Blood and Bone

She had been pacing, anxious, and Azagi assumed the witch was either unaccustomed to seeing such violence or had someone in the ring she cared about.

"What magic are you good with? Perhaps we can help each other, considering something has you pacing a hole in the floor of this fine establishment." Deals were always her favourite thing to make, sweeter when they involved a soul, but they didn't always have to - the right quid pro quo would have the wrath demon letting mortals keep their souls. Some things were more important. Jakoris was more important.

While blood-magic wasn't her specialty, she could use it if necessary though she was far from an expert at the craft, not like some of those that lived in the city. She'd felt Zane's power first hand, and she knew of others by reputation. But should the need arise, she could certainly pull at the blood of others.

Selene was cautious to make any kind of deal with a demon, she wasn't a fool by any means necessary—not with the way she'd been raised. But she also knew opportunity when it presented itself. "Many things, curses, hexes, shadows, flames. But if you want blood, that could be arranged." Selene answered. "But that depends on what you can give me in return."

Instead, he stumbled upon the aftermath of a brutal crime scene, arriving mere seconds after the deliverance of the killing blow. Now this… this was something interesting.

Though he had yet to see the victor's face, he knew it immediately to be infamous Wayward Hunter. When he spoke, a smile tugged at Olin's lips.

"Tell me about it." The words came out smooth and knowing, heavy with the insinuation that the very danger in question came from the speaker himself. The vampire's languid gaze dropped to the corpse at the other man's feet, and for a moment, he saw the ghost of a different ending—one that might have been his own all those years ago. Slain by the hunter’s hand, laid out bloody and decapitated with a stupid, open-mouthed look on his face. The image left as quick as it came, and, in an all too casual manner he pivoted his eyes back toward Clay.

"Friend of yours?"

As he stood, Clay slipped the blade back into his belt, casting one final dismissive look down at his dead prey. He really should have thought better before drawing the attention of a Cross—especially one who was just as every bit a monster himself.

Then his eyes finally turned to Olin, looking at the other vampire with a cool sort of detachment, but beneath it there was an almost reluctant...fondness. After all, Clay wasn't in the business of letting many of his quarry live, and yet Olin proved to be more useful alive than dead—for now.

"Ain't a friend to anyone anymore." Clay replied, head tilting in curiosity as he looked the other over. "Offering yourself as my next friend?" He smirked a little.

@wxldxheart | Selene

It was like clockwork, a mystical, primal compulsion, that Olin found himself seated beneath the sickly neon glow of the Ghouliard. It had been weeks since his last visit, business kept him buried in the trenches of the Darklands, but tonight, he tore himself away from work to indulge in play—to set his eyes on her.

Temptation itself was encapsulated in the lithe, swaying form of the youngest Malikov daughter. Beauty like hers came once every few centuries, and when she took the stage, all eyes in the room followed. No exception, Olin allowed himself to fall victim to her spell, letting it widen his pupils, tunnel his vision, and consume all his attention. Behind that pretty face lay a plethora of secrets; some heard, some seen, some passed down by her family's bloodline, pumping through her veins. God, what he wouldn't give to taste it. To know what she knew.

The song ended too quickly. It always did when she danced. Only once she stepped off stage did he make his move, slipping from the audience to stalk her path like a cat trailing its prey. Though by the time he caught up to her just outside the backrooms, somewhere forbidden and meant for dancers only, he stepped cleanly into her path, grinning like a butcher’s dog.

“Hiya, beautiful.” A greeting she had likely heard for the tenth time that evening, delivered just as smug as the last. His eyes searched hers, looking for that telltale gloss of intoxication, the loosened focus, any sign she’d already indulged or was close enough to be persuaded.

He watched her a beat too long, expression unreadable, caught somewhere between admiration and appraisal. Then, without a word, he lifted a small, clear baggie between them, half full with an off-pink powder. The gesture was shameless and unhurried, lacking all discretion and presented as a casual offering instead of something illicit.

