thefacelcssâ:
not what she expected, yet still an overwhelmingly favorable reaction. with little room to maneuver (read: none) and even less desire to increase the otherâs obvious discomfort with physical altercation (read: that could be taken the wrong wrong way). a low moan is elicited from her lips, eyes darkening with trained desire.  âstop,â whispered in husky tone, âquit toying with me.â
Roseâs gaze cuts through her with laser-like precision, allowing shame and embarrassment to seep in, taking the edge off of her anger. She is suddenly and painfully aware of the precariousness of their situation -- how readily she had positioned herself to cause pain. The very thought of what she might have done if left unchecked brings bile to the back of her throat and forces her to take a step back, finally letting the other woman go. Roseâs opinion of the act is irrelevant to her distaste of it. The woman doesnât know her past, her mind, the fear that follows close of the heels off blistering rage. Her hands find her face. fingers dragging across skin as though she might be able to claw her way out of it. It would be so much easier to be somebody else, but no matter how many times she changes faces and how hard she tries to cling to all that is good, something always seems to coax her back to that dreadful, terrible ledge beneath which legendary anger roils. When she speaks, it seems as though she hadnât even been listening to the redheadâs words.     âIâm sorry.â          âIâm so, so sorry.â
















