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“Quit starin’ at me,” Victor says, breaking eye-contact, his face burning so much he’s sure she must be able to see it, even if she couldn’t already read his damn mind; glancing somewhere at her shoulder instead, at the junction of her neck; right where he feels the urge to bite her ever so often, “feels like yer tryin’ ta pick a fight.”
Monet grins, he can see it in his periphery; eyes sparkling, fingertips brushing her lips, smelling warm and wanting and looking so, so far above where filthy commoners like him reside, saying, breathing, velvet and steel in her voice, “Well, what if I am, Creed, hm?”
He grits his teeth, thinks that he just can’t seem to be able to deal with her, he never could; feels want—not even solely sexual, but all the same hungry, and that’s the part that fucking trips him up—inside of him so boiling he thinks he’ll die, and she’s still fucking smiling at him like this, like she’s always, always, always daring him to try and go for her throat.