he looked quite peaceful, when he was sleeping. she had thought that the first time too, when she had appeared at his bedside after the joust, a woman scorned. it was terribly easy, to stick to the shadows, to slip past the blackwood guard on silent, bare feet. desmera thinks that she could kill him now, that the stiffness characteristic of a corpse would set in long before anybody deigned to notice. she is relieved to know, at last, that the dragon attack had not marred the collection of features that she so loved. it is only a shame that he is too handsome to sacrifice to her ire! the straight line of his nose, the gentle shadow that his eyelashes leave on his cheekbone in the moon's blueish - purple light, the way his hair falls on his forehead, perfect even in slumber —  all of it is what keeps her paring knife firmly in its sheath on her belt. besides, if desmera were to use her knife on the soft of ren's neck, she would be loathe to use it on her morning apples. dark plum eyes follow it to the point that it disappears within the collar of his nightshirt anyhow, hungry.

ren may have neglected to ask after her, choosing not to see for himself if she were alive or dead even after she had gifted him with her maidenhead —  but still, her heart thudded for him, the pump of her blood syrupy and sticky sweet. she thinks of her husband to be, and her mood darkens. " ren, " desmera begins, voice hushed, soft fingertips caressing the apex of his cheekbone. she leans down, pressing a kiss there. " — ren. " louder, her hand flattening, her palm slapping against the same cheek. after all, she came bearing a message of dire import. she remains close, wide eyes waiting to be met by her prey's, her own rolling in her impatience. " you sleep like a bloated corpse. dead to the world. "

women and cats will do as they please. embodying both made desmera a hedonist to rival even the worst of sensualists. succumbing to her own wishes had long been the breath of her life, no matter the accusations that they had earned her. out of her mind, strange of the head, selfish, irredeemable, frightening, heretic, heathen — all paled, desmera thought, in comparison to whore. what was it about love and its makings that spurred such passions, whether they be ill - intended or otherwise? she hadn't known as much as where to seek out the answer until she had tasted the soured tongue of sevan reyne upon her own. she found that physical pleasures came naturally to her, the bend of her spine long, her habits rather nocturnal, her tongue eager to press to skin.

still, despite communing with them continuously under the last moon, she had saved her virtue for another, stopping them with the bite of her fingernails in their back. some things —  some people, desmera thought, were best waited for. kissing, however, did not grace even the bottom of that list. her lips are wine reddened, her fingertips much the same. it was more enjoyable to make drinking a game, to dip her fingers in the blood red of her wine and close her lips around them one by one without letting a drop fall to the tabletop. the more that she drank, the more frequently that the wine ran down her wrists to burrow within the fabric of her sleeves. she has left a wine - red handprint on the side of sevan's jaw, but she makes quick work of it, teeth and tongue brushing against his skin.

the tent dances around them, even the fabric of its walls whirling and pirouetting with the movement of the revelers within it. lord alester, for all of his bumbling, knows what it is to host a party. the crowd is packed tightly, the dirt of the ground sloppy with spilled drink, but desmera does not mind the mud on the bare of her feet, her slippers long lost to the muck of the dancefloor — nor does she mind her torso pressed to sevan's, a locale she has familiarized herself with with relative zeal. her lips pressed to the side of his neck, her eyes pass over the faces of those around them. how strange it was to see any of these people's features contorted in happiness. how strange it was to catch a glimpse of ren amongst them but yet far from her, when it was his hands she imagined on her now. " you, " she purrs to the ink of sevan's tattooed neck, furrowing her brow when ren does not look her in the eye by some feat of will.