One step back. That was all she gave, but that was all he needed. That one step told him everything he craved to know. The lass feared him, despite whatever show she might try to put on. The squared shoulders, the unflinching eye contact, the rising voice; it was all a façade, a desperate attempt to cover what she doubtless knew he had seen. The pricking tears, the shaking words, and that single, treacherous step back. The girl feared him, and the knowledge filled him with a delicious pleasure.

He let her words hang in the air between them, seconds stretching into minutes. All the while their mutual amber gaze remained unbroken. He could only marvel at her bravery – her stupidity. Someone had taught the waif courage, had shown her how to calm her anxieties and how to hold her ground. That was fine by him; it was the prey that fought the hardest that tasted the sweetest when finally it fell. And the lady would fall to him just as she had so many years ago. Of this he was sure; it would not take much to shake her from her hastily built bastion of courage and serenity.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the manic smile began to slip from his face until finally his features were a still stone mask. He stood and regarded Stormy with something akin to boredom, great head tilted to one side. Only the strange, feverish light behind his lidden amber gaze betrayed his attunement to the girl. Every frayed sense was locked on her, on the breathing she fought to keep steady, on the tiny movements of her fierce yellow eyes.

“Stormy, my girl,” he murmured in his deep, resonant voice. “What is it? Aren’t you happy to see your old friend?” He took a step forward to answer her single step of retreat. Cold, wet earth squelched up between his toes, but his blank gaze remained locked on the girl before him. “Don’t you think you owe me a warmer welcome after everything I did for you?” Another step. “Let’s not forget how the noble king risked his reputation to come to the aid of the poor, unwitting whore. How are the pups, my dear?” Another step, another cracking smile, the beginnings of a quiet, rumbling laugh from deep in his chest. “It seems to me that the choice to lie with the stray dogs never was quite your own, Stormy.”

Compared to this waif he was a titan, and his three long strides had closed a significant portion of the distance between them. At this range he could practically taste her anger; she would doubtless be able to smell his madness…along with the blood that matted patches of his earthen coat. “I have no fleas, love,” he whispered, ears swiveling back to press flat against his skull, voice dripping with menace, “and you will come to me when I call you.”

| . | . | Khett | . | . |