She can feel it, the shift in the air - the way his shoulders stiffen and his eyes narrow in sudden distrust. Something is wrong, a flaw in her plan from a lack of information on her part. What had she missed? Doubt flickers in her mind but she brushes it away, not allowing that innocent facade to crumble when she is so close to securing the first piece necessary to the sordid puzzle of mastering the Unseelie court. So close, so she smiles at him as if she hadn't noticed his hesitation, beams at him like he's the brightest star in this night for rescuing her. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Archer," she says with a childlike giddiness, so common for some of the lesser fae, particularly those of the gentler Seelie court.

It is a knife in her gut to pretend to be one of those fools, weak and simpering for the attention of a male fae, as if she needed him to protect her. But she does it anyways, putting her pride aside.

Her arms are cold, but not cold enough to bother her - the cold is a familiar comfort to her people, the Unseelie tending to prefer it over the bright delights of spring. Winter was their season, and their powers so often reflected that. Blaise's own metalworking power was a rarity, one that had been treasured before her mother's death and her fall from grace for having lost the Amulet of the Dullahan to a thief in the night. Sooner or later, Blaise fully expected to develop the power to harness ice, to wield it as easily as she did her beloved metals, but alas, that would come with age.

She only hoped it would come sooner than later, if only to lend strength to her claim for the Unseelie throne.

Abruptly, she is brought back from her thoughts as Archer turns away from her, tugging his hooded sweater over his head, a sliver of his back illuminated by the moon's gentle glow. For the first time since she stumbled from behind the tree, her breath hitches with real emotion, admiration and lust mingling and setting her heavy lidded eyes to sparkling with delight. When he turns around to hand her the sweatshirt she smiles, the coy smile returns to her lips. It is too easy for her to shift into these roles, as if she were meant to be an actress, a star on hollywood boulevard.

She allows her fingers to brush his when she takes the hoodie from him, her skin lingering against his only for a moment before she looks away with a shy look of feigned embarrassment, her teeth tugging at her bottom lip as she pulls the hoodie over her head.

It smells wonderful, her fae senses overwhelmed with his scent; there it is again, that tug of desire setting fire to her belly.

But she isn't hear to make bedfellows, so she shoves the thought aside as quickly as it comes, instead regarding him with quiet interest, a look that could be mistaken as wariness when he asks her what she was doing in the cold with no jacket.

"I was looking for someone and I left my coat at home," she says, careful not to allow any incriminating details to slip through. "Silly me," she mumbles, tucking her hands into the pocket of the hoodie, looking as giddy as a child on christmas morning despite her bleeding wounds, the cuts already knitting themselves back together.

"What are you doing out here, Mr. Archer," she asks, her eyes round as saucers, ever the curious inquisitor.