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“There is something with you, these days, isn’t there,” Erik says, slowly, the clicks of the chess piece scraping against the board filling room; making sure she knows he knows, that she knows she won’t be able to escape his scrutiny much longer, “and I know I’m quite busy at the moment; so I sure do hope you know what you’re doing.”
Finally, he finishes his turn, and she takes another one of his pieces, pushing him further into a corner; inexorable, brutal, ruthless—perhaps Sabretooth is rubbing off on her, but perhaps she’s been this way all along, it’s not like he knows her that well—and despite everything, despite himself, despite the world around them, he thinks someone this young should not have to be this… hard.
“Well, headmaster,” Monet replies, smiling, mocking, perhaps, “aren’t I lucky then that I was not part of your class, that I don’t have to listen to your lectures?”