On The Edge of a Blade

Chapter 8.2

"Ouch!"

"Sorry," came the half-hearted, preoccupied reply.

Rose clenched her hands into fists, but didn't raise any further complaints. Being poked and prodded was far from pleasant, but the less she grumbled, the faster this would conclude.

This was the first time Rose had ever had an outfit tailored specifically for her, not to mention the first time that she had properly worn a dress. Sure, she had slept in nightgowns as a child, but Liana had never forced her to wear anything but pants, so that was truly the extent of it. As both a tomboy and an assassin, dresses simply weren't economical or necessary.

Now, however, this lifetime streak of solely donning attire first and foremost intended for men was being broken. For some reason, it was impossible to complete this newest mission she had been tasked to complete without wearing a skirt. And a green one, nonetheless, not even black to fit in with her typical color scheme!

"Lockhart! I didn't know you were a seamstress." A large man with a booming voice entered the room without knocking. His ego immediately swelled to fill the space, his very aura demanding that he command all attention.

Rose frowned, but her expression of distaste was unable to match the pure vehemency of Lockhart's. The tall assassin gave his compatriot a shriveling glare, pausing in his task of hemming Rose's sleeve. "Just because I know how to sew," he seethed, "doesn't mean that I am any less of a man."

"Really?" Z smiled malevolently. "That dress you've made says otherwise."

In a fit of rage, Lockhart dropped the needle, letting it dangle down off of Rose's outstretched arm from its thread. "Z!" he roared, his face turning crimson as he stood to his full height, breaking six feet with overwhelming ease. "At least I have some practical skills beyond killing at my disposal."

Z's smile simply widened. "But what is more practical than killing?"

Despite herself, a twisted smile appeared on Rose's face. She would never deny her hatred for Z, but on some subjects they were in agreement.

Her change in expression didn't go unnoticed. Z locked gazes with her, and adopted a lecherous air. "So, sweetcheeks," he said, approaching her slowly, "has anyone ever told you that you got a real nice, ah, figure?" He chuckled darkly. "Never knew you were hiding that under that robe of yours."

Just like Lockhart, Rose felt her cheeks flush a bright red; Z seemed to have such an effect on people, whether he was speaking to someone easily riled up or typically calm. "You know what your problem is, Z?" she asked scornfully. "Killing is only your excuse. You can talk about death all you want, but you're only in it for what comes before the kill."

"That's where you're wrong." Z shook his head slowly, dramatically. "I live for every. Single. Moment. You need the first act in order to properly enjoy the grand finale. Without each scene, how could the ending ever properly take my audience's breath away?"

Rose could feel her skin crawl. Z was too close to her, and he was deriving too much pleasure from the mere suggestion of his common lustful activities. She wished to move away, but her dress wasn't finished yet, and she knew that Lockhart would respond very negatively if she moved. Even with her arm stretched out uncomfortably, she knew that he would become wrathful if she so much as let it drop a degree.

Was it better to follow her instincts and put distance between herself and an evil man, or to stay put lest she be chewed out by a man with anger issues? She was caught between two dire forces, and she wasn't a big fan of either nasty ideals or needles. Neither appealed to her.

Luckily for Rose, Lockhart wasn't too fond of Z's attitude, either. In fact, he was a few nudges away from lashing out physically. "I swear upon every angel, fallen and risen alike, Z!" he roared, snatching back up his dangling needle. "Either make yourself silent or scarce, because I'm in the middle of something!"