Those circles that were so delicately traced across his caramel skin were hardly as comforting as the young woman so wished them to be. For so long, in those periods within his life, touch was eternally something to be abhorred, to be feared. There was never a touch, no matter how gentle it might have seemed, that was afforded to his body that did not somehow have some malicious intent. Still, those slow circles did have a way of grounding him in a fashion, keeping the man from getting lost in those fragmented and ever shifting memories that so threatened to overcome him at the arrival of Risque within his life for that fleeting moment. Those thoughts so rapidly shifting through his brain, each individual moment meaning so much to him, each another sin he'd committed or another travesty that had so shaped him into the cold, heartless killer he had once been. And yet, for all the horrors he knew he was besetting the demure fairy Queen with, Tetraodre found moving away from her far more of a fight then he was presently willing to engage within. His body was battered and beaten and broken. He was hardly ready for any sort of fight, no matter how menial it was.

He was oblivious, truly, to the way he seemed so very far from her, those panicked thoughts only slipping from memory to memory as those questioned so tumbled from her lips. They moved from fire to fire, showing her all those images of things he remembered as he so narrated it with that voice of voidless indifference he so often used. It was that same voice he had been so trained to use if only because it often created the least reaction in the emotional and vengeful woman that had so resided over him. It was only at that softened whisper of his first name that his emerald irises so refocused upon the young woman, a small frown so tugging at the corners of his features. He knew that emotion - he could see it so painted across her features, that look entirely known to him second only to how intimate he was with the look of fear. Pity had always made him uncomfortable in a way. He hardly thought he was a creature to be pitied, not when he could so slit open their throats or tear out their hearts with just the slightest of effort with his sharpened claws. Why should he be pitied when he had fulfilled her wants? When he had murdered and maimed, when he had caught and captured and killed all for her. He was washed as red as the vampire herself was - so why then would she pity him?

Her soft whispered inquiry so pulled his attention from such tremulous thoughts and yet, these questions were ones he hardly saw fit to answer, instead offering her the slightest of shrugs. Yes, he was with her tonight. Yes, she had done this. They were but obvious to him, those marks that marred his figure and yet it was hardly the worst he'd had to endure. They would heal, in time, far better than the broken bones he'd once suffered at the hands of her brother when she'd so siced the panther on him. Vampires were entirely unforgiving. "I don't know." Those three words befell his lips flatly as he admitted his uncertainty of the woman's death. She certainly seemed dead but Tetradore had a hard time accepting that, not after all these years. Not after all the brushes with death they both had and survived. This seemed like too good of luck to be true. "No, you will stay here come sunrise. You already agreed to stay here tomorrow." There was a certain sharpness to her words at the idea she would go up there with him when the sun peeked over the horizon, Tetradore nearly shivering at the thought that Risque might not only be alive but too so force him to do that which she had always forced of him anytime he had displayed interest in someone else. Tetradore did not want Samantha's blood on his hands. Not with all the others that already existed there.