I call him the devil because he makes me want to sin
(and every time he knocks, I can't help but let him in)
If he suspects something from the perfect way she falls into the pattern, if he is suspicious of the honey in her voice and the gentleness in her touch, he says—he shows—nothing. Instead, he simply continues the dance, picking up her tempo and gliding alongside her, letting the rhythm take over. This was nothing if not an ancient pattern—an ancient ritual. It was nothing if not the hardened dirt beneath heels, beating out a rhythm established long ago. Hunter and hunted. Predator and prey. The tactics were different, the language perhaps evolved, but the core of it remains the same, and he happily follows along.
He ignores her questions, shaking his head in faux distress, a faint sheen of sweat beginning to darken the sooty gold of his coat. It is easy to fake the increased pulse, the looping patterns of it—he simply takes the excitement and harnesses it, forcing it into another direction. He pulls on the threads of his own Fear, letting the wild thrill of it race through him until his pupils dilate and he feels the trickling of terror in the back of his mind. He gives in, body supple to the roaring rapids of it, feeling ecstasy as horror races through him, clear in the nostrils that flare, in the jitteriness of his legs, in the unevenness of his breath.
“I-I-I can’t. I can’t be h-h-here.”
Bruise swings his horned-head around, looking at the borders with wild eyes before taking a shaking step back, stumbling as a cloven hoof collides with a rock. He bites his lip before gaining his footing and then stopping, sides heaving with the effort. He glances back up again, still manipulating his own Fear, letting it run through him—reveling in his own mastery even as he plays his own victim. “H-H-He said that he would k-k-kill me next time he saw me,” he finally chokes out, the words shaking even as they form.
“I-I-I have to go. I-I-I,” he takes another step back, trembling, “I-I-I need to leave.”