The stage was always a glorious reprieve, she found enjoyment under the lights, the beat of music, the dance of her magic to ensnare and entrance all those who watched. But it was over far sooner than she'd like, and her next performance wouldn't be for another few hours.

Time left to bore her to frustration.

She slipped from the stage, heels taking her towards the backstage instead of out into the crowd where she knew hungry patrons waited to seek her attentions—but instead Selene wanted a moment of peace.

But a familiar voice made her pause. Turning, Selene's gaze landed on Olin, the vampire looking as smug as he ever did. She raised a delicate brow, about to deliver some quick quip of dismissal before he cut off her words, holding up the little baggie of pink powder.

Well, that would certainly take the edge off the monotonous drag of the evening.

Location: Slaughter Ring Closed: for @wxldxheart

To encounter one of the truly ancient ones usually meant certain death and undeniable trouble. That was one of the many cruel rules of Calamity. Yet here Heathcliff was, about to willingly go greet one of them in public. ‘Public’ being a very loose term here since they both reserved and enjoyed private seating in the VIP section of the arena that shielded them from being perceived by the general public, accidentally placed right next to each other, separated only by a solid screen between each booth. When one of Heathcliff’s informants came back from being paid to mingle outside and gather info to keep the fae man updated, letting Heathcliff know that Oberyn was there had been one of the biggest surprises he could hope to receive. He deliberated what should be done about it for the whole long, tense fifteen minutes, likely making a very uncomfortable company for the umpteenth time for both Sylvia and Oleander to be in before he finally got up to leave again, albeit only just next door. Likely by now a very odd series of behaviors and actions from Heathcliff in others’ eyes, considering that for a mere spectator he seemed far too much on the move and busy in a place that wasn’t even his territory. A few steps after and he could raise a hand to gently tap his knuckles on the door to Oberyn’s booth, not waiting long to let himself in. “Room service?” A poor attempt at a joke instead of announcing himself. Even Heathcliff had to raise an eyebrow at it but he was very much aware that he could not have done better than that even if he tried. “Although I am an odd twenty years late, many apologies.” He entered wearing the glamour Oberyn was familiar with, one Heathcliff used for public appearances that kept the said public guessing who he actually was and which species he might belong to. Most of his most prominent features and facial contours had been kept but any feaness was completely erased, Heathcliff’s disguises constantly getting perfected over the years into something subtly unrecognizable yet still not too difficult to maintain.

“May I enter and sit with you for a little while?” Despite their knowing each other, it was still polite to ask. After all, twenty years of little to no contact could make a world of a difference in any dynamic, no matter what it had been before and on which note it had been left last. As far as Heathcliff knew, twenty years could’ve left the other man no longer willing to deal with him or twenty years had passed because some other, more concerning thoughts and plans had occurred. And who would want an ancient to be their concern? Certainly not Heathcliff. If this unlikely acquaintance hadn’t been made at Heathcliff’s most vulnerable and manic period of life and had the fae man known Oberyn’s true age and status from the very first second of them meeting, they likely wouldn’t have ever cross paths again. As it were, they’ve been through things when Heathcliff needed to go through them the most, when he was oh so young and half mad with grief and pain. As apprehensive as any smart person could be of an ancient, gratefulness was a decent sentiment to hold in this case despite everything. And out of gratefulness Heathcliff could be persuaded to brave the dangers of an ancient being’s temperament beyond any better judgement.

He'd taken to the VIP suites to watch because why the fuck not—he could more than afford it, and well it was certainly a spectacle to watch the Forgotten's Commander fight against some grisly creature with his sister-queen not feet away.

When knuckles rapt upon the screen for his section, Obi almost didn't look up from where he was watching the next set of combatants until he heard a familiar voice. Amber eyes turned up towards the fae as a slow smile spread across Oberyn's lips. Well well, how long had it been since he'd seen this particular coin-master? A few decades at least.

