Blood Sport

[Oriena]

He took proclivities that were not his due. The casual drape of his arm razored blades across her skin; she was particular on the allowance of touch, at least when it held such a proprietorial air. They'd already toyed with this idea of ownership, the unending power struggle on every minuscule level. She assumed it was why he used the moniker sweetheart, knowing full well she would not find it endearing.

"Giovanni."
She used his name intimately, teasing; like he was hers. He had come running, after all. Her glaze flicked up and down the length of him, noting but not lingering on the differences since she'd last seen him. He was not the only one looking different, though her change was nothing but the presentation of another facet among a thousand. In place of motorcycle boots and leather jackets, kohled eyes and tantalising flesh. She slipped seamlessly within this world of darkness, wreathed like a queen. Or a goddess.

Hair spilled like black ink against pale shoulders, brushed back from her face. She uncurled long legs clad in leather to slip down from the stool, the obscene height of stilettos bringing her up to eye level. The glitter of chaos was evident in her gaze, the deep blue of dusk seconds before the sun found itself swallowed. Behind it lay a secret she promised to share if only he followed just a few more steps to the crook of her finger. Her smile was a transparent lure.

The steps led down to the pits and cages, the metallic tang of blood sharp on the tongue compared to the air conditioned finery of upstairs. Shadows cupped cheeks, robbing clear sight in this clandestine place, but faces still registered in her peripheral, the important ones anyway. More than a few sets of eyes skittered away upon meeting hers, but her predatory stalk found no prey in them tonight. She was only assessing an audience as she threaded her way to a table topped with the gleam of a silver reserved sign.

A second-tier, unmemorable table, two or three deep from the centre spectacle. A massive cage thrust upwards at the centre of the cavernous room, dark at the moment, while the pits below played out a prologue of blood lust. With no tangible stake in the outcome (and money did not count) she was less than enthralled with the base desires of man. It disgusted as much as it fascinated. Blood and bruises, fragile skin and splintered bones; these things both thrilled her and left a bitter taste, a touch of madness she was aware but unwary of.

She sat, crossed her legs, and assessed Giovanni's reaction so far. Violence had inflamed him before, and she had not chosen the Almaz by accident. At almost the same time she noticed a man a few tables away, flashing a moment of recognition, though they'd never met. The shadow of her smile crept a little more malevolent. "Are you a betting man, Giovanni?"