Not terrible

[Oriena]

Ori downed the first hit in one, pressing the cool glass to her throbbing mouth for a moment before refilling. After Gus slid another glass across the bar, Mikhail brushed his arm around her, dangerous close to the smarting bruises beneath her shirt. She tensed reflexively, capturing him with a dark glare as he leaned in close to snake his fingers around her vodka bottle. The spark of a dare lit his eyes. He shouldn't challenge her like that; he wasn't likely to enjoy the consequences of striking such a match. Most of the time, Oriena was pure gasoline.

Her gaze followed him lazily as he retreated; less a sign of docility, and more one of calculation. If he'd known her better. The power wreathed like smoke as she watched him lean back and sip, tipping the spoils of his theft in her direction. The glass in his hand was moments from shredding his palm to bloody ribbons when her eyes caught on another salute. It was the scar carving up his face that drew her attention, not the question of why he'd sought her attention in the first place.

Then the bottle smashed, and Ori's scrutiny unravelled to a purely dark anticipation as the stranger jerked to his feet. The promise of violence drew her sharply, an edge of black lust flashing interest in her stare. The same inclination that urged her to seek out the blunt end of Luka's fist. That burned the Baccarat to the ground and longed for the sharp edge of retaliation.

Mikhail barely shifted. He eyed the confrontation with about as much interest as he might give to the crunch of an insect under his boot. Gus, with his folded arms and blank glare, would be proud; he brooked no nonsense in his bar -- as Ori well knew, though it hadn't stopped her jamming her grip around someone's throat the last time she was here. She leaned slightly forward. Urging him on. Either of them.

But the stranger reigned it in.

She watched him leave. The disappointment was bitter, but the spark didn't die. Her gaze still blazed.

Mikhail brushed the encounter off with controlled practise, which should have been an admirable quality, but Ori only saw it as a lost opportunity to play. She idled the liquid in her glass much as the chaos churned in the gaze she landed back on him. Her lips parted to speak, and then her Wallet buzzed. She read the message with a smirk before sliding the tech back in her pocket. Flicked her gaze back up to Mikhail's half smile.

"I like you, Mikhail. I was warning you. I don't play by the rules."
Her smile glinted wicked, vodka wet on her lips as she emptied her second drink. The ice in it tinkled when she gestured towards the pool table and the men he clearly recognised, neither of whom had much glanced up from their game. This was Zamoskvoreche; it wasn't even worth paying attention until the first punch landed.

Mikhail's game, and his move. Every line of her expression taunted impress me.