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·° 。: ✰ : ·° 。
THE NIGHT MADE A curtain of darkness to cover the city. The street lights brought an occasional cast of light, but in the most secluded part of the town was a private corner of gloom. The alley was dim, enough to hide the figure quietly moving through the shadows, silently lurking and on the prowl.
"Well, well," the low voice barely disturbed the eerie quietude, a brother of camouflage to the moving figure. "Look who's back from the dead."
The hooded figure stopped, accidentally stepping over a puddle of murky liquid. Unfazed, they stood a distance apart, near enough that they could hear each other without being too loud and far enough to pretend as though nothing had happened should anyone walk by.
"What happened to the situation?"
The conversation was the same as the participants: secretive and hushed.
"I took care of it. I'm not an amateur."
A droll came from the hooded individual, mocking, "The situation begs to differ."
"It's not my fault she went and ruined my plans!"
They both flinched as a dog barked in the background. "Keep your voice down," the reminder was sharp.
"Why don't you find a solution then, if you're so smart." The former retorted.
"I already have one." A grim tone overtook the latter's voice, foreboding. "And it won't be pretty."
·° 。: ✰ : ·° 。
The hardwood floor was damp with rainwater, dripping in a steady succession from Rosalie's clothes. It clung to her body, the discomfort going unnoticed by the brunette as she sat in silence. Nik had wrapped a thick robe around her shoulders, encasing her in a cave of cotton and fluff. There was a fancy looking machine in front of the Monet, one that blasted continuous heat that flowed between the crevices where the robe met her body. If it wasn't for her stunned state, Rosalie would've been impressed by the speed he accomplished everything without using his supernatural abilities.
Nik threaded a hand through the ends of her damp curls, a blow dryer in the other as he removed the moisture. It flew in all places, yet there was nothing harsh about his gestures. Gone was his malevolent reputation, gone was all the alleged violence.
Upon their arrival at the mansion, he'd suggested that it would be wiser for her to take a warm shower to wash the day away. However, she'd seemingly sunken back into that daze that paralyzed her. The Monet just stared blankly at nothing in particular, her grip on the book she held to her chest tight.