Obi chuckled at Heathcliff's attempts at humour—it really never had been the fae's strong point, but the attempt was amusing none-the-less. He gestured to the empty space beside him, smirk never faltering. "What is twenty years to creatures like us?" Obi said as he relaxed back in his own chair, his eyes studying Heathcliff for a long moment.

He looked the same, a few little modifications to his glamour perhaps, but that was to be expected. Oberyn hadn't changed at all, not in twenty years, not in four-thousand. The only part of time that ever seemed to touch the sorcerer was changing fashions.

"Polite to ask querido—but you needn't bother. Your company is always appreciated." Oberyn replied, though it was never entirely obvious when he was being truthful or not, though he was more so with certain people.

A low chuckle escaped him. "You’re not wrong," he agreed shamelessly. "Someone's gotta keep the audience entertained." His crimson gaze flickered briefly toward the wounded thigh before returning to Greyson's face. The injury had already decided the pace of the fight. "I'd tell you to stand your ground..." he mused, taking another unhurried step forward. "...but it looks like your leg's already made that decision."

Smoke unfurled around his boots as his form dissolved for the briefest instant. Embers scattered across the arena floor before gathering again only a stride away from the Commander. No dramatic flourish. No warning. Just an impossible burst of speed. Demonic teleportation he had to measure if he didn’t want to run out of stamina before reaching the top of the podium. Naj's hand shot toward the glaive, grabbing the shaft to guide its point off line while his boot drove into Greyson's injured leg. Not hard enough to shatter bone, just enough to make him bleed some more. Enough to force his balance onto the very limb that could no longer bear him.

"There."

As he stared at the Prince from above, hellfire bloomed lazily around Najelon's free hand, black at its heart and crimson around its edges, casting an unnatural glow across his grin. He didn't hurl it like some reckless brute, he let it burn close to Greyson’s face, to let him feel the overwhelming heat of hell itself.

The flames hissed across the air between them. His smile widened. "Don't worry, little fish." His voice dripped with mock reassurance. "I'll try not to overcook you."

The hand around Greyson’s glaive summoned fire as well. The flashing black and red spread over the weapon and the Commander’s hand in the blink of an eye, engulfing both in a searing wave.

He ignored the jabs and taunts, no interest in giving the demon the satisfaction of a response. But the flare of speed, embers and ash, was something Greyson couldn't defend against in his current state. His injury kept him slow, slower than usual on land, and so try as he might to deflect the incoming blow—he was unable.

Greyson rose his glaive, but Naj caught the shaft, his foot driving into the Prince's injured thigh making him grunt at the burst of pain. Blood oozed into the sand beneath his feet as he held firm—using his remaining strength not to be forced to his knees even with his weight pushed onto his wounded leg, the pain screaming through his body.

Inch by inch the Prince's leg gave way a little more, his balance teetering further, jaw set with the explosion of pain. But he held—he pushed back. Until hellfire blazed in his face, the heat harsh against Greyson's skin even more so than any other species. Fire—while his natural element of water was strong against such a thing, he was also prone to burning far more easily than others.

It wasn't until that blaze of fire flared across the hilt of his glaive, swallowing up over the Commander's arm, licking and burning from his fingers higher and higher until it cut across one shoulder, his neck, catching the left side of his face.

Greyson gave a shout of agony as the flame's burned him, his fingers locked on his weapon for as long as he could before he was forced to release, crumpling to the sand. He clutched at his blackened arm, glaring up at the demon with rage before using what little of his remaining strength he had left.

Round one was over in the blink of an eye. It had been too easy, and all he cared about afterward was the outcome of Raven’s fight. Fortune seemed to be smiling at both of them that night, nonetheless. Her opponent—another bloodsucking prick, ugh—didn’t even try. Good. And for the next fight… Baekyong knew better than piss him off.

