#dmitri.001

“Poison.” There was nothing in her face that threatened her bluff for it was a calm sort of vexation that settled over her facade of which was the result of his quick snatch of the cup that was in her hands. She, who was prim and proper, was the product of wealthy breeding and his ill-mannered action grated on her sense of propriety. Poison, she had said just as he took a sip of the drink. 

But one such as Arina Zahkarov was not made for guile. There was no helping the ghost of a smile slowly manifesting on the outer corners of her lips, quickly appearing just as swiftly her exasperation dissipated. However, she did not admit her blatant falsity—for what use was it to state the obvious? If he could not see such a simple ruse then he deserved to remain in the dark. At least for a while. She was not so cruel.

Whereas he, she could tell despite her inexperience with the like, was indeed cruel. To what degree? She could only fathom. And his question—oh, how it would have scandalized her if it had been asked by any other person, any other person because she was accustomed to his carnal behaviour by way of rumours. So, his inquiry did not surprise her but it didn’t stop the blush spreading across her cheeks. “Dmitri—” she mirrored his used of her name. “I believe that is not your concern,” she said before taking back her drink.