Qeya River draw a line in the sand

blackfell doesn’t move, even as the weight of her word crashes against him. instead, he plants himself firmly, letting her irritation ripple off him like waves against stone. the corner of his mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close enough to tell her he was enjoying this, even if he didn’t entirely know why.

you don’t have to play hard to get, princess. just admit you like the attention, he quips, his tone low and teasing, though there’s a faint edge beneath it, something darker and harder to place. her barbs bounce off his ego, leaving no visible mark, but there’s something in her sharpness that keeps him rooted in her path.

when she sidesteps, her shoulder knocking against his, blackfell lets it happen, turning just enough to follow her movement with his gaze. don’t flatter yourself, he says, stepping closer again, his shadow trailing hers. if i wanted someone to warm my furs, i’d find someone who didn’t scowl so damn much.

but he doesn’t sound convincing, not even to himself. his crimson gaze lingers on her, trailing the slope of her shoulders, the curve of her spine. there’s something magnetic about her, a storm he can’t quite resist walking into, even if it leaves him scarred.

you can dislike me all you want, gjalla, he continues, voice quieter now, rough around the edges but steady. but you’re stuck with me for now. you know that as much as i do.