He could focus on his own affairs, on the little prince stepping into the arena already injured and completely traumatized. The royal fight had become the main event, holding everyone’s attention hostage until one of them fell. Some people were outraged, but most enjoyed seeing them exposed and vulnerable. Naj was no different. It was a pity that Azagi was missing the show, but she was certainly enjoying her time taking care of Najelon’s prisoners, right?

“Family reunion gone wrong, little Prince?” he asked mockingly, sharp teeth glinting under bright lights that made it hard to see beyong the ring. “You seemed as surprised as the rest of us to know there was a third sibling.” A chuckle escaped him. No matter the occasion, taunting his opponent came naturally to him, but in this case Naj was genuinely amused.

The demon was slowly circling the merman, lightweight steps that didn’t make sense for a man his size. He’d let the merman make the first move just like he did with the werewolf. It was easier to win when they dug their own graves.

He barely registered when his next match was due to begin until the gates opened and he was once again stepping out into the ring. The Prince walked with a limp, his thigh still bleeding heavily from the first fight, unable to heal himself between matches—whether that was the orchestrator's intentions or not meant little.

His eyes locked onto his opponent, but Greyson didn't register much beyond the scent of sulphur and smoke that always clung to demon-kind. A filthy abomination he'd have no issues killing—but Greyson knew he was already at a disadvantage. His mind unsteady like a storming ocean, body already pushed—perimeters no soldier should fight under.

The jeers and taunts from his opponent didn't appear to rattle the Prince, but beneath the hard mask—they burned. "You demons talk too much." Greyson replied, fingers gripping the hilt of his glaive, taking a step to make an attack when he saw an opening but his leg gave out, blood oozing from the wound, almost bringing the Commander to his knees, a growl of pain slipping from his throat.

Nisha's eyes met his intense glare, narrowing slightly as he spoke. "So a human's life is more important than your own? More important than your wants and needs?" She practically spat at him, not caring how close they were to one another as she did. But soon enough, he unraveled himself from her grasp and shoved away from her.

A mixture of anger, hurt and amusement swelled in her chest. Free of her? Clayton would never be free of her, regardless of how hard he tried. He was a part of her, whether he liked it or not. "Control over your hunger." She repeated in a low, unamused tone. If she was honest with herself, Nisha was a bit surprised by the wish. Out of everything he could have asked for, he wanted something that could already be achieved with practice.

Because deep down, he did enjoy the kill. And he hated himself for it.

Vampirism after all, only made your inner nature heightened, more potent. And Clayton's inner nature was that of a predator.

He continued to stare out into the night, shoulders slumped in defeat, in a bone deep tiredness that had been festering inside Clay for centuries. He heard the mockery in her voice, the amusement—and shouldn't be surprised, yet it still cut him deep. As much as he tried to deny it, Clayton couldn't help but seek her approval—he wanted her to want him as much as he didn't. The dichotomy of his life always felt like a cruel joke.

But then he heard the softness to her voice, felt her clasp her fingers in his, and turned to face her—his eyes defeated. "Can you? Six centuries and I am no closer to being free of this thirst than the first night I fed..." He said, voice breaking before he dropped to his knees before her, head pressed to her hip. "Help me." He said in a begged whisper.

A deadly expression met hers, causing her nervous system to spike with anxiety. Run. I have to get out of here. But as she moved to scramble to her feet, her body jerked in an unnatural way and pain exploded in parts of the body that she'd never felt before. Avery let out a scream as she fought against the magic but it only seemed to make things worse.

As he spoke, she gasped, trying to gulp down any oxygen she could to calm herself down but it was almost futile. Every movement she tried to make, even if not intentional against his, only caused more pain to course through her muscles.

No! Avery, not that way. Don't you remember them saying a witch lives there? They say she can get you to do what she wants, even if you don't want to. A voice from a memory flashed through her mind. Was he like that Witch? Could he make her do what he wanted, regardless of what she did?

"Si, you are very much in my debt as is the one who requested your resurrection, though I have already made my deal with her." Obi mused casually as he watched her. He lifted one of the glasses that had come with the carafe, idly watching as the empty cup slowly filled with a deep amber brandy seemingly from nowhere.

"You see Avery, when it comes to magic—you're unlikely to find anyone in the state as powerful as I. And I happen to like helping other magically gifted individuals when they show particular talent." Obi began, taking a sip as his gaze returned to her.

"The body they had me shove your little soul into seems to be one such talented individual—only now, that power has been handed over to an inexperienced child. Magic is best groomed and practiced young, but with my help you could make quite the talented little witch, or if you think you could do it alone....well, I'm sure we shall be finding pieces of you all over the pavement in a few weeks." He chuckled.

Slowly he leaned forward, elbows rested on his knees as he looked down at her. "With my help, well, you could be settling old scores with demons, a smile on your face." He smirked.

"Hm?" He questioned, sitting back in his seat and leaning towards Obi to hear what he was saying. "He's pretty enough for a Mer." Leo shrugged, thinking that The Commander was one of the prettiest Mer's he'd ever seen, but perhaps that wasn't such a big pool to compare against, "Just a little too serious for my tastes." Or at least it seemed that way, watching him in the ring. "Besides, everyone knows that Fae are the most beautiful, no?" He smirked, his eyes finally dragging themselves away from the fight to rest on Oberyn.

"Fae? Hm, depends on the fae in question." Obi shrugged, his eyes finally turning away from the match to lock on his conversation partner. The sorcerer gave a playful little smirk. As he looked the other over, he could tell he'd not paid his own way into the VIP suite, so who's little plaything was he? And people really shouldn't leave their toys alone.

"So who's your money going on then or are you not a betting man?" Obi smirked.

She was following him, knowing that he wouldn't go to wherever he was intending with her next to him. He wouldn't trust her enough to let her know what he was up to, but that didn't mean she couldn't enquire.

"So, what's got the Commander gracing the shores? Must be pretty important. I hear that you don't come to land for anything much less, unless the birdies are wrong on that?"

Saylor hadn't much involved him in the particulars of the Forgotten's cleansing, he and his men had been dealing with housing and protecting their people while shore-bound. Greyson had heard a sorcerer had done it, power like that was...intimidating.

Of course she kept following him, either looking to find out his movements or just to keep him from getting any actual work done. "Clearly nothing worthy of your attention." Greyson rolled his eyes. "Even the Commander gets shore-leave." Let her think he wasn't doing anything important.

"Witch?" She questioned the stench of magic surrounding her, but she could've just been sitting next to one of them, if the pacing woman ever sat. "Do you carry potions on you? I need one to speed up a vampire's healing. Either a potion or blood, if you're one of those who play with that. I'll pay, if you have one, or the ingredients to make one here and now. Either Kochba or services returned." What was the point in being a mercenary if she couldn't barter for services offered and services gained?

If it were a no, she wouldn't waste time arguing; instead, she would plot her next move against the kin she considered closest to her: the kin who had made a move on someone she considered hers, whether any labels were officially associated with them or not. In return, she had made a move on what was his. It was disappointing to hear that Raven's first opponent walked away from the fight; perhaps her next opponent would offer more.

She didn't expect the conversation to continue, to have her magic called out and then to have demands made for aid. Truth be told, Selene almost didn't hear the request, her attention drawn back to the score board, trying to see if Elian's match was soon. Her mind was filled with worry, clouding almost every other thought.

"What?" Selene said, once again tearing her eyes away and back to the other woman. Potions? Not Selene's specialty, and certainly not healing remedies, she'd never had that art, no the Malikov children were taught in the ways of dark magic long before they'd ever been given the chance to taste the light. "No, healing magic isn't my forte and I don't feed vampires." She answered, her lips pulled into a small frown of distaste at the suggestion.

Enjoying a vampire's bite wasn't something she'd say no to in the right situation, but she was not a meal for anyone.

He doesn't dare. And he shutters the thought away behind metal gates, where things get forgotten.

