The steak knife rests so temptingly below his palm. It would take one quick movement, he could cut her throat, and she'd bleed out and die with little theatrics, though the blood would be an issue. The spray would prove to be problematic; he couldn't leave here soaked in blood, the waiter would see at the very least, and that would mean killing yet another.
There was a couple who had been eyeing them all night; of course, they might happen upon a glance, and then what? They, too? How many bodies could this one bit of satisfaction rack up? The voice that had long since been silenced rumbles in like a storm cloud, purring to worry about it later, pleading for sweet justice.
Did she not deserve to die?
The red-haired woman crosses her arms over her breasts in offense at his silent gawking, reclining back against the plush backing of the booth. "You sound like an insane person. Are we going to do this or what? You're killing the vibe."
Reel it in. You're not done yet.
Her words bring him out of the mindset of an animal determined for revenge.
"My apologies." Verando manages finally, voice struggling under the restraint. He would have to revisit those thoughts later, sort through them, and find their source, as outright murdering someone wasn't really his style. No matter the crime, it wasn't something he took lightly.
"Allow me to show you the depth of my appreciation." He draws on the word, sobering as it was to come to the realization that this woman was behind at least some of his anguish.
Red's lips part as he draws her back to the carefully laid out scene; he just needed to get her alone, out of the sight of the general public. Holding out his hand, he stands, and she hesitates, looking him up and down.
"Skipping on the check? Now, who's being rude."
"Oh, don't worry, I'll be back." He assures her, unable to force the grin from the grimace. He leads her towards the back of the building, heading for the kitchen; perhaps there was an alleyway out back, away from a water source? He couldn't get too ahead of himself; she was still dangerous.
"Where are we going?" She asks, enthralled and yet cautious. With her hand firmly in his, he leads her through the double doors and into the kitchen.
"Verando." She demands.
Verando cursed under his breath; he wasn't dedicated enough, wasn't invested enough to complete the short distance out the back door.
"Do you think I'm an idiot that I would just leave out the back of the building with you?" Her voice bears down on his back, trying not to cause a scene and yet intending for all ears to hear.
"Mr.Mercer, forcing himself on a lady." The murmurs surround them as the kitchen becomes quiet, the two patrons standing out like a sore thumb with him so obviously clutching her wrist as a means to take her with him.
"Let go of me or I will scream." She growls through her teeth, voice low.
It's enough to crack the careful facade, tugging at the corner of his lips as he checks the time once more.
Don't do it. Think about Nic. Think about your family. Don't revert.
Her smug expression eats away at him, thinking she's figured out his loosely veiled plan.
"Time constraints mean there isn't much time for foreplay, pet. I'm afraid you're going to have to check out early for bad behavior." The grey-haired man tells her numbly.
Fuck it; deal with the fallout later.
Verando snags the knife off of one of the racks and takes a swing at her; she ducks out of the way to deal a blow to his side as he follows her with the oversized blade. Keeping a firm hold on her wrist, it's comparable to hanging on to a jungle cat with the way she uses her smaller size to twist and writhe.
Red delivers a sharp kick to his inner thigh, narrowly missing his groin, and he drops her, stumbling backward. Pulling out his gun, she quickly yanks hers off her hip. "Out!" He shouts to the screaming staff. "Dehors! Maintenant!" He repeats in French.
They file past as she wipes a smudge of lipstick off her jaw.
"Do you really want me to kick your ass in a public place? Do you not remember we've sparred an awful lot? You didn't win many of those times, Daddy."
"Well, then you shouldn't be worried." Verando spits back, "You should have stayed in the past."
Red fires a shot and dives as he fires back at her, lowering himself behind one of the counters. Sliding down the cabinets, it's hard to hear footsteps over the crackle and pop of food on hot tops. The clang of pots and pans sets him off, and he fires a shot over his head, disrupting the pan on the hot top to cause a plume of steam and smoke.
She gags on the spicy fumes as he attempts to smack her with the back of his gun. Deflecting with her fist, she swings a hanging cast iron pan and catches him in the shoulder. Expecting searing agony, it was a shock to both of them that the discomfort was mild compared to what it was before the repair.
"Uh oh." She muses, grinning, as if this was all a game to her. She was still hopeful, she seemed to still believe he'd take her after all of this.
"Uh oh." He repeats back, deflecting the next blow off the pan as she jumps up and over the hot stove. Verando yanks her to the ground, firing off two shots that ricochet off the back of the pan, and she kicks pointedly for his groin again.
