The Things That Bind Us- Damirae

Chapter Seven

Tendrils of steam curled up out of three small cups, placed on the floor. Raven watched them dissipate, entranced. There was nothing like tea to calm the soul. And she needed all the calm she could muster to not balk under the strangling presence of the assassin to her left.

Lady Shiva, she had been told, was the master of this court.

Raven was afraid of her. Shiva held all the high airs and discipline of the man that completed their trio, but with decades more refining. Damian had been her student, the empath could tell; he sat opposite Shiva with an old reverence guiding his posture, his aura.

He looked up at Raven, through a thin, smoky curtain; she suppressed a shiver. The remnants of a steamy dream heated the back of her mind. Raven tried to recollect the speech that she'd planned- her great proposition. But it was to her dismay that, with the delicate curls of steam, the words had escaped her.

Fuck.

Sandwiched between two assassins, each ready to slice her to shreds at will, Raven had forgotten the very thing that was keeping her alive.

Oh go to the assassins' guild, we said. Track down the murderous assassin, we said. She thought to herself, irate.

Folding her dark robes cleanly about herself, Lady Shiva began, in a voice as diplomatic as it was demanding, "You have a proposition."

"Yes." Raven breathed, ready to roll out whatever flailing excuse for an explanation she could muster, "I-"

Shiva stopped her.

"What are your motives for this proposition?"

She could have melted with relief. Shiva was firm, seasoned, and, to the empath's advantage this instance, insisted on dominating the negotiation. Raven had no complaints.

Why are we doing this? Why are we doing this? Think! Come on! She paused, wracking her brains,

Raven picked up her cup, its warmth fuelling her. Realistically, she couldn't say, 'I want to help because he's hot and it'd be a damn shame if that hotness died before I got a slice' because a millisecond later she'd be a spatter of blood on the floor and a rolling head. So she let her initial hesitation slip in to deliberate, pensive silence.

She answered plainly, leaving the comfortable brown of the tea to make eye contact with Shiva. It was imperative that Raven appear respectful; she made sure to look at Damian in turn.

"My motives are selfish. I want to save myself from an uncomfortable fate. And I want to emerge from that salvation a little...better connected."

"Connected how?" The man asked.

"Socially."

Damian raised an eyebrow and Shiva raised her cup to her lips. He took the cue, taking a cautionary sip and giving no indication of its temperature; Raven watched the steam float over her nose and forehead.

He put the cup down, "Do you want to know me, witch?"

The intensity excited a demonic something in Raven.

"I want you to owe me."

He started at that. Shiva turned her head, as if she'd never been surprised in her life. Surprise intrigued her.