Dance with Death
I’m happy to let her think that I am the only place she will ever be able to turn for comfort.
She should turn to her master to fulfill that need.
I have every intent to take advantage of her fragile state.
Boldly, she lifts her head and slowly meets my eyes. There’s fear there behind the sapphire blue—fear and desperation and longing.
“I want you, moy khozyain.”
I grip her waist with both hands and turn her, backing her up to the marble countertop. She swallows, her eyes locked on mine as I stare and press myself against her. I loom above her, my breath steady but heavy, exhaling my internal flames over her, reminding her that I was born from hellfire.
A reminder that she’s come to the devil asking to be burned.
Her features have softened from her normal cold as ice stare. Her eyelids seem heavier as they droop to hang a sultry frame over her blue irises. Her eyebrows are relaxed from the way they usually slant toward her nose, wrinkling her forehead sternly. Her lips are parted and rosy in color, and I feel her shallow breaths puffing against my throat.
“You want me…to do what?”
This question is her test.
Will she back down, afraid to speak her truth?
Will she prove herself to be a rebellious slave and demand rather than ask?
Or will she tell me what she thinks she needs and sweetly ask her master to oblige her?