"Filthy fighting habits." He kicks her ribs, sending her sliding down the slick tiles and giving him a moment to breathe. "Crotch shots? Really?"
Red shrugs, blowing him a kiss.
"Think you broke a rib, getting kind of serious." Snagging a barrage of knives off the cutting surface, she plays target practice as he narrowly avoids her blades. Perhaps a kitchen wasn't the best place to have this showdown. Diving back down behind the counter, he takes inventory and flinches at the small paring knife sticking out of his pectoral.
Yanking it out, he tosses it to the ground before freezing as she whistles for him as one might call a dog. "Here, boy... come here." She kisses for him affectionately, her heels clicking on the tile.
Red flashes before his eyes, the wolf wants out, yet this is not a pain that can be shared. This is his burden alone; the indescribable rage turns to calculated calm.
Play the game, stop being a fool, and do what you've been trained to do.
Verando acts quickly as he moves down the slick aisle; her strong suit is defense; she's useless if he could get his hands on her, which meant that was precisely what he had to do. Her heels clack as she begins to pass, scanning the surfaces for any sign of the gray hair lurking just over the edge.
Spying her leg through the slit between two cooking surfaces, he fires the last round and shoots out the heel on one of her stilettos. She jumps in surprise, hopping off the foot and scrambling to right herself. In one quick move, he vaults up and over the top of the surface, hardly deflecting the gun in time as she brings it around and shoots.
His ears ring, practically blurring his vision from the impact of the sound so close to his head.
The redhead is a flurry of limbs, kicking and twisting as she deflects his advances, but her rib slows her down, and she hadn't anticipated that the man had been repaired. While he still lacked flexibility, he was no longer one-sided as he had been. From right leg to left shoulder, he was half again what he'd been since they last squared off.
She swings a blade, driving it into his collarbone and landing her fist on top of it, surrendering her body in hopes of taking out an artery. He delivers a swift punch to her stomach, and she sputters blood as she releases the blade. Taking hold of her hair, he smacks the side of her head against the steel countertop, and she slumps to the ground, dazed.
Panting, he eyes the protruding blade and palpates with his finger, trying to find the pulse around it, but with time not on his side, he opts to yank it out anyway and examine the length. It's probably not lethal, just a steak knife.
red fires off a shot, catching his side just under his rib. With a swift kick, he strikes the gun out of her hand and snarls at the burn. "Son of a bitch! You lost, and you haul off and shoot me?"
Spitting blood, Red tilts her head back to see him better through her tangled hair. One of her eyes is bloodied, with broken blood vessels, no doubt. "I was aiming... for your stomach. I want you to suffer." She spits at him, the red-tinged blob landing not far from her.
With a flinch, Verando snags the gun and sticks it in his waistband. "Well, it would seem your aim is shit. Get up."
Tangling his fingers in her mass of hair, he pulls her to her feet and drags her to the massive brick oven. "Tell me, Red, how hot do you think this is?" Taking a small sniff, he smirks. "Smells like the pizza is done."
Opening the black cast iron lid, her eyes widened, and she twisted to escape him.
"Are you insane?!" Red screams, much more desperate upon the realization it wasn't his intention to let her live.
"A bit, yes. I'm not one for monologuing, you fucked with my family. My ex-wife. My husband. You're welcome to pick one as you char broil; I don't care." Hooking an arm under her rib to lift her, she kicks wildly at the lid and squeals at the sharp pain of her barefoot hitting the smoldering cover.
"Wait! WAIT!" She shouts, reaching to pull water from the sink only to have him release her hair and tuck her arm behind her back. "Wait! I can help you!"
"Mmm, no deal." He presses her face towards the heat, trying to get an angle to shove her in.
"I have influence! The political influence that you need! Please. Let me help you. I promise-"
Verando slings her to the ground, and she cries out as she hits the tiles, standing on her chest with the heel of his shoe.
"You have nothing that I need. You're a vile, pathetic excuse for vermin, and you shall burn on this earth before you burn in hell; that is what I can assure you. Now. Save your last scrap of dignity and die like a true warrior." He reaches for her hair, and she puts up her hands.
"Banditi! You're banditi, right?!" Exhaling, he glowers down at her. "You accept acts of honor; what if I did something to prove to you my sincerity? You bested me; you truly did; I will help you. I want to help you. I'm- I'm in over my head!"
"Have you no shame? You will say anything to save your life."
