Mad Honey

Chapter One

My back was up against the wall, both literally and figuratively. One of his hands was resting to the left of my shoulder, trapping me between the gold quatrefoil wallpaper and his lips. Judging the distance between my idle hand, and the heavy brass sconce hanging precariously by a single nail a few feet away, I figured I might be able to find a way out of this. That was until the tip of the knife was pressed against my breastbone. Shit. He leans in, strands of hair whispering against my cheeks. The smirk spreading across his face is enough to make me see red. How dare he! I was told that despite being a scoundrel, and bastard-born, and a spy, and a cocky bitch, he was a gentleman. Boy were they wrong. He's leaning in closer, a cementer a second. A smile never flashes across my face, and a frown never appears on his. He likes this. The thrill of the catch, when you're sure that the prey will never be able to fly away, he likes that. 

"You know, there's a way to get information from a lady without putting her in this position!" I'm angry, he knows it, and all he's doing is continuing to smile. 

"Really? Would you care to demonstrate miss?" Wink. It's a quick one, but deliberate. He's goading me, and it's working. Stubborn as a mule, one of my many downfalls. But talking will give me more time to think, and lord knows I can talk.

"Yes. You could state your demands, put me in a position where I can't leave, perhaps bar the doors to a nice sitting room, or tie my feet to a armchair, and give me adequate personal space! I'm more inclined to cooperate when a boy-whore doesn't have me pressed against the wall!" Smirk. Smirk smirk smirk smirk smirk, fucking smirk. Is that all he knows how to do? He's leaning in closer, curves his head over to my shoulder, and I feel breath tickling my ear.

"Well mademoiselle, I was never taught to play that way. And do you want to know something?" No. No I don't. I have no interest in knowing whatever lewd, sexist thing he's going to say next, but god that knife is sharp, it's pricking my collarbone, and this dress is intricate and expensive, and blood stains are tedious to scrub out. If I respond, I can't give him a reaction. That's what he wants, and you never give an addict more opium. So I slow my breathing, and make sure my voice comes out deep and flat. 

"What?"

"I think," I can feel the ghost of lips on my neck. Yucky, ew. Let's shut this down please. "that you like to play my way too." My turn to smirk. He couldn't be more wrong, though it's harder than normal to quell my heartbeat. My knuckles are white, looking for something to grip on the smooth wall. A lack of my reaction has the knife point, lazy for a second, back up at my heart. A bead of red runs down my chest. His eyes don't waver from my face. This isn't working, so a switch in tactics is necessary. Men are less subtle than women, a downfall in disguise. So I shift my posture ever the slightest bit. Back off the wall a bit, just a little arch. Head tilts, expose the curve of my neck. Puff a bit of air between my lips, let the flush rise into my cheeks. Despite the fact that a tasteful amount of fairly nice cleavage is now being shoved into the space between us, his eyes don't leave mine. That's strange, this usually works well, sometimes too well. He's been trained more than we thought. Time to finish this up before I end up having to cause a scene.

"I think," my voice comes out in a higher-than-normal lilt. "I think that -" And as his hand moves to adjust the grip on his knife, temporarily lifting the pressure off of my chest, my knee crushes as hard as it possibly can into his trousers. He keels over, knife clanking onto the marble tile as it dances out of his hand. He's up against the wall, in my position, before a five second count is over. I don't play mind games when I don't have to, so the lose sconce I could not reach before practically flies into my hand, before it is brought down with a satisfying clunk, on his head.

 There is a moment, before any of the bastards I hit on the head pass out, where they look at me, the most innocent I've ever seen them. Their eyes wide, mouth slightly open. It's so incredibly shocking to them that I have won. That is the part of the chase I drink in. But as I scan his face in enthusiasm, the boy doesn't stare at me with bewilderment or seem confused at all. He glances at me with clear blue eyes, and smirks. Then his body hits the floor.