She lets him move her, resting halfway in his lap with her cheek to his chest, and she shrugs a little. "Things just don't feel right since I got back. I don't know."
Molotov always pushes him away before he can get too controlling, before she feels like his lasso is narrowing around her neck so that he can stable her and break her in. But she's more pliant late at night when she's tired and drained and curled up with him.
"This Arena should have been mine, and then... I don't care that you don't like it, it hurts that... that he isn't here. That he didn't come back. He was part of my world, my real one back home, you understand that, don't you? It was sort of like having a link to everything I was taken away from, my father and my business, everything. And I wasn't even the one who got to kill him."
She sighs and closes her eye, frowning. "And I can't stop dreaming about that thing."
Her death this time had lacked the violent beauty of her previous ones, impaling herself or being decapitated. This time it had been gruesome and terrifying, at the hands and fangs and claws of a mutt that shrieked at her in Tom's voice, tore her apart and drenched itself in her blood and bits of her flesh.
Molotov doesn't have the experience with real monsters like that, abominations, that would let her cope with being killed by one. Sure, she'd had run-ins with ghosts and womanacondas and tiger men, but this was different.
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Molotov always pushes him away before he can get too controlling, before she feels like his lasso is narrowing around her neck so that he can stable her and break her in. But she's more pliant late at night when she's tired and drained and curled up with him.
"This Arena should have been mine, and then... I don't care that you don't like it, it hurts that... that he isn't here. That he didn't come back. He was part of my world, my real one back home, you understand that, don't you? It was sort of like having a link to everything I was taken away from, my father and my business, everything. And I wasn't even the one who got to kill him."
She sighs and closes her eye, frowning. "And I can't stop dreaming about that thing."
Her death this time had lacked the violent beauty of her previous ones, impaling herself or being decapitated. This time it had been gruesome and terrifying, at the hands and fangs and claws of a mutt that shrieked at her in Tom's voice, tore her apart and drenched itself in her blood and bits of her flesh.
Molotov doesn't have the experience with real monsters like that, abominations, that would let her cope with being killed by one. Sure, she'd had run-ins with ghosts and womanacondas and tiger men, but this was different.