Konrad Vrdoljiak

Edyta
Wash of Red Wine.
…(tantalizing the taste buds and palette)
Sleek Sheen of Gun Oil.
…(rippling dark across cold hard metal)
Scent of Spicy Patchouli.
…(filling the nostrils and rising in the mist)
Plumes of Cigarette Smoke.
…(intoxicating the lungs and blood stream)
Ripple of Bubble’n’Steam Water.
…(surrounding a body and caressing with heat)

She lifted a long leg out of the bathtub where she was reclining, her second favorite place to be (the first caressing the scope of a high powered rifle, the string of adrenaline through the blood as the scope was rendered to the target’s head and the trigger… squeeeezed like a tender lover’s cock) when she wasn’t sitting and staring out the window or working on some monotonous photographic assignment (after awhile everyone looks the same and smiles like all the other Plastic People sheep). She watched the water run in slow rivulets down over the curve of the calf muscle, slipping over the knee, and rejoining the wallow of liquid around the rest of her around the thigh before lifting the wine glass to her lips again and taking another slow sip.

It was quiet.

And she liked it quiet.

Konrad Vrdoljiak
There was a time when he rang her doorbell on a regular basis. That time is now passed and gone. More often than not he simply appears, now, despite the dangers of crossing over in a world so weaver-choked.

In the living room. In the bedroom. And sometimes, in the bathroom.

One moment the bathroom is silent but for the gentle slosh of water. The next, it is still silent, but a second creature occupies its confines.

His back is to the door. He sits on the floor, knees drawn up but apart, wrists casually atop them. He watches her with his head tilted back against the door, his eyes gleaming molten beneath heavy, lazy lids.

There are bubbles in the bathtub. Really, that's not necessary. There's nothing he hasn't seen already, and his gaze is not (was never) the frantic greed of first lust, but the slow devouring of possession. This is his woman. His mate. And by corollary, this is his home; that is his wine; this very air belongs to him.

She breathes by his gracious leave. And breathing, he, relaxed as a lion beneath a boabob tree, watches her in unmoving calm.

Eye of the hurricane.

Edyta
She barely lifted her eyes from watching the slow slide of water droplets down her leg – the last time she had pointed a gun at him (his head) she had (perhaps) deliberately kept it there for some longer moments than needed as if seriously contemplating the idea of watching him either die from his brains splattered against the brick alcove of the balcony, proud and haughty visage dropping like a sack of shit or her own guts ripped asunder and left hanging from her torn bellow as she gaped like a fish out of water in a pool of her blood after he throated her for the audacious thought of shooting her own ‘beloved’.

Besides, you can only react to a certain type of manifestation a certain number of times before it started becoming far too commonplace. He appeared when and wherever he chose to: as was his right and whether she liked it or not. Given the fact that they were both still alive and not mauled probably indicated that she didn’t mind – overly.

Although he did tend to ruin the ‘quiet’ of any evening…

She lowered her leg back into the water, sliding along the warm porcelain bottom of the bathtub to sit up ever so slightly more so as to give herself a vaguely better line of sight of her ‘gentle mate’ (mercurial, more like). He watched with the eyes of a hurricane, she regarded him back with the drowning blue eyes that were colder than a glacier.

So much for a loving pair, eh?

“I have a gift for you,” she finally - finally - said, tone neutral and accent undefined, “…Dear.”

Well, that’s a start. Right? Presents are always good. Right?

Konrad Vrdoljiak
"Oh?"

A beat.

Then his eyebrows rise, bold black twitching up a bare fraction of an inch. It's echoed in the tiny degree by which his lips curve: sensual lips, the top sculpted and thin, the bottom fuller. A sinner's mouth, and a sinner he is, but mere lust would never get him to the circle he's destined for.

The cruelty hardening that mouth; the pitiless light in his eyes. The potential for chaos. Wrath. Destruction.

