SWEET CREATURE [ Ramsay Bolton ]

CHAPTER NINE

His aim never wavers.

Ramsay isn't stupid enough to continue to underestimate the waif-like figure before him. Underneath that soft appearance, there's something about her that he recognizes, something dark and unforgiving. He sees what had so frightened the strongest woman he knows, what had driven Myranda hysterical into the shelter of his bedchamber. One of them, Esme or Ramsay, must fall to the other and he won't be the one to topple first.

Reminding himself of who he is and what he is capable of, he coldly asks, "Who are you? Not the daughter of Lord Ambrose, I assume."

"Definitely not," she confesses with a gleeful childlike laugh, turning in her seat to better face him. Her amusement shines through her eyes; Ramsay is sure he's never seen her radiate with such pure joy before. Even her poor pout can't hide it. "Poor girl is probably still decaying on some abandoned trail far from here."

Clever girl, he can admit to that much. Truly brilliant, the little creature disguised herself as a lady coming to live as the Bolton ward. But what game is she playing at? Ramsay can't make up his mind if she's a spy or something more dangerous. All he knows is that he wants to seize her, humble her and make her regret ever toying with him.

"And what role did you play in Lady Ambrose's death?"

Rolling her head, her upper lip momentarily pulls back in a snarl and her eyes flash with irritation. The gesture isn't human but she quickly recovers, her cool mask back in place. "Don't ask questions you already know the answer to, Ramsay."

     "I was taught that it's bad form to make assumptions."

     "So, you have learned manners." When she begins to stand, Ramsay takes a sharp step back and he knows she noticed. Silently, he curses himself for the sign of weakness. Ignoring his short retreat, she continues to lift herself from the chair. "Lady Ambrose died by my hand," she says smoothly. "It should please you, the lengths I went through just to meet you."

"Why?" The trigger is smooth under his finger, and he applies only a bit more pressure as she moves towards him. Suddenly, he sees the ease of her glide as if she were a ghost floating across the floor. No, not human at all. Had he truly been blind to her? Or had she hid this side of herself?

"I wanted to see you," she says sweetly, stopping before her discarded gown on the floor. "To better understand you. I told you before, Ramsay, I've heard stories."

     "You will pay for this," he coldly tells her, ignoring her teasing smile.

     "Are you going to shoot me with your little arrows?" The lack of alarm in her tone only adds to Ramsay's growing aggravation. Does she still underestimate him, after everything she had heard, had witnessed first hand? Does she think him weak? As her eyes hold him in place, he tries to remind himself that he is the one that holds the power. He has the weapon aimed at her and he chooses when to end her life. The reminder brings little comfort.

     "Most likely," he snips stiffly, feeling the weapon dig into his shoulder and he fit it more properly in place. "If I'm bored enough."

     "But you're not bored are you?" Her eyes fall closed, and her head lolls on her shoulder. "Your heart beats madly in your chest. Your veins are thrumming." Breathing in deeply, she then lets out a sigh and dark veins spider out under her eyes and across her cheeks. Ramsay inhales sharply at the sight.

     "Monster," he breathes out, heart hammering just as she said. The word usually reserved for him seems right to use to describe her change of face.

     Her eyes flash open and the veins disappear. Once again, she is simply a girl. "You're enjoying this. What does that make you, exactly? Put your arrows away. I'm not going to harm you, if you behave. I have great plans for us, Ramsay." She smiles encouragingly but Ramsay won't be taken for a fool. When she starts to move, his crossbow jerks to better aim and she freezes. "Won't you relax?" she asks softly. "I have a present for you. I must reach into my dress for it." She motions towards the fabric at her feet before slowly sinking down.

Her hands reach into the skirt, rummaging around the cloth before pulling her present out. She tosses the heart at Ramsay's feet. He glances down at it quickly before looking back up to watch her.

She can see his confusion play out across his face, his furrowed brow and wide eyes and tense jaw.

"It belonged to your little love," she kindly explains, slowly returning to her standing position. "Myranda was it?"

     "You killed her." It isn't a question this time. It's a statement uttered through numb lips. Time seems to slow down, the room disappears, and all he sees is the woman before him, the woman who dared to touch what is his.

     Even her words are lost to him. "I know you don't appreciate jealousy, but the way she would throw herself at you..." Her nose wrinkles in disgust. "It was only funny in the beginning."

The arrow flies through the air. He feels the shudder of the weapon in his hands as it releases the arrow, watches as it impales the witch's chest. He told her he would do it. The pleasure of watching her stagger from the blow is insurmountable. He grins, at last lowering the crossbow as he watches her smug expression fade into shock.

     With a grunt, she grips the arrow and pulls it out. Blood stains her white slip, seeping and spreading down her body before dripping to the floor until the flow gradually stops. Ramsay's grin falls as she glares at him, eyes black and veins once again flickering under her fair skin.

     Before he can reload the bow, he's pinned against the wall, one hand against his shoulder, the other around his neck. It's a disturbing inversion of the position he had previously held her in.

     "You really shouldn't have done that," she hisses and her face is tucked in the crook of his neck, he feels her breath there. "I'm not here for power or for your silly little Dreadfort." Pulling back, he sees the elongation of her teeth, similar to that of his hounds. "I'm here because I wanted to see the infamous Ramsay Snow, to see if the rumors held any truth."

     "Sorry to disappoint," he grunts, as she pushes him harder into the wall. His mind is still trying to catch up, trying to understand how she could have moved so quickly without his noticing, how her small body could hold so much strength, enough to crush him so.

     "Oh, no, Ramsay," she chides. "You've been marvelous. But for now, behave." The black of her eyes grow and any struggle he might have still had disappears. Now, with no remark left to give, he swallows thickly and she smugly shrugs. "How much fun we are going to have now that you see reason." Her eyes fall to the weapon he still weakly clings to, hanging at his side. Her hand leaves his neck, and she reaches down to gently retrieve the crossbow. "I'll take that." He let's her.

     Letting him fall from her grip, she brushes off his shoulders. "Isn't this much better?" She asks, without waiting for a reply. "I know how you admire honesty. I must say, it's such a relief not having to play that boorish girl any longer." She peels her ruined slip off, sticky with her blood and uses it to wipe the excess off her bare skin. His stare is hollow. "Oh, that's right," she says suddenly, looking up at him under long eyelashes. "I haven't properly introduced myself. You may call me Katherine."