#oh daaaamn

Atreion clapped a hand over his own mouth, stifling the yell that threatened to escape him. Only instinct, the same bone-deep knowledge in which a dog recognises its master kept him from lashing out at his assailant before the dark resolved itself into a pale face and a pair of green eyes darkened to almost black. He struggled - of course he did, he would not be Atreion otherwise - but he might as well have been fighting stone, his hahren's iron grip as fierce as those eyes.

That little comtesse left her scent all over you, Da'len.

Atreion swallowed hard, irrational guilt washing over him. Her perfume had been disgusting: sickly-sweet and floral, he had felt like he was choking on it every time she leaned in close, painted lips stretched in a smile. She had clung to him all day, pleading for him to show her one dilapidated room after another as if she gave a damn about anything other than getting as close as she could. Perhaps, in another world, he might have found her beautiful, but her perfectly painted nails upon his arms felt like claws, and it was only the politeness drummed into him by a dozen advisors that had kept the smile on his face. Smile, nod, keep walking. Wait and wait and wait until the moment you can get away.

At the dinner bell, he had practically fled from her grasping hands, babbling some half-baked excuse about feeling faint. No, he had been fleeing, not even caring where he was going until hands had struck from the dark, snaring him for the second time that day. And yet... He didn't know what it said about him that he was relieved. Relieved to be caught in a dark alcove like a rat in a trap, hungry cat and all.