"What's the occasion?" There's irony in his tone; there's amusement, as ever. He doesn't move at all from the door, and nor would he even if she were to climb out of the tub and come toward it. "Another anniversary?"

Edyta
"Occasion?" she replied after a long silence, her expression and tone never changing from emotionally remote and cold enough to give dry ice freezer burn. One shoulder came up and then down, an approximation of a shrug that sent ripples through the water and disturbed the scented bubbles, some of which burst with small, barely heard –pops-. "…None."

She lifted a hand from the water, turning it to one side and then the other to watch the slick water coated olive skin that glistened in the candle lit that was the only illumination in the minimalist fashioned bathroom. "But it is from your world, not mine."

She may be Kinfolk, but that didn’t mean that she was really a part of the Garou Nation in that she would never fully understand (there were no comparisons to draw upon) what it meant to be a Full Blood that walked between the worlds and battles hideous monstrosities on a daily basis.

Konrad Vrdoljiak
Another silence, long and unhurried. Paced. His chest rises and falls slowly, evenly, with each breath. Three or four breaths pass before a sudden light comes into his eyes and he surges fluidly up and forward. He never stands - he is sitting with his back to the door; then he is rolling forward; then he is crouched at the edge of her bathtub, and all the expensive studiedly semi-casual clothing in the world would not disguise him for human.

His shirt is charcoal grey, long-sleeved, fitted. He puts his hand in the water and it darkens immediately to almost black, sodden, water gleaming dimly amidst the weave.

He puts his hand in the water, watching her face, and then in one smooth push he puts his fingers in her.

The space of a breath, two.

Softly then: "This is all I require from you, Sona, and it is mine to take as I wish. Therefore gifts are not necessary, and liable only to rouse my curiosity. This should be the last thing you want. The less attention I lavish upon you, the higher your chances of surviving until I am dead become."

He pushes deeper.

"Is that clear, little cat?"

Edyta
Her facial expression doesn’t really change (…as the Sociopath faces the Beast; emotional detachment in the heat of fierce rage; woman to man wrapped in the shared convoluted darkness that was their tribal heritage.) although there could have been the faintest hint of a an upper lip pulled back ever so slightly as the rim of white teeth filtered through faintly parted lips.

The water sloshed around her legs as she lifted one and crossed one ankle over the other under the water, disturbing and agitating the bubbles again, and thigh muscles conversely pressed tight around the flesh of his hand given it’s current placement. He had strength against her, that would always be a given, but she was viper quick when she needed to be (…movements like liquid flows and a cat that stalks).

Her body slid along the porcelain of the bottom of the bathtub, warmed by the heat of the water, and as a result muscles rippled and convulsed around invading fingers with a tightening as she lifted her upper body from the water. Liquid sluiced down over her shoulders, several strands of free long pale blond hair plastered slick against olive skin in a stark contrast of colors, and her nipples hardened in the sudden change from hot steaming water of cool steam filled air.

"As you wish," she said, neutrality at it’s best and unreachable.

She lifted her arms also, one long slender appendage laid across the far side of the bathtub for support of her new stance as the other lifted with a wet hand to come to rest against his cheek, cupping the flesh in the palm as a thumb flickered out and stroked very slowly across his lower lip (…a predator’s maw.) just one time as she then watched in an electric silence for a very long and tense period of silence.

"But this would be of interest even to you."

Konrad Vrdoljiak
"Tsk, tsk. Now, Sona," he pauses to laugh here, a low sound vibrating out from his chest like an earthquake from its epicenter. "I'm very curious."

His lips have moved under her thumb. Now they part, briefly, and he nips at the skin of her hand. You might almost call it affectionate, if you believed him capable of affection. Another second and then he withdraws his hand, the line of darkness creeping up his bicep by capillary action as he shakes his hand dry and stands. Like any good gentleman, he offers her his dry hand in assistance, palm-up.

"Show me."

