If she is surprised that even his wings fall away, it does not show on her pretty face. If she is excited at the prospect of biting into the apple of him, it does not reveal itself. Instead, she waits prettily, quietly. She sits and watches as he walks closer, reveling in the hint of gravel in the back of his throat, the promises of shadows that would come with his age. The darkness that she would enrobe herself in with time.
He reaches for her and she makes herself immaterial, walking through the intended kiss to his other side. She turns then, going to face him with a small simper curling at the edges of her mouth—a reminder that she was not the plaything this time, regardless of whether he had to restrain himself to make it so.
She doesn’t walk away though, not while she feels this anticipation on her tongue.
Instead she takes a delicate breath, feeling the way her lungs nearly tremble with excitement, with the way that her entire body seems to shimmer as she comes back into form. Looking at him, she feels the enthrallment spread, taking root quicker than before, as happens with practice.
“Follow me, Crowns,” she murmurs, crooking a metaphorical finger as she leads him forward, moving deeper into the meadow and then into the corners, where the plants grow more lush, where they crowd onto one another. She has been studying, and asking questions, and she knows exactly what she is looking for, so she doesn’t hesitate when the glimpse of the slightly drooping pink flowers catch her gaze.
She looks back to him, maintaining eye contact.
“Take a bite,” her silvery voice commands as she motions to the foxglove.
“Indulge until you no longer can."
but in all chaos, there is calculation