"Damn it, Verando!" She shouts harshly and shuts her eyes for a moment before composing herself. "Listen to me. Name your price. I will do it to show you that I am loyal to you. We worked together once before; I did what I said I would do, right? You and I-"
"Do not compare us!"
She flinches, taking a shaky breath. "I'm sorry—an honor system. Let me show you. No more jokes, no more 'Daddy'. Please. Let me show you."
Don't do it. Kill her. Throw her in the damned oven right now and listen to her sizzle. The darkness chants for blood; the wolf gnaws on the bars of his mental cage.
His teeth grind as he mulls it over, fighting between what was right and the honor system, something that had spared him his own life more than once. After a long moment, he slams the oven with so much force the edge of the cast iron door slips off its hinges. She shields herself, but it doesn't fall; he yanks her up by her arm and shoves her towards the counter.
Pulling the gun out of his waistband, he checks it quickly to count the bullets. "Stay." His voice is low and dark. Searching through some drawers, she stands stalk still, if not a bit tilted from her lack of one shoe.
Finding the pair of bone shears, he brings them over and sets them on the counter in front of her. "Your act of honor."
She eyes them, pulling her lips into a thin line.
Rolling his eyes, he holds up his ring finger and his pinky finger. "You fucked with two lives. Nic and Marisol. You owe me two fingers."
Her eyes widened, but she dared not retreat.
"Cut your damn fingers off with these, and I'll begin to consider us even."
Swallowing hard, she grabs the shears as he shoves a pan off the stove eye and lays a knife on it. "To seal it." He points out.
"You drive a hard bargain. But I accept. Let this show you that I truly am serious about my allegiance-"
"Shut up. I want to go home."
Swallowing, she nods, and he watches with great interest as she places the fingers in the mouth of the shears. To his satisfaction, removing them doesn't take one mere snip. After several moments, the fingers are detached, and he presses the heated blade to the bloody stumps, relishing in her scream of agony.
Checking his watch, he sets the blade down and bends reluctantly to retrieve his gun, now reminded of his side and shoulder. As he straightens, she smiles at him with bloodied teeth. "I'll be seeing you soon, Mr.Mercer."
Narrowing his eyes, he shoots her in the side, a comparable injury to his own. "Now we're even. Don't fucking shoot me."
She holds her hand over the wound, spiraling and yet grinning like the sinner she is.
"If you don't die of blood loss, have your people call mine. I'll be in touch. Change your damn name back."
Resting his hand over his side, he pushed out the double doors and paused at the people practically hiding around their tables. Running a hand through his hair, he hesitates when he sees the entire palm of that hand is soaked in blood. Cursing, it wasn't a good look.
"Business meeting." He mutters, rolling his eyes at the staring patrons.
A man who looks to be a manager trembles as if he wishes to invoke authority but values his life. Verando reaches into his pocket and hands him a stained business card.
"Call Ron, he'll handle this. The waiter was good, but the steak was a bit cold. Work on that." He places a few hundred dollar bills on the table and exits the doors as the squad cars roll in.
The police chief directs the incoming officers past the exiting lycan, blocking him from their view with his body and glancing him up and down with a disapproving look. "Do you need medical care?"
"No." He opens his wallet, showing him his ID. "One that needs to be watched is inside, Mistress Corina. Someone attacked her, but they ran off. She will need medical care. If you'll excuse me, I need to get home."
"Looks like that person is trying to leave right now. You know I need a statement from you..." The man returned his ID, and Verando frowned.
"You know you're not getting one." After a long moment, he nods, allowing the gray-haired man to depart and snag his keys from the valet, sliding into the car and cringing at the burn from the wound on his side and shoulder.
Opening the jacket, he grumbles at the widening expanse of blood and decides it'd be best to make the drive home rather than deal with this here.
I awake from my curled position at the sound of vulgarities from the kitchen, blinking away the sleep as I lift my head from where I was curled soundly against Marisol's hip. Women were so soft; her warmth was welcomed, given my anxiety and lack of alcohol to entertain me.
Spotting the cat nestled into the crook of my lap, I push it off the couch and sit up, stretching as I see him sitting at the kitchen island, slumped over and twisted as if trying to get to something on his person. Yawning, I stretch and climb off the couch as soundlessly as possible to approach him.
"Hey babe, how'd it go-" I freeze, taking him in. My bloody, beat-to-hell warlord was trying to stitch up a questionable bullet wound.