Edyta
When he offers his hand out to her as an offer of assistance some women in her situation may have shrugged it off (a very dangerous course to take, really) stating they were capable of rising of their own accord. However, while their relationship was often filled with dry and scathing amusement directed towards on another that some could say bordered on undying dislike of one another and they were hardly affectionate in any sense of the word, there was some sense of civility that was followed, however much some of it could be construed as merely following rote procedure and was mocking of the actual intentions. He was a Beast before a Gentleman, but the hand would not go unheeded.

She placed one long olive hand in his offered one and used it as balance as she rose out of the still steaming water, bubbles and the sheen of Patchouli oil sliding and sticking slick along the fine curves of her lean physique. She lifted one foot and then the other over the side of the bathtub, standing on the dark bathmat, placing herself in the ever-precarious position of being within more than one mile of her ‘dear mate’ who was, at best mercurial, and at worst temperamental bordering on homicidal.

She ran her hands across slick wet olive skin, sliding them slowly over curves of arm, torso and legs to wipe away the bubbles that still clung before flicking the contents back into the steaming water that still rippled with her vacating of the tub. A hand snaked out around Konrad and picked up the short black satin robe left strewn across a small metal stool in the minimalist designed bathroom. It clung in patches to her still wet skin, but she belted it around her waist nonetheless and then stepped around her Beloved, to go to the bathroom door and open it.

Whether he followed or not was his own prerogative as she began a line that would take her to the open plan living area and the ‘gift’ that was kept within.

Konrad Vrdoljiak
Left in her wake, Konrad laughs softly to himself. The smear of liquid her hand left on his is wiped away gently on a hanging towel - the palm, then the back. Deliberate. Measured.

He is never hasty. Quick, perhaps, but not hasty. Not even in his violence. Not even when he strikes to kill. Haste implies uncertainty. A lack of control over the situation. Konrad would never willingly put himself in such a position.

At ease, a king in his domain, the Ahroun trails his mate out into the living area, his shoes padding over carpet, clocking over marble. While she goes to retrieve his gift, he diverts his course to the black leather couch. Briefly, he fingers the holes he left in the arm and, in the end, seems more amused than remorseful. Gentlemanly habit impels him to tug his trouser legs up a half-inch before he sits; he is a man used to fine clothing, fine things, all the privileges his status entails.

Exhaling, he simply leans back, crosses one ankle over the opposite knee, and waits to see what his little cat would bring for his amusement tonight.

Edyta
It was perhaps likely that Konrad might react in much the same manner as the Walker Philodox has done when she had delicately placed the wrapped bundle by his side on that self same couch that her mate had taken residence upon with all the stately manner of an educated gentleman used to traveling among the socially elite echelon. She moved like a cat across the jungle canopy, her movements liquid deft and precise, each step taking her all the closer to the side table where she slid out one of the drawers and removed a package that was concealed by the outline of her satin clad figure.

But words could not be taken back.
And his curiosity had been piqued.
(how dangerous)

She kept the package loosely in one hand as she turned back around, padding back lightly to where he taken a seat upon the couch and looked down at his reclined figure with a slow lingering gaze that seemed to watch the mannerisms of the way he had seated himself coupled with perhaps that same gaze a cat offers the canary in the cage that was just coming into reach, the kitten’s tail quivering with excitement and agitation in one. She held out the item towards him: it was black material covered in old dried black ichors and blood by the smell of it, with something long and hard inside. She gestured for him to unwrap the grisly smelling and feeling parcel made from ripped black material for covering, whatever it was on the inside was indiscernible at the moment.

Konrad Vrdoljiak
He looks not at the parcel, not at the stains, but at her. When she is languid in the tub, there is a certain satisfaction - satiation - in his long regard. When she moves [prowls] about her apartment, there is something else there.

His tawny gaze is wolfish.
Starving.

Heavy, his hand closes around her wrist instead. A smooth, hard tug sends her down on top of him. Not sitting is not an option; her wrist is, after all, connected to her shoulder. It's simply her choice whether to go along and descend gracefully - or topple into his lap. He always was a gentleman, allowing his mate such liberties.

