He regards me for a moment, his spines shifting in what might be concern, confusion, or possibly wondering how crazy I am.
"You were sharpening your nails?" he finally asks, the amusement evident in his voice.
Heat floods my cheeks. "Not exactly," I mumble, self-consciously flexing my newly sharpened appendage. "More like, uh, making them into weapons. You know, just in case."
The amusement in his eyes deepens.
"Interesting tactic," he rumbles out, his voice low. "Not very elegant, but perhaps effective for a human."
"Hey," I protest, puffing out my chest in mock indignation. "Don't underestimate the power of a good manicure, lizard man."
He chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrates through the ground. The sound, surprisingly, isn't unpleasant.
"I'm only guessing at what you mean, but perhaps not," he concedes, his amusement fading. "But is it truly wise to rely on such fragile weaponry?"
I narrow my eyes at him. "Fragile? Have you seen how thick these things are? They're practically claws now, thanks to you scaring the creativity out of me."
The spikes on his head rise, a playful glint in his slitted eyes. "Is that what it is? Creativity?"
"Don't mock me," I grumble, turning my attention back to my makeshift claws.
There is a relaxing silence for a while, broken only by the rasping of the glass against my nail. Then Drasuk speaks again, his voice softer this time.
"Carry on."
I roll my eyes, but don't bother pointing out to him that I don't need his permission. Instead, I get lost in the task of sharpening all of them.
He moves away at one point; I assume to patrol.
Soon after, Drasuk's voice rumbles from behind, causing me to jump and nearly mangle my finger with the makeshift blade. "Those are tiny, but definitely better now. I approve."
How can he move so silently, but then earlier sounded like a bulldozer moving through the trees?
My heart hammers in my chest. "I'm not doing things for your approval," I snap, throwing him a glare. "Fornicate in your own hole."
The words are out before I can filter them. A knee-jerk reaction fueled by frustration and lingering anger over his selective use of stealth. Even though I've tried the same insult and failed miserably at it.
He lets out a soft, amused rock grinding sound. "So you like it that way? Is the goal to list all the ways you like it before we try?"
His voice is laced with a teasing lilt that sends a prickle of heat up my neck and then down from there.
Down low indeed.
"I'm not talking about me," I grumble.
I say it again in English this time, knowing he won't understand, but it makes me feel better.
"See? It wasn't an invitation."
His spikes shift again, and his eyes let me know he is still getting way too much enjoyment out of making me squirm.
"I see," he drawls. "It's a delightfully creative way to express your displeasure."
I clench my jaw. Talking to him is like walking through a minefield—one wrong step and I'll detonate. There is no winning with this alien.
It doesn't help that my go-to method of deflection makes me look like a fool.
Fucking genali tech.
