Ravensblood Forest fat rat

he thrives on this. this back and forth. it is why he does not kill her, like he would have any other disrespectful woman. no, that was a lie. he also hadn't killed meredith, but because he also wanted her. perhaps he was seeing a theme here, now.

he liked his women mouthy. argumentative. but that was because crowell, at heart, was an instigator. he wished to fight. he relished in the chaos. her words hit him but they bounce right off like a bullet dinging off of steel, and because of what she says, he laughs. his laughter is loud, unholstered, and sticks in his throat, raucous and heavy.

ye think i believe dat? he breathes out with his rotten, carrion breath. when she strikes, it lands and he snaps backwards, giving his head a disorienting shake. he tastes iron, his tongue laps at his bleeding nose, and he pins a sultry stare upon the woman. what she did, how she behaved, did little to squash his bravado.

no. the more she fought, the more he wanted her. she has not helped herself—she has only trapped herself more, for his mind has settled and a light has flickered on. he squares his stance, tail lashing, voice a haunting echo off the walls of the cave. ah fear i nev'r caught yer name, darlin'. what is it? he exhales, a chuckle biting the end of question, and then he inhales and releases more words: i tell ye one more time.

his brows darken the doorsteps of hell's eyes then. eat. he says. eat. he repeats, more insistently, this time.