Darcy. Ever the easy target tonight it would seem. After all, was it not easy to shoot the damned messenger? Surely, he knew this, knew the fickleness of those volatile tendencies that intermingle to make the perfect storm. Had he done anything wrong? Truly? He might not have signed that contract or become that traitorous wretch she so brands him as in those moments, but he had kept that pertinent information from her. Even with that proof all but glaring at her in the face. That contract painted with flesh and carnage as she would expect nothing less, it should have been an inkling as to how he reacted to that offer, his very loyalty. Yet, right in this very moment it was not enough to dissipate that unease that lashes out like barbed tipped whips. Her rage could have been far worse, she would have taken her time in that sadistic torment she so effortlessly wades through. She would slice and destroy a person like an apple, leaving nothing but their vile core just to get that desired effect, to satisfy the yearning to satisfy that sadism that lingers within her. She was a true artist in her imagery and execution. How very few could pull out that very emotion from that hellish queen, apparently Darcy possessed a direct line to that venomous and corrosive well that dwells inside of her.

How well aware he was of that scalding emotion that could devour the very flesh from his bones and yet he is intrepid in his efforts as he all but basks in it like her pale flesh soaks a radiates that worshiping moonlight. How she has him exactly where she wants him then. She took that forced submission because something within her demands it. She didn't allow him to offer it to her freely like she had so many times before, lacking that very patience she so seemingly exudes. It was decidedly rare that it ever came to this, Darcy ever careful not to provoke that hell-dragon's fury, or at the very least there was always another outlet for that frustration. But this unpleasant news should have bodies dropping, should have levelled buildings with her ravenous ferocity. So much for that tentative peace he had works so hard to forge, it was all but obliterated to sweet ruin at her heel clad foot. No matter how much he tended to her, to appease to her every devilishly vacillating whim.

In that moment, she almost craves the sound of his pain, wanted to hear it to feed off of it, off his punishment as though it would suffice. He deprives her of that sweet sound and it only makes her more frustrated. News such as this demanded suffering and she was sufferings master. Yet, it would hardly lean in his favour if he did. That very sound would have provoked a flurry that was questionable if even he could come back from. She would have continued to bleed that sound from his lips until there was no sound left.

That vile growl escapes him then when she snapped that chain, a symbol of her ownership of him almost symbolically chokes him like the noose it could also serve has. A noose to tighten at her own whims only. That reprimand came hard and fast. Another brutal reminder of that cost of her affection, the cost of being the most dominant vampire directly under her rule. There was no room for error. There was always a price. One he had been quick to pay, one he offered the very remains of his tattered soul. Even still, he should have known better than to growl at her. Yet she almost dares him to snap, to take that growl further beyond those mere flaring warnings, flashing red colours. How dare he. His hair trigger temper was a glorious thing to behold, but not when lashed upon her. That she would not tolerate, not without punishment. How long would he need to be reminded? Yet there is some sick part of her that enjoys playing with that finely tuned, albeit tightly wound instrument she created.

There was a portentous moment where a flash of a defiant look seems to overtake his handsome chiseled face. How she hardly liked that fevered look. A flash that seems more fitting upon Tetradore's face. Not his. Did she have more than one problem on her hands? That tension in his body is like a barefaced uprising against her very authority. Yet she does not relent her hold until he does. That cruel handed mistress continues pushing, pushing him further and further closer to that ledge she knows is there. Everyone had a limit, her lover even. Even if he posed with the guise at limitless when it came to her. Risque had known of that very ledge because she had fashioned it. She crafted it the more she fed that dominance within him, allowed him more. She had created this, molded him like putty within her skillful hands, pulling out what was already there and adeptly shaping it. Now she demands for him to lay down those very arms that might as well been pointed at him.

What a precarious razor's edge they balanced upon. For a flare of a traitorous moment she took distinct pleasure from that very act. He seemed so terribly close to that looming breaking point, she could taste it like something tangible on the crackling air. At least until ultimately, that gaze shifts downward and away that inevitable submission overtaking his figure then. All that tension and dominance seems to melt away and yet that hardly altered the fact of the matter how long it took him to do so. His dominant side so retaliated to have it forced, thrust upon him. How intriguing. It hardly went unnoticed as those eyes that were capable of slicing through very souls peer down upon that unique creature wavering beneath her. Part of her revels in seeing him this way, her masterpiece bending to her will. She would not have it the other way around, Risque was so incapable of bending. From all that breaking and refashioning she had put herself through, the first century having been reborn into that hellish mistress. The centuries thereafter only solidifying it in place. She further continues to lean over him, in that rather dominant stance, that chair completely relying upon her, one slight misstep and he would tumble crashing upon the hard cement below with an added force that could have him cracking like an egg. That sudden act of that would instant turn him into prey to toy with, it would be a bloody frenzy of violence and dominance wreaking god-like havoc.

