Bramblepoint Make it after all

Stark’s mouth had already been curved into the faintest beginnings of a smirk. Now, it only broadened, until his black lips curled above his bridge of stained teeth, a tormented smile. He was well aware of the impression he made, the scarred socket and the chilling countenance—and, he heavily relied upon it.

His icy cold demeanor was his shield, and his words his sword.

So her hesitation didn’t surprise him; it only amused him, a flicker of dry humor glinting within a yellowed iris. He could've swore if he leaned in closer, he might hear the pitter patter of her heart; frantic, like a prey animals. Further inspection of her, though, and intent examination of her every word, let him quickly surmise otherwise.

She didn't fear him.

So Stark lifted his chin, teeth clicking in a sharp, punctuated noise. "If I were going to hurt you," His voice mellowed out, throaty as his gaze narrowed and thinly draped across her peach-colored fur. "You would already be bleeding." Not a threat, not a promise.

Simply a fact. But the white prince had no intention of shedding her blood—he'd grown tired of the assumptions. That he was cruel, unfeeling, perhaps even sadistic. His nose snarled up in a brief flash. "What's your name?"