"Now, then." There was never any flaw to be picked from his voice, and still isn't. Low and smooth, his tones; perhaps surprisingly so. Rich and cultivated like good coffee. Intoxicating like good wine. He plucks the parcel from her hand then and leans back to give himself room to work. Room to snap out his pocketknife, the steel blade gleaming hot in the lamplight. He gives Edyta a smile entirely too charismatic to be safe. "What have we here?"

The unwrapping is swift and sure, but clean. No ripping. No tearing. Simply the surgical precision of tape cut, knots cut, barriers removed unhurriedly. Funny; he undresses her the same way.

Most times.

Edyta
She went with the tug, if only because she knew that resisting would be futile in the long run. His grip was stronger and with his rage he would always be faster, even if her movements were viper quick, striking out sure and deadly when she needed it to be. It was, therefore, a graceful descending that she chose, ending up in his lap although she seemed to have either missed or chosen not to notice the look in his eyes as he had watched her prowl around the apartment and after she had held out the package to him.

The package…

It wasn’t difficult to unwrap, given that it had merely been swathed into the blood stained material, deftly wrapped nonetheless, but the dried black ooze that gave off a putrid smell and sheen even now made the material stiff and sticking in places. What was revealed, in time, was the leg of a creature. Wicked and deadly, like the Shadow Lords… but it was of no ordinary creature:

Wyrmling Critter.

Dark and dangerous in the ways that the Shadow Lords were not, as they were not the servants of the Wyrm, as the creature that this wicked hard and armor covered appendage had once belonged to. Sharp and curved similar to the blade of a seethe. It also didn’t smell all that good, given how long it had been dead and that she, as a Kinfolk, had no way to remove any lingering taint that the item still carried, long after the main body had been killed and destroyed.

Konrad Vrdoljiak
When the last layer comes apart under his careful, precise hands, Konrad takes a long breath in. Through his nose, at that.

Then the Ahroun laughs under his breath, his fingertips running gently over the curving, arching, gleaming surface of the claw. Caressingly, one might even say. For there is a beauty in the depraved, is there not? A beauty in the deadly and the twisted.

Just look at his cherished mate.

When he draws his hand back there is ichor on his fingertips. He looks at this as though he had never seen such a thing. Then he wipes it carefully on the swathing material spread, now, over his thighs and hers, with the claw a black exclamation point atop.

Konrad lets his hands rest on Edyta's thighs. Easily, comfortably, without threat. "Lovely, darling. Care to tell me the story behind it?"

They gave each other body parts as presents.
How adorable.

Edyta
“I was following Armand one evening,” she replied neutrally and carefully, “Before I knew of your attachment to him.” Well, at least that was something; it was prior to when she had known of Konrad’s association with the other Ahroun and from her words, neutral as they were, and her selective phrasing she had no interest in the Ahroun beyond the immediate need to fulfill a ‘need to know’ situation about the locale and the locals.

“He was drawn into an alleyway and was attacked,” she shrugged a shoulder slowly, a lean deft movement of supple musculature swathed beneath damp black satin, “He didn’t see the second creature,” she continued with a gesture towards the leg that her Ahroun mate had taken a fancy to, “But I did.”

A breath, not for dramatic appeal or any such grandeur, but regaining the ability to talk in long pieces after spending much time alone again and especially given the topic, “And I killed it.” She lent back enough against his body, a warm damp line of the curve of her back and side as she pulled down the very corner of the draping material near her neck to expose the now lingering scar where her shoulder had been injured on the same night that Armand, the Ahroun, had been torn to shreds, “Armand killed his after I managed to maim it with a shot; this was from one of the pieces that came out of the alley when he…” A faint pause, never quite smiling definitely not mocking, but picking the right words since she spoke of his Alpha, “Had a temper tantrum on it and reduced it to slush.”

