BEXLEY BRIAR
This is incorrect. So utterly strange. Even disregarding Acton’s oddity, his unnatural docility, Bexley does not recognize her own sudden girlishness, the warmth stubbornly blossoming her chest, the - the - way her lashes flutter, languidly, when the Decoctian meets her eyes, and not of her own accord. How stupid. How dumb of her to lust for something like this. And who even knows what “this” is - attention? Desire? Violence? Something hot and painful and impossible to put words to, and far, far too loud for the warm silence of a peaceful night, for a place like Delumine, all flowers and perfume.
This incorrect. They are fire and gasoline, powder and keg. They should not be able to stand this close without bursting into flame, without pulling each other apart to the bones. Why aren’t they at each other’s throats? Why, when she looks at him, is her gaze so awfully soft? Damn this animal heart of hers, so bloody and impulsive. Damn it for putting her in this position.
Careful, Bex. You’re starting to sound jealous.
Some small, childish part of her almost begs to cry. Bex. How - how dare he call her that, and how dare she let him. She’s letting him. When did she become so Gods-damned weak, a girl again, flowers in her hair, her tongue bitten, her heart wild and violent and unattended to. Solis-In-Heaven, strike me down now, strike me down early, deep in the dirt. It’s embarrassing. The heat in her cheeks, blistering deep in her stomach. The many long seconds it takes her to gather a response, to clear the grit from her throat, the heat from her eyes, and the fact that for all this effort, when she speaks it is still a near-whisper, uncharacteristically soft and lacking venom.
I - Bexley’s voice, already a murmur, drifts into silence. She glances up at Acton through thick lashes. Bang-bang-bang, her heart in her chest, so nerve-wracking, so school-girl crush, it sickens her, and - and -
Sickens her and saves her, all at once.
Don’t flatter yourself, she restarts abruptly. Relief snaps through her like a gunshot. For a moment she came dangerously close to admitting her own weakness, to cutting open her own chest, but Bexley is a Briar and thank Una for the strength she uses not to show her vulnerability. Her heart stills again, at least a little. Her blood cools. The world is quiet again, a low, musical stillness, and she plants herself more firmly in the dirt, loathe to sway again.
And then. His eyes. On the curve of her throat. And all of this practiced poise disappears.
Bexley holds a caught breath deep in her chest. It makes her utterly dizzy. Planning on breaking another promise?
Their bet. Of course, their stupid bet, come back to haunt her where it doesn’t belong, utterly out of place somewhere like these. Still, something about this is tempting: his breath stirring the fine hairs on her neck, warm and soft and sinful, and the chills it sends racing up her spine, dragging strange fingers down her sides, catching her by the throat. She is a puppet. A plaything. And Acton is jerking her by the strings.
She hates and loves and hates it, the way her control has been pulled out from under her.
Another breath on her cheek, and the effort it takes to swallow is visible. Bexley blinks. Ashamed, she answers quietly: Are you planning on making me keep it?
Silence, then, as the world becomes vast. Desire is so huge, she realizes, and so imminent, and so vastly general. Bexley meets his eyes and is not afraid.
@acton <3