His mismatched gaze shifts upward peering at her as those final infected words were uttered. In that moment that sickness cripples her mind, makes her act rashly, that crushing force would surely obliterate everything in its hell-bent path. It had been so long since she leveled the battle field. Perhaps that very denial had been building within her for far too long. How that twisted hell-forged creature was surely capable of it. Was history not doomed to repeat itself? If only she could capture that and contain it and use it to crush on those waiting enemies. She releases that chain, just enough to allow him to speak, as though she were his executioner allowing him his final words. That very human inhale almost struck the wound-up chords of her own hunger. His vampire blood would surely not do, unless he had freshly fed and yet hunger could come in many forms. Yet, that hardly seemed to stop her on her hell path. His words do little to distract her and yet she listens to that familiar coaxing voice anyways, affording him with more leniency than anyone under this very roof, even now. He tries to appeal to that rational side, to that calculating temptress that lingered beneath all that volatile fury. Yet his conceding words seemed to slightly appease her if only for but a moment. It was that hesitation within her war path that perhaps saves him. One false move would have obliterated that brittle peace as she seemed to direct her paranoia to something, no someone else. Something other than the man beneath her whose fate she clutches.

How quick he was to seize that very slender opening, squeezing through if only to save his own hide. "I don't know how, but we missed it. It should have never gotten to this point. I should have scented Cade's filthy betrayal on him at the auction.. He isn't so normally as brazen with compliments and flirtations. He wanted you to strike the first blow so he could end you." How could she miss it? Her eyes narrowed then, that grip on him growing almost tighter then. That night Cade was looking for a fight, a chance to destroy Darcy before the impending battle he so sneakily brewed. How even he knew that her gunslinging cunning southern gentleman posed a threat, it was no secret. How she took a moment to consider, those warning chimes seemed to click into place. It was obvious he wanted to kill Darcy first or own him. It would seem the first won out over the latter.

How strange, one minute she was ready to rip out his dead heart from his body, the next she told him in every sense to watch his back. "They will be waiting, especially knowing that you exterminated Tybalt like the revolting thing he was." It was a pity he didn't bring him back for her to play. He would have proven to be fun sport to dissect, piece by piece. He would have probably talked too. But that was only a minor irritation in comparison to what they faced.

He offers to bring her any traitorous swine with ease, quick to place her ire on anything, something else. "Good, I do like to play.. I have a few new methods I would like to try that I think would make them sing." Always ominous, but was that... anticipation?

How that very declaration assaults her, charged and ruthless it pervades her carefully armoured façade. How dare he use this against her, to appease her now. Love... or some severely skewed and perverse notion of that very word seemed to choke her like a silver fashioned collar around her slender pale throat. Was she even capable of such an emotion? She was so convinced it had long since died along with the slaughter of her humanity. The end of her family, with the execution on her maker and coven of sheep-minded imbeciles. How that necrotic black heart had all but shriveled and decayed the years after. Risque so easily allowed that hatred to swell and exacerbate within her. Her mind and body a perfect breeding ground for that wide-spread odium to grow. She had been a woman betrayed, scorned longer than she had been a vampire. Now no one said no to her. The only way to keep someone is to shackle, chain or cage them. The only way to get one wants was by force, whether it be by psychological warfare or physical.

Yet Darcy was a creature onto himself. Would it be so bad to return those words? Would it taste as vile as she imagined it would? Was he not deserving of it? Was she even capable of meaning it? Too many questions accompanied by that way he looks at her, that face no longer holding that general disdain for the world at large. He felt it. Truly. Even within her wrath even she could see that. As a token of those words he offers her more.

Darcy's form seemed to unravel, offering himself sprawled out and completely submissive. That line of his neck near shone in the brilliance of that luminescent moon overhead, it highlighted the delicious tendons and groves in a way she finds appetizing. She could hardly help but bask in that very sight, of pure vulnerability. How she wanted to rake her teeth along the expanse of his flesh then, to simply take all that was offered to him. While his submission to her was nothing new. In this very moment it seems to offer him safety. A man aware of his hand and playing it accordingly.

