Sunspire Mountains all the butterflies have turned to vultures in my stomach

her face was reminiscent of a long shift dmv worker as he about-faced, mooring his gaze to hers, and caravanned them back down the beaten path of their future together as cohabitants. 

"why does something have to be wrong with you for me to say no?" she said, crossness limning the edge of her voice. what was it about some men that they just couldn't accept a no without making it personal? the hackles along her cape piloerected—riley had only asked a question, but his persistence was transporting her to the lichhouse containing the cadavers of things she'd already held last rites for and sepulchred. her black lips skinned back against her teeth.

his last question was trash so she threw it in the compost heap (reduce, reuse, recycle, people!) and strode forward, flouncing her victorine ruff. if he didn't step back, his space would be filled with esmé. if he didn't pull back, the tuft of her cheek pressed against his ear, husked dulcet in his ear: "did you just come to fuck?"

here was a boy pleading to live with a woman who had shown her disinterest in spades. how well did he think he could handle a woman? much less a woman of esmé's persuasion.

she'd first regarded riley with prosthetic empathy for his pubescence, wroth with those plying his biddable, innocent nature and casting him to fit their mould. 

how innocent was he, really?