That firm singular word that left those sweetheart lips caused the frantic man to pause, that fierceness of that syllable so particularly unlike the usually demure woman that Tetradore was caught off guard. That authoritative tone to her voice caused the corners of his lips to frown as that red-haired woman so insisted that she had felt that death just as much as Tetradore had sworn he too had witnessed that faux burial all the way to the end. Those emerald eyes turned away from her, his head shaking ever so slightly even though that silence persisted. It was her insistence that it was a dream that finally coaxed that baritone voice from his lips, "This was not a dream." That singular sentence was perhaps equally as tenacious as her own demand had been. Tetradore knew what dreams that starred his vampiric mistress were like. He had those nightmares often, awakening in the darkness of his bedroom with a cold sweat clinging to his frame. They had become frequent of late, like a forewarning to the woman herself. This, that meeting with her was anything but a dream, not when her claw mark still marred his cheek. Isolt had seen it there, and he still remembered what that pull of that power had felt like. No, she was real.

It was that very scent of her being, that poignant perfume that filled the room in those moments that so abruptly drew both of their attention. His emerald eyes met those steady blue ones of that red-headed vixen and in that singular glance, he found all he needed to know. She could smell it too. He was almost scared to look behind him, the man almost innately aware of her the moment Risque stepped into that room, far before those chilling words so reached out to envelop him. It was a struggle, in that moment, to retreat within himself in the fashion he had once been able to so flawlessly do at the top of a dime. Once, he had been the epitome of indifferent and uninterested, a King of keeping others at arm's length. How he had so gone soft in her absence. That panic still made his heart beat faster within his chest, even as those eyes turned with an aloof expression upon his features towards the slithering woman.

His gaze shifted between the two women as they greeted one another if such a word could be used for that appraisal that left his mistress' lips. He was hardly surprised, truly, at Isolt's rebuttal. After all, in Risque's absence, the woman had grown into herself, that confidence and allure radiating from her now in a way that it previously had not. Still, he too had attempted to rebel against that hold, one Risque still exercised over him with a certain level of mastery. Perhaps it was the sheer number of years that he had spent beneath her callous rule that had prompted him to eventually crumble to her demands, either way, Tetradore was entirely certain that this meeting would go as unwell as his own did, if not worse. It was that command to leave that saw Tetradore flinch ever so slightly, those vibrant eyes turned towards Risque, ever curious of what she would do whilst all the while dreading the fall out all the same. Surely Isolt knew well the trouble she was inviting? Not that he could blame her for so wanting that freedom - after all, did he not attempt to demand the very same thing?