Of course he shouldn’t expect anything that could be remotely approximated to sympathy. Deodar wouldn’t lower himself to offering it even if he were capable of it. But the incubus was wounded; both by his failing and what had brought it about. He wouldn’t admit his fear, wouldn’t acknowledge the haunting flashes of bruising hands and rank breath. Instead all he could feel was anger - his pride rallying against his injustice.
He rose to his feet gracefully, his long tail undulating and thrashing like a whip as a warmth was removed from the room with a snap as though the windows had been flung open. It was the withdrawal of his influence, pulling back into him like a retreating tide, the candles in the room flickering before they dimmed, flames reduced to feeble licks that barely cast light.
“There are some things that do not have a price.” He hissed with another thrash of his tail, his black eyes narrowed contemptuously. “No amount of gold would make me degrade myself so; even for you. He would have passed me around like a common whore; like an hors d'oeuvres platter between his revolting, pond life merchant acquaintances.”
He had crossed the room until he was within striking distance now but still he stood his ground; as disconnected from his fasena and as cold towards him as one of the grandmaster’s marble statues - yet burning all the same as he glared up at him.
“You’ll get your gold, my lord-” He spat venomously. “And then some. But not from him; filthy, grubby-fisted new money. Nothing slips through my fingers that I do not discard wilfully. And I do not close any doors without another already ajar.”
Of course he felt the shift in the room. The influence of his beloved pulled away from him like the bitter surge of a tide, threatening to pull his feet out from under him and submerge him in the throes of Hell. It was within the grasp of a God that one should most readily expect to feel the onslaught of its counterpart, the demons that always licked at its tail. In the presence of his Perfection, Deodar had learned that his demon was his insufferable temper and insistence on acting out against Deodar. It was a daily battle to reason if such displays were an imperfection or a simple snag in the creature he knew to be Perfect.
Deodar didn’t visibly react to Narcyz’ words nor the shift of his influence, but his fingers dug more forcefully into the arm of the chair he leaned casually against. Only when Narcyz had finished speaking did Deodar look up at him; his head already began to pound at his temples, crying out for the drug which had been taken from him. It made his temper even more short than the lack of coin filling his treasury.
“Do you believe me so incompetent that I would have allowed you to be passed around against your will?” Deodar shouted suddenly. He stood then, the chair that he’d previously been in shoved several paces backwards by the force, and towered over the incubus. He didn’t raise his hand to hit him. Deodar loathed damaging his Perfection, and only resorted to such extreme measures when he felt he had no other options. He instead chose to use his size to his advantage, hoping to strike fear simply by existing in a larger body than Narcyz.
“Do you have such little faith in me as a lover and a provider that I would allow some imperfect, incontinent bastard to defile you in ways I did not believe you would come back from? Do you not trust me, and believe not in what we have built here to suffer but only a few moments discomfort?” Deodar snarled, his voice an eerie calm as he stared into his eyes. His palms were sweating. His head throbbed.
He groaned loudly and rolled his eyes. “By the Gods, you’re an insufferable, ungrateful brat, do you know that?!” He shouted, forcefully swatting a nearby decoration off the table it rested on.
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