A sick thought can devour the body's flesh more than fever or consumption.
‘I know you missed me terribly,’ he says, and she laughs, dutifully; a sound that seems to chime and echo out in the stillness of the tundra.
‘But you know I already have a wife.’
He’s calling her out on the swing in her hips, but she quivers with delight in spite of it. It is her good fortune, she thinks, that he appears to be more malleable today, too, and Phasus has never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. She moves closer still, curiosity goading her forwards.
And she is still quivering in her delight, but behind the wicked roll of her flesh there are muscles beneath them that are still tightly coiled from all of their previous encounters; muscles that ache in their rigidity, muscles that are ready to come unchained, like springs, should he swing around to greet her with the violence that she has come to expect from the nerinians — muscles that, despite the easy smile on her lips and the playful glimmer to her dark eyes, might betray her. It’s a dangerous game that she plays, to dabble with the minds of men who see the reflections of their own impending empires just beyond the bend of her hips. She is greedy, and she is wicked, but she is not stupid.
One glimpse at the scales along his skin, or the sharpened fangs hiding behind the curtain of his lips tells her that he could have her, or end her, without a second thought.
But playing is what she knows, and she is achingly bored, and so she continues to move towards him as though those screaming muscles don’t exist, as though they aren’t crying out this danger, until they are inches apart and he might feel the head of her body as she stands opposite him, but parallel, with his head nearest her hips. “A wife?” She asks aloud, rhetorically, while she bumps a hip against him in passing and draws out the last word only to find it leaving a sour taste against her tongue.
“Now, why ever would you want one of those?”
In her eyes he is a caged animal; an easy conclusion for Phasus, who has never loved anything beyond herself (and perhaps, Him, in the way that a follower might choose to devote themselves to a god), to reach. Now, still too close to him, she cranes her head across the jut of her right shoulder to look at him from across the length of her back.
“You wanted me, Leilan.” She says, choosing her words carefully for their implied innuendos, a kittenish expression still painted across her delicate face.
“What can I do for you?”
phasus
@[Leilan]