She merely had not had the time, nor the Rage, to duck quickly enough. But from the sounds of it, she had taken her own kill without any form of injury from attacking it, while Armand’s had reduced him to a real mess of slash and wounds.

Konrad Vrdoljiak
There's a touch of a smile on his mouth when she so carefully phrases her words. Wouldn't want Konrad to get the wrong idea, would we? He's been known to take offense.

And heads.

His right hand skims up her torso to rest over the revealed scar. A fingertip sweeps over the puckered flesh, tracing the line down and then up, and then down again. Slower. "Mhm," he says, a sound low in his chest that spoke of amusement, "are you trying to tell me, Edyta, that you are a better warrior than Armand?"

His fingers still linger on the scar, thoughtful.

Edyta
“No,” she replied, because that was the correct response from any Kinfolk, especially a Shadow Lord bred and raised Kinfolk. They were never allowed to think that they were better than the Full Bloods. It would ruin their breeding and they would never be kept in ‘their place’ otherwise. “I merely do not…” she continued with a slow, long shrug of both shoulders, “Have to worry about the Rage.”

Because Rage can blind a Garou or can make them attack anything that moved within their vicinity till all was left with faint blood smears of the enemy or the dead body of a Garou that had reverting to its breed form as rigor mortis set in. She didn’t need to worry that the emotional stampeded of that much anger would cloud her thoughts or send her into a bezerk state, leaving her the freedom of taking time and precision.

Konrad Vrdoljiak
Konrad laughs. "Clever girl."

It was the correct response. It doesn't matter if he believes her or not. It doesn't even matter if she intends for him to believe her. What matters is that she said it. Their relationship is built on appearances. Appearances are, sometimes, all that really mattered.

Sometimes.

"And this," his index finger slides over her scar again, and then his hand cups over her bare shoulder to pull her firmly back against him. "Scarred rather quickly, didn't it?"

Edyta
“The Glasswalker, Rynn,” she replied, pulled back against him firmly; although she made no move to struggle (again, because it would be useless to do so) otherwise she would be placing herself in the position of the wounded bird being eyed by the snake in the grass. Never struggle, never look wounded: not in front of a Beast. “He did… something…” she added, unable to explain it given that she had been through healings by Garou Gifts in the past, but that didn’t mean that she would know the names that the Full Bloods ascribed to such talents - - she was just Kinfolk and she also avoided Full Blood for a very good reason, meaning a lack of knowledge, but what is known on such intimate details cannot be tortured out of a person, after all. “Healed the wound without asking. He said it was a gift.”

The last was for a reason; she had not asked for the healing, the Walkers had just… done it. Said that it was gift between two strangers on the same side, a gesture of good will. There was no reason why Konrad would need, as a result, to feel overly obligated as a result for the actions taking by the Walker Philodox in this case.

Konrad Vrdoljiak
This close, his cheek brushes against hers. Where her skin is olive-smooth, his is prickly with stubble. It's late in the day, and the virtuous were asleep.

"I see," murmurs Konrad. She feels it, his chest to her back, as much as she hears it. His rough-palmed hand moves aside, down, across, callouses scraping her skin and catching on her satin robe before he cups her breast through it. The left, over her heart. That organ's steady pulse beats beneath his palm; he can feel it as well as he can feel her breathe. Affectionately, you might say, he kisses the scar on her shoulder. Lingeringly, to be sure. Thoughtfully.

Then turns his head and sinks his teeth into her neck like he wanted to taste her blood. Like he wanted to throat her. Like he wanted to eat her alive, his hands tightening [possessive] on her flesh.

"You drive me mad sometimes," he murmurs against her neck, matter-of-fact and amused. There's a growl in his chest that somehow manifests as a laugh by the time it leaves his lips. Blunt human teeth could never tear out a throat, and anyway - he did not quite intend to. Did not quite want to. The pressure of his hand eases. He caresses her instead, his hand passing down her sleek body, down her taut abdomen, down past her navel. Pause. "See that he does not make too much of this 'gift', and what it entitles him to - hm?"

