— I'm not here looking for absolution —
Stave likes the power that comes with denial, with rejection, with dismissal. He likes the feel of it and flexes his hands, letting it simmer in his bones and enjoying the way that it swells in his chest, winding through his veins with a heady kind of sensation. He watches cooly as she gets to her feet, noting the blood on her chin, and that strange light in her eyes—the way that she regards him, yearns for the end.
There are worse things, he thinks, than a girl like this.
(Although it does not stir his belly or provoke a reaction.)
“It is mine,” he says simply, although that would answer her question. As if he could simply provide that as an explanation and it would be enough. But why should he be forced to pull back the curtain? Why should he lay it on the table for her to dissect and investigate and study? Still, she has been a good subject so far and he is not ready for the moment to end—so he obliges, if only a little.
He turns his depthless gaze to the ground and concentrates, pulls on the soil and the life that it teems with until he finds the hook of death—and he yanks. With an exhale, the creature springs forth from the dirt in a small explosion of activity. It is a badger, although you would have to be truly learned in such things to tell from the skeleton alone. It is sharp and ivory, stained with time, the flesh long gone, but it moves quickly enough, scampering forward and whistling through the bones like a hiss.
It runs between his legs before he snarls and it comes to a trembling stop, turning its head toward her.
“Because I can always finish it tomorrow,” he says simply, his smile cold.
