Qeya River draw a line in the sand

Gjalla’s pace didn’t falter when his words hit her ears, but the shift in her posture was subtle—just enough for him to catch it, the briefest hint of tension in the curve of her back. She didn’t like him, she didn’t want him to have any part of this, but the world lived to spite her, apparently.

Her lips pressed thin as he stepped into her path, his bulk eclipsing the wide, open expanse she had hoped to escape to. She slowed only enough to mask the irritation burning beneath her skin. His presence was like an iron bar she couldn't break, no matter how many times she tried to shove past him.

"Move." The word was low, clipped, not quite in demand but just as firm as one. The gleam in his eyes, that smugness she could almost smell from where she stood, was the kind of thing that made her want to sink her teeth into something. Anything. "Not playing hard to get, just not interested. Not everyone wants you to fuck them, Blackfell."

The fuck-ass grin he wore didn’t faze her. It was an annoyance, an itch she wanted to scratch until it bled. “Don't have to hate you to dislike you,” she countered, narrowing her eyes on his, “thought you were smart, prince.” She sidestepped him then, knocking her shoulder into his to displace him from her path.

She didn’t hate him, not really. She didn’t even know if she could. They were too alike in nature. His presence, his bitch-ass attitude, the raw honesty with which he wore himself, it both grated and called to something deep inside her. For that, she would dislike him.