As though he willingly accepted that cruel punishment. He knew very well what he offered and what he risked to do so. Especially as those accusations so fresh in the night air. She knew... she knew of this. Yet it was like a part of her wanted to see that control she wielded, needed to see it. It was like prey rolling on their back before a tigress on the hunt. Those very huntress eyes seem to peer down upon him with that animalistic intent.

His words are so very far from begging and yet she views it as such. He hardly wanted to die. "It's a very human feeling, non? The desire for life. We all just cling onto one more day and what we would sacrifice just to see another moment of that feeble life. Even most immortals. Isn't it that very thing that can kill you, that makes you feel alive?" Wasn't it intoxicating? Ever so cryptic those words were forever intricately designed to be. Those words are like silken death, cold and yet sensual, designed to permeate that skin, to slide beneath it and spread to that mind. She seems to soak in that submissive stance. She could have struck... could have made him face that grim death he clearly didn't want. Yet she doesn't and she says nothing more. She did take a moment to devour him with her pale hypnotic eyes that are like a blasé perilous vortex of their own. He dares to spew that comment about his own affinity, snapping her out of her own reverie. How well she knew. Never once did she falter from that gaze, even still. she knew him. Knew him at the very putrid core root of him, even if she allows her mind to grow suspicious of it and him all the same.

Her eyes slice toward him with that harsh cutting glance, was that a challenge in those words? How those dangerous emotions still festered like a vat of acid within her. They are the source of those perilous waters so many had vanquished within. She could melt skin from bone and now she could have ended him. She could have found an outlet to this hellish onslaught that rakes her sensual form. Instead she draws her face so very close to his, allowing those lips to brush against his flesh, designed to pluck on those very strings she knew existed. Even within lady death's taloned clutches she coaxed that desire to the surface, snatching that very sound from him. She knew she had him exactly where she wanted in a moment's notice. She allows their eyes to lock, without any heed to those unique eyes that could destroy her where she stood. It was intoxicating, the feel of possibility. Yet she knows even though she tries to play with that hellfire within him, even though, now she toys with him. Even as he dares to allow that dominance to trickle in. She breaks that eye contact only to whisper those final words, this was like knife play. Without hesitation she viciously rakes her fangs along his neck, ragged and deep just to make him bleed for that dominance he dares to use against her while she marks him. Only when that blood seems to rise obediently as he should have, appeasing her. She steals only but a singular taste of that vampiric blood, it looked dark, nearly glistening black even amongst the vivid moon's caress. That blood drips so tantalizing down the grooves of his neck, that very action of that blood seemed to ensnare. In an instant she releases him, nearly unceremonious.

She watches as he rose smoothly from his seat, seemingly unaffected then. All she strides that large, loose predatory circle, she needed to move, stalk him with his blood fresh upon her fangs. He unfurls a piece of rolled paper from his inner pocket. It would appear he did have that ace up his sleeve. As always. She would be disappointed if he didn't. He sprawls out that deceptively large paper then, even from here she could see it was littered with diagrams and marked points. His demeanor seemed to shift to that same way he gave her his reports. His gaze peers up at her, there was something nearly keen about it. He began speak of those very plans.

He wanted to play it safe. To execute these tactics with a methodical, planned precision. Risque preferred to go straight for the heart, she truly had a flare for the dramatics. She liked to toy, and own anywhere she went. Risque paid attention to his word, that silence from her like a breath before that storm assaults. Her own mind shifted and wholly focused upon that war impending rather than Darcy's transgressions for now. She listens, those inner gears creaking and turning as her own mind pulverizes various scenarios like a well-oiled machine.

She moved with that iconic feline grace, her movements slow and methodical sinuating the roll of her hips, that dress seemed to move with her like a second skin, the sharp click of her heels consumed by that comforting embrace of night. She moved toward that table where he places that paper then. Oh it would seem, he had been quite busy. She allows her slender fingers to stroke that decorated paper. How she hated making a habit of ruining her own home, territory in the passion of war.

Of course, Syn was perfect, she designed that very building did she not? It was lightyears better than that previous syn that was reduced to rubble and ash. If only Tetradore had known that his little stunt had actually made her money. The value of that land far more valuable than the building itself, plus the money in insurance almost covered the costs of everything that needed replacing. Now that custom crafted building was everything that could was needed and yet so much more all at once. It was much larger, a labyrinth customized with dead ends and impossible to navigate without knowledge and most importantly, access. It was a veritable fortress.

