“Mortal, do you have a death wish?” Sin’s voice is low, and it holds a deadly bite, making me rethink the direction I’m walking in.
It takes me a moment to notice he’s holding something.
My blanket rope.
I guess he isn’t a fan of my craftsmanship.
Too few people value the arts these days.
Sad.
Rosie squeaks and takes to the air at Sin’s voice. It takes just a few beats of her wings before they become blurred streaks of pink, and she’s airborne. “Well, I’ll leave you two to have a chat. See youlater, Vivian!”
I’m sad to see her go. But at the same time, I really can’t blame her. Being alone with an angry, uncollared Destroyer seems hazardous.
Briefly, I consider hightailing it after Rosie. But as I glance in the direction she flew off, I catch Sin’s body tensing up in the corner of my eye. It’s impossible to miss the coiling of his muscles as he gets ready to spring. There’s no doubt in my mind that I’m with a predator. If I run, I’m certain I’ll set off some kind of prey drive in him.
The thought has me planting my feet and looking him dead in the eye.
I refuse to be prey.
Sin glares down at me, not saying a word. I’m considering matching his silent treatment until I realize he must be waiting for me to answer his question.
Do I have a death wish?
Not particularly. And this monster of a man looks very angry with me.
The smart thing would be to act meek. But already I know I’m an idiot, and acting meek would be prey behavior on my end.
No can do.
Besides, who gave him the right to be the angry one?
He kidnappedme.
A spark of anger ignites in my chest, burning away at my gut reaction to avoid conflict.
Is this personal growth, or am I spiraling?
A depressive spiral checks out.
“I’m fulfilling my obligations as a kidnap victim. It’s my sworn duty to try and escape,” I respond, barely keeping the irritation out of my tone.
Sin doesn’t laugh or give any indication that he might have a sense of humor.
That checks out. I assume being an evil force of destruction really saps the funny out of someone.
Instead, he steps closer, invading my personal space. With him comes the unmistakable scent of woodsmoke. I stiffen, refusing to think about how good he smells.
The enemy is not allowed to smell good. The scent is probably from the last village he pillaged and burned to the ground.
I tilt my head to glare right back at him.
Are all fantasy world men this attractive? I’m starting to think there must be an entry requirement, as in, ‘You must be at least six feet tall and have more muscles than brains to ride this realm.’
He’s trying to intimidate me, and it’s working.
My instincts are screaming at me to take a step back. Only, I’m getting really sick and tired of large men imposing themselves on me. One of the boxes in my head where I store my emotional trauma cracks open at the thought. With it comes a wave of rage.