"I like to do that too." Peruse, and learn the new age trinkets. Hundreds of years below the surface, has left him wondering if he ever knew the world at all. Boyhood is so far detatched, that any glimpse of a fogged memory is slathered in blood, or filled with the tearing of scales from a tail brutalised beyond salvation. But he's listening, and hanging onto every word; Elian doesn't know Selene outside of the Ghouliard, not really. "What do you learn about those people. The ones you watch." Does she do that to him? Stare and wonder? He'd say there isn't much to think about; he is all he is, in one glance.

He takes a moment to consider telling her what his free time is spent doing.

Procuring souls for a demon? Luring them to the Dominion, to be torn apart. That is what he should be doing, in his leashed freedom. But often, he takes detours. "I visit the Vault, in the desert, you know it? Full of history." The ones he's missed, in the desperate hope he might remember something of a water-filled world that left him to rot. "And I go to the taverns, houses where they drink. Talk to some." He doesn't say about his brother, or his world of fistfights, or bloodied jobs for a demon who'd rather watch, like a voyeur, he'd say. Selene is more graceful than that. Unburdened. It's why he doesn't understand why she would put herself in the grasp of soulstealers.

She has one to be stolen. Elian does not.

Throwing a glance down at their hands again, he lets them trail ahead to track their path to the Haven. She makes him warm, and he knows that sensation; he underrstands that for a creature as cold as he is, that stirring something is like a beacon, to all the wrong places.

He tries to shatter the pause, with more conversation before she notices his mind has plummeted: "Were you looking for something... specific today, at the markets?"

"Hm, well it can be all sorts of things. You can learn a lot about a person just from the kinds of things they pick up at a market." She mused with a little tilt of her head. "If someone pays more attention to the different foods, they're likely not a vampire or demon, you notice werewolves because they're sensitive to the smells all around, witches are always looking for trinkets or spell-crafting materials." Selene listed just a few of her observations as her eyes continue to study Elian.

She wonders what he will look at most as they walk the stalls.

When he mentioned the Vault, Selene fell back into step beside him, her arm returning to its place wrapped around his like it was the only place she wanted to be. "I've never visited myself, but I've heard its fascinating." She said with a smile, though she found it hard to picture why Elian would want to go anywhere so dry and arid.

She smiled at the mention of the taverns, looking up at him. "Perhaps we can go to some after the market. Enjoy some drinks together that someone else can make for a change." She teased playfully.

Selene knew there was more, but she didn't try to pry any of it from him—whatever he wanted to share she was happy to listen, and she would take every scrap of detail like it was the sweetest treasure.

"Do you ever go to the water?" She asked softly, curious if he did or if it was a place he no longer looked for. She wondered what might bring a Mer to turn from the ocean entirely, by their own choice and not because they were forced or kept away against their will.

At his question she shrugged one delicate shoulder. "Nothing in particular—perhaps a gift for my brother, his birthday is soon." Selene answered. The truth was simply she wanted to spend time with him, wherever that might be.

Even with Saylor flung away, her sister's words echo in her mind, clattering against the jeering taunts of the announcer's voice, picking and slice at the armor that has built up up the dynasty now headed by Saylor and defended by Greyson.

The dominos fall fast - there are shouts, and cheers, and boos. Saylor pleads. Greyson lets loose a roar like that of the very ocean itself. There is a spray of ocean water as her eyes fall to Saylor's fallen shape, and her grip on Greyson's weapon fails and his leg kicks her own from the floor.

She falls onto her back, and all the air in her chest is blown out, and she is drowning out here in the open air. By the time she catches breath into foreign lungs, a blade's edge has sunken itself between the scales on her neck, blue-black blood threading in the spaces between the shimmering, demon-touched scutes that armor her mongrel, abominable form.

Her eyes lower to the blade, first, and then back up to Greyson.

There is no victory here, for her, and the realization sets her jaw tight. "I cannot yield."

