Croe had never hid anything about herself out of fear. Worry did not come naturally to her. It might have been sensible, as a pirate lord – a general awareness that one’s power and status were liable to be taken, given the right conditions. It certainly would have been sensible to be afraid when Mallos had come for her, the first time; that had resulted in a stabbing, among other things. But Croe had cultivated the caricature of herself that people so willingly believed because it was expedient, and also because the nature of her tattoos was personal. At the time, they had been so personal, that even she could not recall the motivations behind them – and she was not about to allow a stranger to be the first person to decode them. It had been bad enough when that Oracle had casually dropped her name.
And besides, the warbird was never completely vulnerable.
But it was an easy assumption to make, in this room. Her dark eyes were sympathetic as she scrutinized him, lingering over the planes of his face, the long lines of his neck. Even melancholy, he was beautiful. He did not sound like himself – the phrasing, the chuckle, the tension held in the wrong places – but since nothing had been normal for some time, she did not immediately suspect anything. She reached out and trailed her fingers softly over his knuckles. He took her hand. Kissed her forehead. Get some rest. Clear my head. Odd. When had she ever rested beyond morning, and when had his head ever been clear?
“Don’t light anything on fire,” she was about to say. But the words died on her lips. She blinked at him, her expression turning carefully blank. Then she burst into high, wild laughter.
“How brazen,” she observed, her smile showing too many teeth, darkness clinging oddly to her fingertips. Then they were standing nose-to-nose, her teleportation magic crackling like electricity, a ghost-image of her slowly fading in the place she’d previously occupied on the bed. Her thumb and forefinger gripped his chin firmly. If she were honest, this interloper had done a better job than Croe had, when she’d worn his skin. Sperantia had guessed in seconds – it had taken her minutes. Irritation glimmered like flame in her stare, mingled with something knife-sharp and cold. “A bit too brazen, if you thought you'd masquerade as him. If I could drag you out of his body, I would. Since I can’t, you should know there are some rules…” She placed a soft kiss on his lips, without closing her eyes. “These are mine,” she whispered against them. Her other hand cupped the front of his joggers, a little harder than strictly necessary. “This is mine. He is mine. And if you harm what is mine, If you do anything of any lasting consequence, there will be nowhere in the universe you can hide from me.”
Her own words echoed in her mind, mingling with Sperantia’s. The irony was not lost on her.
Croe released him (or her), but did not step back. She expected the imposter would teleport away with Mallos’ body any moment now, and felt a fresh surge of protectiveness holding her close. But there was nothing she could do, ultimately. As there was nothing Sperantia could do, when it was her. Averting her eyes with an effort, she indicated the bracelet on his wrist with a little nod. “You’ll be having less fun than I did, I expect.”
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