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Summary
She turns a corner and there he is.
It seems he has come looking for her too.
He looks… different, she hazily has time to think. He’s down to a black singlet and black trousers; somewhere along the way he has disposed of his duster and the gun, though he is still carrying all the knives. His knuckles are bruised. His hair is wild, standing every which way and falling into his eyes.
And his stance…
It is terrifying.
Head held low and forward between hunched shoulders. Contours tight and rigid, tension singeing him. Violence an aura almost warping the way she perceives him. Fingers clenching and unclenching. And the scars on his face are so dark with blood that they are almost crimson.
An overhead back-up light hits his face, and she sees bared teeth. She sees eyes so infernal that they override even her Omega hormones, pierce through to the primal survival instincts lying fallow in her hindbrain.
“Ah,” he says, his voice low and full of sharp edges. Like he’s gargling on flint. “You came. Good. Good girl.”
She throws the wrench at him and turns and runs.
OR: Hermione is only meant to observe, NOT engage. Strict orders. Ironclad.
Oops.