And sets the claw aside, places his hands on her waist, and lifts her gently back to her feet.

Edyta
There was no reaction when his hand cupped one breast over the stain, the pulse of her heart beating against flesh and material alike. Blood pumped through veins. The gift of life and could be shed so easily, given that Kinfolk - - which were close enough to human not to make much difference - - were just meat and bone and water when it all came down to it with visceral entrails that could be left seeping in a sodden heap on the floor with a bare swipe of Crinos claws.

She did stiffen when his teach sunk into her neck, a rigidity of muscles beneath it all, to be placed in such a vulnerable position without armament to perhaps fight back. Or maybe, just maybe, it was another reaction altogether that, as unlikely as it would seem to outsiders that looked upon their (fucked up) relationship, denoted some like of the possessive handling. After all, it could be worse than Konrad in many ways. After all, look at her previous husband. Her late husband, that is. She was, of course, a widow now thanks to the devilish actions of the present company Ahroun.

“I would rather not have him touch me again,” she stated blandly as he released her and listed her gently back to her feet, turning beneath his hands to look down on him from her now standing position as she deftly smoothed one hand down over the satin of the small robe that was all that clad her olive-toned physique. “He’s a bleeding heart.”

And if there was one thing that she didn’t have a care for it was those who were so concerned about the welfare of others and always trying to counsel and console those that they thought were inflicted by a bad life. Such as he seemed, amusingly, to think of her life with Konrad.

Konrad Vrdoljiak
The edge of his mouth curls up. His eyebrows flash up briefly at her. "Aren't they all, love?"

That she now stood above him does not seem to bother him overmuch. He sits relaxed, looking up at her. In certain parts of Slavic Europe, Shadow Lords have been known to take their mates' heads off for daring such. But then, Konrad is a very understanding man.

"You know how to fend them off. And if he proves a continued nuisance," a spreading of his hands: a distinct no big deal gesture, "I'll take care of it. And you."

The original terms of their agreement hadn't included such all-inclusive terms. No matter. Maybe he liked her better as a widow. Some men liked to be a woman's first master. Konrad: perhaps he liked to be her last.

Reaching out, he takes hold of the parcel and raises it briefly in acknowledgment as he stands. "By the way," offhand, "thank you for the gift. It's lovely."

Edyta
Bleeding Hearts were also emotionally messy. And she hated messy - - as he well knew. Feeling required the need for emotional attachment to your surroundings and a certain respect for Life, which in many ways she didn’t have thanks to her mental predisposition and the training of her Family. Much of life was messy, however, but emotions also unduly complicated things. It was why she never really got attached to any one thing, let alone a person. The only thing that she probably was remarkably attached to, in some way, was her rifle, but if only because it could be such a pain to get and ship in another of its caliber and specialties.

She stepped back and away from him so that she wasn’t looking down on her mate, as - - understanding - - as he may be, her prowling movements like a sleek black cat taking her the short way to the coffee table and the packet of cigarettes thereon. She tapped one of the soft pack with a light thwap of her palm to the bottom, extricating it with long olive digits and sliding it between her lips. She picked up the silver lighter next to the packet, a lit the end of the cigarette till it glowed a cherry red as she inhaled the toxic fumes deeply.

Maybe if she was unlucky (or would it be lucky?) she would die on cancer before she was eviscerated by her beloved mate: as it was more than likely that they would be the death of one another, in one way or another, if only because of their temperaments, as much of a bizarre match that they made in some ways. Neither seemed to expect very much of the other, save a lip service to the requirement of the Nation and a few other ‘mate like’ actions, although as per their agreement - - when he conceived, bore and birthed a squaling, mewling baby then she would consider doing the same for him.

She stepped further away then, walking to the same side table and picked up a small envelope and carried it back with him, perching on the edge of the leather couch and stretching out one leg for balance as she lent forward, satin robe falling open slightly with shadow play across her breasts, and held it out to him. “This arrived for you,” was her only explanation.

Konrad Vrdoljiak
He had perhaps been preparing to leave. The envelope stops him, however, his eyebrow rising. After the slightest pause, he reaches out and clips it from her between his index and middle fingers, turning it about with admirable ease to read his deedname inscribed on the outside.

He slices the envelope with the same knife and draws out the card. One word. Turn it over. One glyph.

Intriguing.
Shadow Lords.

A brief frown crosses his kingly brow. He lifts the card to his face and inhales. Does not recognize the scent. Counts rapidly back through his mind, lists of names - the frown clears. Konrad chuckles, a scissoring of his fingers flipping the card up for her to read.

"Do you recognize the hand?"

Edyta
She tilts her head to the side like the predatory creature that she is and reads the written words, having already recognized the expensive card that had been removed from the envelope, but then she had known of the package that had come, although marked for her. She studied the sweep and arc of the letters, the dot of the I’s and the curve of the g’s before she nodded once before speaking:

“Uncle by marriage, twice removed, on my father’s side.”

Konrad Vrdoljiak
Not a falter, "And he is?"

Edyta
“Philodox, I believe,” she replied with a slow languid shrug of her shoulders. She inhaled another lungful of smoke, still perched on the edge of the couch with one leg stretched out of balance and the other partially drawn up. She slid an arm around the back of the seat, resting her weight against it seemingly, and exhaled a slow, sinister plume of smoke that hazed her features.

“He handles some of the family correspondence,” she added with another faint shrug. Konrad had, after all, had her mail something to her family. Actually, several somethings and all very gruesome in nature and context, so it was hardly a wonder that some sort of message had been returned, although when it came down to it, it could have been a worse message. Like a knife in the spine?

Konrad Vrdoljiak
"Ah." He smiles like a lawyer. Like a wolf concealing his teeth. "And he handles the family..." one or two meaningless turns of his hand as he searches for the right word, "...matings?"

Edyta
“Mainly execution orders,” she replied without a blink or change in tone as she lent to one side, lifting a hand to slid the satin up slightly to keep it from falling open too far at the movements of her torso, she tapped the ashes from the cigarette and then lifted it to her lips again as she lent back, like a deadly cat reclining and watching him from her precarious perch. Occasionally she even quite liked what she saw when she looked upon her mate, even if she wasn’t overly attached to him. “Occasionally the mating of certain family members.”

Konrad Vrdoljiak
"Fascinating." Still that smile, amused, gentle, frightening. "Truly.

"Pass a little something along to him for me, hm?" He folds the card over in his hand and a black cloud of anger gathers in the room. Temper, temper, Konrad. "Give him my gratitude for the compliment. And tell him: action is the path of the strong. Warnings and veiled threats - " he crumples the note suddenly in his fist, his smile not fading an inch, " - petty instruments of the weak. Do you think that would be too obscure for your vaunted uncle, darling? He might not expect subtlety from an Ahroun. It might frighten him. Shall I phrase it more succinctly for him? Tell him this instead.

"Step up. Or shut up."

He pitches the crumpled note at her feet. Throws the envelope after it, and finally, in a smooth arc of his arm, tosses the claw back on the sofa. The smile has become something else, a grin, sharkish. "Now come here. And take that silly robe off."

He'll Cleanse the damned wyrmclaw later.

Edyta
And what other choice, really, was there to be had in a situation like this?
She was, after all, his mate with all the mate-type ‘chores’ that needed to be tended to.
But at least - - at the very least - - she gave as good as she got.
(If not better.)

So, if nothing else, the rest of the night was more than likely going to be quite interesting.

So much for a quiet evening…

Therefore, she rose, unlashing the belt around the black satin robe and allowed it to puddle around her feet as she padded towards him without much change in her expression, although her drowning blue eyes had darkened a touch, perhaps indicating that adrenaline rush of the Sociopath courting the Beast.

But would it really be the same any other way?