He is content in the presence of his imprint, what tattered remnants of his soul remain reaching for her now, embracing her, clinging to her despite the loathing he holds inside for near all other beings that walk atop this wretched planet- his soul purpose upon this place to rid the earth of the weak whom waste its oxygen. They should lord him for it, praise him for it and yet still they slink away to hide within their dark places or behind the glory of the Angel Pack whom keep his Aaliyah from him even now- he is sure, broken, fractured mind clinging to the tendrils of a shattered past he does not understand has truly passed in the same manner he does not perceive his aging form. For whatever reason however he has spared the life of the younger dark male before him, the grim reappears scythe kept from his darkened form this day though why cannot truly be said- so few are ever given to survive such encounters unscathed, fewer still ever brought back to the lands he calls his own. He is a possessive creature, obsessive, his mind given to fixate with shocking and furious intensity upon those chosen few whom he desires to keep for himself and it would seem- whether he desires it or not, that Tithe may well have been selected this day.
A rumble of sorts coils within his throat, content in the touch of his imprint as her words whisper to his ears, though whether he understands them or not cannot be said, those strange green eyes remaining fixated and unblinking with reptilian cold upon his newest prize- though one ear curves towards his imprint, absorbing her words all the same, affording her an attention he offers so few before she speaks once more to Tithe and the words become a blur. He cannot perceive language as others do, instead his wretched ears perceive tone and the gesture and movement of form and body language- understanding that which is unspoken in these moments as a hesitancy of sorts seems to afflict the other blackened male and dark ears prick forward in a curiosity of sorts, uncaring as to the words that are spoken. He desires to keep this male for himself, though perhaps whether he remains within the pack or not does not matter, for surely Tobias has decided either way that this male is not for eating, no, no- not for eating.
“Mine.”
He simply repeats it, as he repeats many things, mind seeming to take some sort of vile delight in certain words or phrases to be repeated over and over. He delights in patterns, in that which is the same over and over, much of his life lived in this manner of repeat that he finds so very soothing. Perhaps Tithe will stay, perhaps he will leave and perhaps it does not matter- the other dark male has surely earned for himself a shadow this day- a darkened Angel of death to stroll upon his heels- Tobias holding some sort of interest within this other, though what it may be remains to be seen.
“Stay?”