The barest and very most preliminary pull of a simper plucks at the painted edges of flawless ruby lips with the retort she had known would come, the pitifully anemic venom dribbling sloppily from his lips just as the blonde had expected that it might. It is but the suggestion of a gleeful expression, a whisper to the chorus of amusement that it might otherwise have denoted; however, even this minutest grin does not dare cast the farse of true hilarity into the macabre gleam of those ever scrupulous green eyes. He seemed forever to delight in this verbal joust, this rhetorical dart match within which they might each serve as the proverbial bull's-eye for the other, and it was as though he sought some grander measure of off-color pleasure from prodding her with nods to her imagined ineptitude. Yet just as it was his pleasure to take a pestering finger to her in whatever manner he could, so too did it tickle Rowena's rather grotesque fancy to take an admonishing hand to him in due course. "Do not misunderstand me, Mr. Dorian," she purrs, the words falsely sweet against the fleshy slab of her tongue, "I can recognize Armani's cut as easily as you can. However, just because the label bears the name, it does not make the outfit any less atrocious." The viciously blunt woman eyes her counterpart for a silent moment longer, a deleterious flame scorching from the pale olive pools. "But by all means, sharpen the blade of your metrosexuality upon whatever platitudinous whetstone you deem fitting."

The smile melts as dripping wax from her cherried lips then, eliminately the possibly for truly deciphering if her statement bore the sweet buds of jest or the bitter sting of impassive honesty. Regardless, the warlock could hardly expect to take the smartly cracking whip of his tongue to her without presuming that he would then bear the lashings of her own veritable razor's edge. It is a slow draw she takes from the martini that is now all but gone, a leisurely and indulgent sipping that sees not even the slightest pause with the interruption of the gentleman who now lingers so awkwardly at her back. It is an agony that is oft avoided by the unforgivingly austere manner in which Rowena conducts herself, sieving naturally from the gurgling pool of masculine muck only those she might consider taking into her bed or impaling upon the metaphorical spire of her verbal sword. But a single sweeping glance over the gentleman at her back and it was laughably clear that he would undoubtedly prove to be the latter. In regards to the two individuals he had deemed appropriate to interrupt, this man was merely a sheep come willingly to slaughter.

Yet before she might have perpetrated the onslaught of verbal retribution that was surely accumulating just beyond the surface of impeccably-lacquered lips, it would seem that Davante was not content to merely linger and gaze on. The caresses of his calloused fingers upon the caramel smoothness of her flesh do no elicit the volatile or swiftly admonishing response that might have been expected on behalf of the pale-eyed warlock... at least, not at present, though surely the prohibition instilled against taking his hands to her uninvited would surely be a matter of discussion in the nearer portion of the future. Instead, Rowena merely allows his words and gently fluttering digits to pass unchecked, choosing instead to watch as this unfortunate stranger's face quickly forfeits its splotched pallor to the crimson that pulses beneath the taut surface of his skin. "And you would be better suited to moving the fuck along, asshole," the towering gentleman spits before moving swiftly to shove Davante with a single, thickly-fingered, hand before turning his attentions to the still-silent blonde that had been their prey moments prior. Forcibly he seeks to wrap his fingers about her slender elbow, though in this it seems he has made what could possibly prove the final in a short yet nonetheless debilitating series of missteps. It is in the greatest display of practice ease that Rowena seizes him about the wrist, dainty fingers coiling around the thick mass with surprising force as they twist the appendage at an uncomfortably distended angle. He has not but a moment in which to simply glare at her in unabashed surprise before the domineering blonde leans in ever so slightly. "Do as you like with any of the other fools in this place," she hisses, her syllables notably absent the jest that had been before, leaving only the tellings of insurmountable rage laying in wait just beyond view, "but touch me again and I will destroy you... asshole."