What the cat dragged in

[Lalitha Vero]

She was addicted to the heartbeat tension of moments like this. Playing the provocateur or the audience, enacting the story or watching it unfold, Litha never minded. Sámiel was a master. She masked none of her reaction, lips parted, eyes intoxicated by the closeness of him – and that was part of the joy of it, waiting to see which side the coin would land before unravelling the mystery of what might happen next. Litha adored every moment, but it never made it less of a game to her. Not because she lacked sincerity or conviction – it was what she was made of, that kind of unapologetic rawness and honesty – but because she always saw performance. Especially with him.

The whisper of the words brought an irrepressible smile to her lips. She met his eyes as he leaned back, and let him watch all of her reaction. Litha enjoyed the teasing, didn’t mind how he pulled her strings; she never had. There was never any self-consciousness in how fully she lived moment to moment. What was the point holding back? Not least when she was in that liminal space between drunk and not drunk.

She laughed, a bubbling sound, and crooked a playful finger. “You should be careful how you speak about witches. Especially the wild ones. We have long memories, Sámi.” It was a curse perhaps a little ruined by the effervescence of her mirth. Though she did harbour the giggling long enough to lean a little closer. Mischievousness did not lessen from the glisten of her eyes, though her tone next was largely sincere. If he wanted Litha the pain in the ass, she could surely oblige. “You were watching the Vas wagons,” she said, in question more than accusation. Her head tilted to the side, thoughtful. She wanted to know why. Or, at least, she wanted to hear him say it.