She puts forth only the minutest attempt to stifle the girlish chortle as it rumbles so delicately within her throat. If only he was privy to even a modicum of the truth regarding how "all out" she went in her good-natured attempts to both explore and press the boundaries of her own whims. It was an undeniable and axiomatic truth that Isolt and Harley's shared lives had been littered with myriad misadventures and ill-fated goings on that had, at one point or another, sprung from only the most wholesome of intentions... at least on Isolt's behalf. "I think I might have to bring her next time. It'll help me feel a lot less... out of place, I suppose," she murmurs almost guiltily, blue eyes drifting once more to the scene unfolding around them. A production of which she could have never truly been a part, separated and set apart from this demographic in nearly every conceivable manner. The young woman was beginning to ponder, in no uncertain terms, that this was, perhaps, far from her brightest notion. It was, in fact, entirely plausible that she had effectively gotten herself in over her pretty little head.

It is an offhandedly macabre thought that is affirmed in some eerily clandestine way by the feel of calloused fingertips brushing against the plush and tender flesh of her rosy cheek. Shallow furrows begin to delve themselves into the otherwise smooth slope of her brow as instinct dictates that she pulls away ever so slightly. The kindly simper that had been a fixture upon her lips withers and fades nearly instantly with the warning he whispers so pointedly to her. There is a flicker of... something that burns to life within his emerald eyes, though even in retrospect she could not have rightly said what it was. It is there and gone in but a moment's time, the spark extinguished, snuffed out, whether he has willed it so or not. And there in its place is a somewhat unnervingly fastidious charm, a façade that seems vaguely practiced when juxtaposed to the man of moments earlier. Seconds before he had seemed intent upon warning her of latent treacheries and now he means to gloat about this place he has offhandedly scoffed? Isolt's dazzling azure eyes flick meticulously, suspiciously, from his admittedly handsome face to the hand he holds out to her so chivalrously. Finally, bearing more than just a little hesitance, she allows her delicate hand to slide smoothly into his. "Alright."

But there are no gasps of awe or titillating exclamations of delight to be had for the demure young woman. For whether by virtue of her would-be chauffeur's muttered words of warning or by the off-puttingly grotesque aura of the establishment, she finds herself tensing only further. Every sharp, gleaming edge, every scrupulous stare with which she is fixed seems to further highlight how very little she belongs here... how very much on the outskirts she undoubtedly is. When finally her discomfort reaches such a level that she cannot bear it any longer, though, the darkly handsome man opens a single door and motions to the room that lies beyond. And then, for reasons she cannot, either presently or afterwards, decipher she obeys. A woman lingers in the room beyond, beautiful in an ambiguously ominous way. A protest hangs precariously upon her lips as the door behind her closes, a lock clicking far too loudly into place, echoing into the marrow of her bones. Isolt moves to retreat, and finds only the solid form of the emerald-eyed man at her back. "What is this?" It is little more than a breathless whisper, lost entirely to the telltale tempo of her steadily beating heart. She had, indeed, gotten in over her head... and, she suspected, the tide was only rising.