She swallows, thickly, eyes flitting from his face to the blade and back again. "So be about it then, little brother." Another unnerved gulp sounds, a fear-stricken tear falling uneven from her eye. "I am only one of the pawns being pushed about the field."

Her hand snaps to the haft of his weapon, but she makes no attempt to deflect, her frown a resigned, weak smile. "Do it, protect your Queen."

By the time Greyson had the blade to Vaine's throat again, Saylor had her hand wrapped around his ankle. "Please." Saylor begged as tears poured down her cheeks. "Yield, Vaine. Just yield!" She knew her brother. Saylor knew that there was no way he'd back down, as long as he was fighting for her and the Forgotten.

As Vaine's words practically pulsated around Saylor, a choked sob escaped her lips as she shook her head back and forth. She'd promised her older sister a better life. She'd told her, for so long, that she would help make it happen. "She didn't mean to shove me, Greyson-- she didn't mean it!" But as she looked up at him, she could see the intent all over his face.

And as he made his move, all that echoed in the ring was Saylor's scream. "No!"

His eyes glared down at her, a mixture of fury and steely resolve. Yield. It was all she had to do to save her own life, spare them both the pain of what he must do. But her words cut through the cries in the stands, Saylor's screams for mercy.

She cannot. Do it. Protect your Queen.

The Commander acted before thought and feeling could cloud his judgement. There was no room for emotion on a battlefield, only action.

Without hesitation, Greyson shoved down with his glaive, the blade spearing through flesh, muscle, bone—until blood pooled into the sand and he watched eyes go dark.

"She acted like she could win and you allowed her to. She ruined you without even doing anything!" The blood that coated her fingers permeated the air, causing her own fangs to grow and point against her lips.

At the mention of the prize, her attention turned slightly. "What did you wish for, Clayton?" Nails dug even further as her eyes flickered up to meet his. "What did my love wish for, hm? To be human again?" The thought of him even speaking that out loud caused her chest to ache. She'd turned him because she thought he would be perfect for her life. If she had him then she wouldn't be lonely. If she had him then the days she was forced to be with her own Sire would be worth it.

He glared as she dragged him closer, but didn't resist—even as she threw in his face the loss that was still so painfully fresh. With a scoff, Clay rolled his eyes. "I don't give a fuck about glory or reputation—I don't need to slaughter weak little human girls to prove that I can. And I didn't enter to please you." He glared, seeing her own rage and fangs.

Clay was quiet when she asked what he'd wished for, throwing guesses back at him like insults before finally calling him pathetic.

His eyes hardened and he once more shoved from her grip, stepping away, his back to her. But he didn't walk away, he stood staring out at the empty streets, the sounds of the Ring, cheers faint in the distance.

"I thought about it—but that wouldn't free me of anything." Clay replied with a bitterness in his voice, because he knew even if he'd wished for his humanity back, all she needed to do was turn him all over again. It would change nothing. "Thought about wishing myself free of you." He spat over his shoulder, angry, hurt. But there was a defeat in his voice, in the sigh he let out. "I just wished for control of my hunger, so I can feed without killing." He admitted, voice soft like he didn't want to reveal such a vulnerability—not to her. But who else in the world did he even have?

"I am tired Nisha. Tired of being this thing, of hating myself, of hating you. I wish I was the emotionless killing machine you clearly want—eternity would be easier. So if you can make that happen, compulsion, witchcraft, whatever....I'll do it."

Harley looked past Zane, eyes focused on Selene, who clearly either didn't like what she was hearing or thought she was the cause of their argument.

"Would you take your head out of your ass for two seconds and listen to yourself when you speak?" Harley's eyes snapped back to Zane, glaring at him. "You're talking about her like she's a piece of ass to fuck then throw away, and she's right behind you." The magic was stilled, controlled, as he twitched a finger to send a shock through Zane. Good. He'd been practicing, enough to be able to take back some control if he needed to. "If that's how you feel about her, I'm not sure why you brought her here, so I know that's not what you want her to think." He grabbed hold of the electrical signals coursing through his boyfriend's muscles and willed him to reverse his steps, to sit back down on the bed.

