Porcupine Ridge I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies

Lorcan's lips curled into a sly grin, his steps smooth and deliberate as he followed her lead down the lightly-trodden trail. He watched her theatrics with an amused tilt of his head, his golden eyes gleaming with that ever-present spark of mischief.

Oh, terribly often, he replied, his voice dripping with mock seriousness, the proper accent giving his words an air of dramatized sophistication. It would seem trouble has a way of finding me, no matter where I go. Almost as if it were… fate. His grin widened, his tone playful but his words carrying just enough edge to suggest truth lurking beneath the jest.

Her impish glimmer didn’t escape his notice. That crooked head of hers, the way she cast those calculating glances—she was a tempest wrapped in silk, all intrigue and chaos. A perfect storm.

And you, he continued, his voice dropping just slightly, laced with a teasing accusation. You seem drawn to it, don’t you? A moth to the flame, or perhaps the flame itself. His gaze lingered on her, sharp and probing, though the smirk that tugged at his lips softened the intensity of his scrutiny.

The deadly kind.