She’s still clinging to girlish dreams of revenge, even now that they’re pointless. Sentimental loathing, useless here. She tenses under his touch, half expecting him to grip her harder. To fall upon that show of weakness.

But he doesn’t.

She tries to focus of the feel of his hands, his mouth, to divine some meaning in the patterns they map onto her skin. There is not much to see, nothing visible to analyze. But over his shoulder, there is movement.

“What is that?” Treila whispers, gaze skipping up to shadows that seem to move, to dance. Past the buzzing in her ears, she hears breathing, too many dissonant tempos to belong to just her or the beast against her.

“The rest of my kind,” that beast murmurs. “Drawn to the feast.”

“There are more?”

“So many more, little things that like to eat my leavings. We’ve made a path for them to come and play. Are you afraid?”

Bravado wins her nothing here, but honesty doesn’t, either. Instead, she tries to study them.

He takes her silence as nerves all the same. “If you’re afraid of other teeth, I could stake my claim on you. If you asked nicely.”

“Hasn’t somebody already done that?” She tilts her head to one side, bares her missing ear once more.

From the corner of her eye, she watches as his beautiful lips ripple into a snarl, then recompose into a pleasant smile. “Oh no, you didn’t let them. You negotiated well.” Yes, he is a jealous monster; if he wants to lay claim to her, she can use that.

It’s still hard to look away from the unknown threat and focus on him instead, but she does it smoothly. She arches up so that their bodies press together. Maneuvers them onto their sides so her back is to the wall once more.

“And you think I’ll negotiate poorly with you?”

“I think you have less to lose now.” His eyes are heavy-lidded. He thinks he’s winning.

She kisses him to help that thought along. It’s light. Teasing. Barely a breath.

“You made a mistake, last time we spoke,” she murmurs against his mouth. “You told me I was worth something.”

“Did I?” He kisses her again. She adjusts her posture little by little, so that she maintains enough space to move, to retreat, even as she lets him tip her chin back, nurse at her lower lip.

“You’ll have to promise me something more than a good time.”

“What if I let Ser Voyne see you?” He nips, swallows down her small, shocked gasp.

“You can’t offer that. What would your Lady say?” There is a hierarchy here, one she thinks she can exploit. And better not to think of the possibility of Voyne seeing her again. She only needs to stay here a little longer, figure out what else she can learn.