"He's an asshole when he's trying to make me jealous, don't take him personally." He murmured to Selene, his hold still on Z as he walked over to where she stood and offered his hand to the woman. "They're some good quality steaks, and I'm gonna make some great steak fries and sauce to go with it. He can sit in here and think about his actions and his words whilst you sit and sip on wine, and I cook, and we talk about the prettiest thing in this room — you."

If she wanted to leave, she could, but Harley didn't feel particularly comfortable letting her leave after this little display. He didn't want her to feel embarrassed or used; he didn't want her to be upset.

What the fuck? Zane was forced backwards against his will and pressed back into the bed. "Harley." Zane growled through his teeth as the electricity vibrated against his skin. A warning. Had Zane fucked up? Yes. But Zane had not consent to this. He'd never consented before to this. His initial reaction was to fight back against it. To shove into the magical control that his boyfriend had over him. He hated it. Hated that his body wasn't his own. Hated that Harley had turned against him, in this way.

With gritted teeth, Zane jerked his body against the magic. If he fought hard enough, would Harley's magic give? He was well aware that his boyfriend was powerful, when it came to his abilities, but Zane couldn't imagine that he'd put as much strength into holding him still. He couldn't. He wouldn't.

He let out a hiss as he tried to focus on his own magic -- forcing his blood to circulate faster in an effort to strengthen his body against whatever the fuck Harley was doing to him. Maybe it's not that simple. He thought as his muscles began to ache and spasm. Zane yanked at his own blood again, eyes closed as he focused on his circulatory system. Usually, it was like second nature to him. But his mind was on the verge of spiraling, which was distracting the fuck out of his abilities.

Harley will let go. He will. He is just a little mad and needed to take it out on someone. I'm the best option. I fucked up. I definitely shouldn't have brought her to our bed. At least he didn't harm Selene. She's still alive. She's still-- Eyes open and dart to the woman in the room. Harley was holding his hand out towards her. Zane couldn't quite hear what he was saying; the roar of his own blood in his ears. Alive. His increased heartbeat was causing his body to warm and his breath to come quicker. Don't leave. Don't fucking leave.

She glanced between Harley's outstretched hand and Zane pinned to the sheets by his own tensed muscles, debating her options. She was honestly a little surprise Harley had even made such an offer to her, that he was being kind to her, calling her pretty when by all rights he could have been using his magic on her—she was the outsider, the other woman in his bed.

Slowly her hand rose, slender fingers slipping into Harley's outstretched palm, accepting his offer. "You're being far too kind and generous to me. I'm surprised you haven't thrown me from your home...unless that is exactly what you plan to do?" She said softly, the hint of a smile on her lips as her words were playful, even if there was still a little wariness in her eyes.

She followed Harley out of the room, looking back over her shoulder in apology at Zane. "Is he going to be okay? I don't want to get involved where I shouldn't..." She asked, but she did worry, because despite knowing she shouldn't—she did care al lot more than she should.

"That human knew what she was getting herself into when she signed up for the fucking tournament." And even if she didn't, that wasn't Nisha's fucking problem. Nor was it Claytons. "Humans are just as monstrous as you think we are. She could have been the worst of them and yet, you let her live."

It was disgusting.

"Six centuries and you still don't know me." He growled low as she kept their faces inches apart. "You think I don't know how easily I could have killed her? One throw of my blade into her fucking face and she'd be dead, no chance to move or dodge. I hunted vampires long before you made me one, I know as a human the only chance in hell you have is preplanning and the right arsenal."

Every word was a growl, was anger, rage, frustration bit out between fangs.

"You think I didn't want that prize?" He snarled as their ragged breath's mingled. "But after all this time, I keep my principles." Clay bit out. "I know I have killed humans, weakness, hunger, being this thing you made me—but I don't fucking want to."