bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
if you must drink of me, take of me what you please
His temper isn't exactly a dormant thing, but he cannot remember the last time it flared like this.
He can feel it white hot underneath his skin, as volatile as the flames running down his arms. It clouds his mind, makes his tongue thick and puts a film over his eyes. His muscles are taut beneath his skin, green eyes molten as he watches Kerberos, just wishing that the guy would give him an excuse—any excuse—to fling off the final threads of restraint so that he could lose himself in the bloody, bare-knuckled fight.
Instead, Wallace’s son arrives. Woolf doesn’t move, doesn’t do anything except flex his fingers, feeling the fire twist around his hands, small burns charring his skin where he is too reckless to protect himself. He doesn't feel them. Doesn’t feel the blood smeared across his chest under his throat. His face remains hard, unreadable, mouth pressed into a thin line, but he doesn’t say anything else. He barely nods, jerking his chin when Kharon acknowledges him, a muscle jumping in his jaw at the suppressed rage.
The only thing that snaps his mind out of it, the only thing that does anything at all to put a dent in his rage, is Wallace’s voice. His stomach twists at the reminder that the son of a bitch sired her family but he cools at her insist voice, surprised she had that much say in his reaction. The fire snuffs out, leaving thin tendrils of smoke to wind around his neck and up through his hair, and he takes a deep breath, wide chest expanding as he fights for some level of control, some semblance of ability to contain himself.
He doesn’t take his eyes off Kerberos, mouth remaining closed and instead letting his voice sear into the other’s brain, blocked from his son’s natural abilities. You ever touch anyone like you touched her—especially her—ever again and you will have me to answer to, you understand? His brow furrows together, a flare of fury still in the set of his mouth. I don’t give two shits that you think you’re a changed man. If I catch wind of you laying a finger on someone, that finger is coming straight off.
And then, at the whisper of Wallace, he releases his hold on Kerberos, letting him leave.
When they are alone, he angles his head toward her, ignoring the jacket she holds out to him.
“No,” his voice is hard, entirely different from what it had been but minutes before and he turns on his heel so that he can face her. His face is stripped raw, unfamiliar feelings of protectiveness leaving him vulnerable and furious for it. “I’m not leaving, Wallace.” He takes a step forward, grabbing her chin with his charred thumb, the flesh still warm, and tilts it upward, the move surprisingly gentle despite the adrenaline that still courses through him. “And you aren’t either. You don’t get to disappear on me.”
His eyes search hers, releasing her chin so that he can push back her hair, thumb gliding over her forehead and then down to her cheek. “I see you, Wallace,” he responds to her thoughts as easily as if they had been spoken aloud. “I have always seen you—from the very first moment.” He doesn’t dip his head down, doesn’t take the liberty although he still wants to, the hunger having never quite been sated.
“And I’ve wanted you since then. Every piece of you.”
woolf
I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste
