bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
if you must drink of me, take of me what you please
He doesn’t bother to hide the fact that he’s watching her. His gaze remains steady, studying the nervous lines that draw her up, the sadness that simmers just barely below the surface, the way she perches on the edge of the barstool as if she may take flight at just any moment. His faze is hard, unreadable, and his lips press together in a harsh line that only accentuates the sharp angles of his features.
When she swallows the alcohol so quickly, he raises an eyebrow but says nothing.
He grabs his own glass and tips it back, finishing the amber liqueur without a flinch and then signaling for another glass for the two of them. He remains quiet as he listens to her talk, thoughtful. He shrugs off his worn leather jacker, one of his favored possessions, and drapes it over her shoulders, deciding that he doesn’t like the way that the other men in the bar continue to slide their gaze her way.
In the low light, the scar that curls and hooks just below his throat is even more visible, moving as he takes another swallow of the numbing liquid. When she is finally done talking he shrugs. “Does it matter now? You made your choice. You can’t go back.” He leans over, rough thumb finding her chin and tilting it up with a surprising gentleness, his sharp green eyes probing her gaze before dropping his hand.
He doesn’t know what about her has always captured his interest. He’s never been one to be particularly drawn to broken things and he’s never been known to chase women, although he’s not necessarily turned away by the feel of them beneath his hands. But there was a wildness caged beneath her broken eyes, a sharpness hiding behind her doe eyes, and he still remembers the echo of her heat in his chest.
He’d spent more than one sleepless night turning the memory over in his mind.
Still more curious than he has any right to be, he leans over, his voice dropping. “I could give you many things, Wallace.” Not a proposition or brag but rather a simple statement of fact. She knows well what power simmers beneath his flesh. He grabs his glass, letting it slide down his throat before he angles his head back toward her, gaze intense. “If you could have anything, what would you ask of me?”
He cannot help but wonder about her answer.
woolf
I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste
