It is fascinating to watch him sink further and further into death.
Fascinating to know that is what poison could do—that is what it was capable of.
She thrills at the sight of it. Thrills watching him buckle under the pressure of it, and she wonders how much he has to hold back to keep from crushing it. She did not know the full breadth of his power, but she knew it was substantial. Knew that it eclipsed whatever gift she had been bestowed and would eclipse it still, even if she was granted whatever it was that bubbled in her veins when she returned to the fae.
After all, he had ripped through it before like wet paper.
Shredded her power like it had barely existed.
So there is fondness at watching him hold himself back to let Death steal upon him. Fondness that he would give her this gift—let him watch the poison tangle in him, taking apart his mortal body.
And there is laughter that bubbles in her veins to match his own when he stumbles back to life.
When he steps closer again, bringing them within just a breath, she nearly shimmers intangible once more, but holds onto her physical form for just a moment longer. “I think you should hope that you are,” she breathes, perfumed breath fanning over his velvet nose. “Because we have so much left to explore.”
More death, more life, more possibility.
But that does not stop her from lifting her chin slightly, exposing her throat.
but in all chaos, there is calculation