The Underground is not a place for softness. It is a place to brandish blades, to lash out with sharpened claws. It is a place of hunters and prey – eat or be eaten. Every day, lives are on the line – souls teeter on the edge of oblivion. Theirs, others. Lives are lost, taken. Some are even taken by their own hands.

And yet, in private, these hands find other purpose.

Alexi rests his head in Rosalie's lap. His hands are folded now. No blade does he wield; his claws are retracted. Hues of honey blink up at her, then shut as she runs her fingers through his hair. Soft. Peaceful. Such gestures are out of place for the Underground, but are they out of place for them? Or are these little glimpses of gentle affection the most natural thing about them?

❛ Mmm. That feels nice. ❜ A rumble from the back of his throat; he peeks an eye open to look up at her again. Corners of his lips upturn into a grin when he is met with her gaze in return. His other eye opens, and his eyes search hers.

His leg. Damn it. His fucking leg. Even through black cloth, Alexi could see the red soak him, seeping from the stab wound. Rosalie had taken care of their assailant, but they were both painfully aware of how the underworld worked. There would be more coming – and quickly. So, despite her inquiry – it was not a question of whether he could walk. Her second statement was far more accurate. He needed to.

❛ Fuck– ❜ Alexi groans, pressing his hand against the wound in attempt to stop the bleeding. He begins pushing his weight up, and he stumbles forward a bit. Rosalie, though small, moves to help him. He will not crush her with his weight – so he manages to regain his balance.