manipulate when he utilizes the Fear as both tool and weapon.
And he enjoys that, feasts on it.
But there is something more primal about manipulating with nothing but your own cunning, your own wits, and he appreciates that too. Appreciates the art of bending steel with nothing but your own strength.
When his eyes open, they are not his own. They are deep and warm and his face is washed clean of his usual harsh angles. When he moves, it is slow and steady, not the alien grace he usually calls upon, and although his hand rests upon the Fear, he doesn’t call on it—not yet. Instead he merely walks toward the water, letting his weight crack a twig in his path to announce his arrival. Without a word, he walks up next to her, dropping his head to the water and letting the coolness of it dampen his nose.
He glances at her from the corner of his eye, lip curving into a smile before he glances ahead again.
One deep breath as he lifts his head and then silence.
(and every time he knocks, I can't help but let him in)
@[Brine]