the hailstorm
Really, Neron ought to have known that whatever he said would not have gone down well, though his eyes did narrow a bit at her notions of manliness and the clear disdain that went along with it. Jaw tightening as her nails forced his chin upwards to hold her gaze, the Warden watched and listened with a storm brewing behind his eyes. Such a fool was he to invite Zariah, cold and shivering into the Citadel. Such a fool to raise her to his level, to give her even the whisper of an opportunity; he had all but set this up, he realised, and it would be his undoing.
Her lips pressed to his and she would find them freezing cold, and he was as responsive as the ice that frosted across the city walls. "I understand," he said curtly, and whilst his cheeks were still flushed and his pulse still quick, for all her love and patience (and ego and bite and swagger), there was only one thing truly clear in his expression.
Disgust.
Her lips pressed to his and she would find them freezing cold, and he was as responsive as the ice that frosted across the city walls. "I understand," he said curtly, and whilst his cheeks were still flushed and his pulse still quick, for all her love and patience (and ego and bite and swagger), there was only one thing truly clear in his expression.
Disgust.
