BEXLEY BRIAR
but if i gave up on being pretty,
I wouldn’t know how to be alive
I wouldn’t know how to be alive
We might have some trouble here, the woman says, and of course she’s right. Perfectly obvious is the way the crowd’s eyes turn to follow them, and the sound of their murmuring gossip swells louder and louder with each passing second, with every inch closed between them. Now they are hardly separate, laid apart by less than a foot, and the way the stranger’s breath coasts over Bexley’s neck sends a shiver down her spine.
Her lashes lower, demure in a way that suggests any innocence is merely an act, and those bone-white lips curl into a slow smirk.
Bexley’s ears flicker. She leaves the second shot untouched. This is adrenaline enough for her already, and every passing moment makes her more certain that if they have a chance of getting out of here without trouble, she should keep herself sharp. Nothing personal. “More than I have patience for,” she answers coolly, and her gaze slants toward the men in the back whose voices are growing louder. Their eyes glow in the darkness like cat’s; their teeth shine bright as bones. She is not afraid. Not now, not ever.
She watches with calm, dark eyes as Emersyn rises, but does not move herself. They’re well-matched—in height, build, the ice-blue eyes. Silver to gold and dark to light. She shifts, opening her mouth to speak, but—
The sound of glass shattering rings overhead as her head flies down, and shards fall like icy rain against the bar, and then there is the sound of bodies colliding and hooves scraping against the floor and by the time Bexley thinks she should get involved, it’s already over. One lays stunned on the ground; the others watch with wide, wide eyes. For a moment, Bexley, too, watches with surprise. Her brows raise and her lips part—her head tilts slightly back, dumbly, dutifully impressed.
“Well.” She huffs just a little, and smiles a shallow smile, eyes gleaming in the dim light. “No, I can’t imagine the flute-players would have too much use for an army. I’m taking an… extended vacation.” And if there’s something like sarcasm in her voice, she’s nearly sure Emersyn won’t latch onto it. There are far more important things to discuss.
What drinks to order, which men to dispose of, whose house they’re going home to. Bexley stretches lazily and shakes her head, pouring ringlets of white hair from shoulder to shoulder like the foam of a waterfall.