He questions her about those cats and she rose her brow pointedly in response, her fingers seem to trail over his damaged neck then with a bizarre tenderness, allowing the healing wound to coat her pale fingertips with blood. "How about a demonstration." She muses, that affinity was her most honed gifts. How that affinity seems to reach out, like she cast out an ever-expanding ensnaring line that spreads like oxygen itself, far and wide. She could feel her felines within that building like it were second nature, only rarely did she reach out beyond that. That call consumes across those streets sensing everything feline. Housecats, strays, and even some hidden weres she hadn't felt before. Interesting. She sends out that silent but poignant cat call, calling to them, tugging upon their strings that connect them to her very affinity. That very power seems to coil any feline it meets them with relentless precision, whispering and demanding all at once. The weres were forced to change into their feline forms to the back of the building they began to congregate.

Every last one. Those trapped housecats were sent into a frenzy, most finding ways to join that inescapable call. She could practically feel their skulking forms winding the streets, helplessly scampering toward that call, to their queen. Those actions no longer their own, even Princess sat up straight and highly alert, her small form swaying to mysterious call to the very mistress that so effortlessly wielded them. Even the two clouded leopard cubs appeared from the slightly agape door of her room. They were rapidly growing, their patterns more distinguishable now. Fortunately, they did not lose those iconic eyebrows that seemed to appease her capricious appetites. She says nothing as to what she was accumulating then, her own army of felines drawing forward to that impossible pull. A congregation of cats forming just below them. She continues speaking as if changing the subject while it gave time for those felines to trek through the westside. "I see what you are getting at. It won't be too problematic to have them come here. Cade may be smart. But his weakness is... he is arrogant." Just like a man in power for too long. How many of those had underestimated her time and time again? Far too many to count. But time rarely changed such a fact.

"I will send my spies in the meantime to see what they can gather. They won't be seen." To gather intel. If they could find out some of the powers they were to face against, any amount of preparation would do. While she could incapacitate most of them with her torment abilities and Tetradore's fear, there was only so much she could to between commanding her kitten army and then wielding that blanket of suffocating torment.

Impatient in waiting, she knew those felines had begun to funnel from their respective directions, coming from all over the west. They all sat, silent, vacant eyes peering upward. As if waiting for their queen. Cats of all kinds, including her own collection. Weres intermingled with their true counterparts. Suddenly she slips toward that ledge she could hardly help that slow venomous smile that unfurls upon her crimson lips at what she saw, what she felt. Tigers, leopards, jaguars, lions, mere house cats, everything feline that existed accumulated here now. Their sitting forms ready and anticipating command. It was a sea of cats below them, the artificial lights illuminating their various colours and patterns. What a sight, she presses into that banister then, toying with that wrought iron her calculating eyes seem to hold a rare glimmer of delight. "An army.." She stretching out her slender than then. "There are more, I can feel them." It was hardly worth the effort. She seemed to skip over Tetradore's little pack too. No. she didn't need them, she was sure of it. In a moment she has all those felines bowing just because she wanted to feel their bodies bending to her will. What a strange sight, but she enjoys it.

After a moment in reveling and anticipating Darcy's reaction she spoke once more. "I have someone who owes me a.... favour.. I can have at least 20 talented vampires, maybe more, at our disposal in a few days or so.." She merely states with an apathetic resolve as if speaking of simpler topics, that rage seemingly had simmered some for now. A sigh escaped her then, her gaze then settle upon his form. It was more a dismissive sound, a minor inconvenience. "Cade will wish he was never born when I am through with him. I want him to die last so he can watch the carnage of his own people unfold before his very eyes without being able to lift a finger to help. If that hasn't broken him then I will keep him alive until time does the work for me." Of course she had a few convincing tactics to speed that alone. That slow sinful smile spreads across her feminine features, she was looking forward to it.

"You wish to flank their numbers and deliver a swift ambush attack?" The set up was perfect for it. She even felt prone to agree. But she hardly liked so many enemies stalking and trudging her territory. No, not at all.

In an instant their own numbers had multiplied. But was it enough? It had to be. "How do you like those odds now, hm?" After all, he was a gambling man. It would seem she had a few tricks of her own stashed away. Perhaps there was a few more, but she wasn't ready to reveal the entirety of her own hand just yet.

Risque

just face the moon and put your death mask on