11-13-2013, 04:32 PM
Ori let his tone echo a shiver through her skin. Her expression was faint, the barest pleased curve of lips, though the brazen way her eyes caught his as he released her was very clear; she expected nothing less. And he would be delivering on that promise, assuming he still captured her attention by the end of the night.
She was content to follow, for now at least. Oriena did not belong to this world, but she was a self-assured trespasser, and shamefully ignorant of the violation. No jewels caressed her throat nor dripped from her fingers. Her dress, while well-fitted, did not bear a priceless designer tag. But a little darkness edged her smile, and she was nonetheless possessed of an easy confidence that had little to do with the number of zeros to her bank account.
Some faces she recognised, and of those some looked back. What sordid secrets lie nestled behind the polished shine? She’d seen beyond the glamour. The glitter of gold and cold glare of diamond did not dazzle so brightly once you’d glimpsed the same old human frailties underneath. Fawning after a prescribed image of perfection, and so completely assured of their elevated pedestals, her fingers itched to shove the fuckers out of their ill-deserved superiority.
“Classy party.”
Something dry infected an otherwise empty tone; she was not making small talk, she was testing a sly insult. Her gaze rolled lazily over the pockets of gathered elite, then settled on Jaxen like she was trying to decide how well he truly fit the landscape. She’d be vaguely disappointed if he faded into the glitter, though she expected little. His commandment of unnatural gifts offered him an edge – was half the reason she was even here – but she was yet undecided as to the value of his actual company. For someone who owned a club in the heart of Moscow – who’d spent her entire adult life working behind bars – she didn’t exactly savour these social scenes. So it’d better be fucking worth it.
She was content to follow, for now at least. Oriena did not belong to this world, but she was a self-assured trespasser, and shamefully ignorant of the violation. No jewels caressed her throat nor dripped from her fingers. Her dress, while well-fitted, did not bear a priceless designer tag. But a little darkness edged her smile, and she was nonetheless possessed of an easy confidence that had little to do with the number of zeros to her bank account.
Some faces she recognised, and of those some looked back. What sordid secrets lie nestled behind the polished shine? She’d seen beyond the glamour. The glitter of gold and cold glare of diamond did not dazzle so brightly once you’d glimpsed the same old human frailties underneath. Fawning after a prescribed image of perfection, and so completely assured of their elevated pedestals, her fingers itched to shove the fuckers out of their ill-deserved superiority.
“Classy party.”
Something dry infected an otherwise empty tone; she was not making small talk, she was testing a sly insult. Her gaze rolled lazily over the pockets of gathered elite, then settled on Jaxen like she was trying to decide how well he truly fit the landscape. She’d be vaguely disappointed if he faded into the glitter, though she expected little. His commandment of unnatural gifts offered him an edge – was half the reason she was even here – but she was yet undecided as to the value of his actual company. For someone who owned a club in the heart of Moscow – who’d spent her entire adult life working behind bars – she didn’t exactly savour these social scenes. So it’d better be fucking worth it.
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