you look like my next mistake
Flora doesn’t bother turning fully toward the drug runner—just angles her head, letting the wind tug a few golden strands across her cheek as she glances back. He’s close enough that the air leaving her lips is more suggestion than breath, warm and deliberate. "I suppose so," she murmurs, the corners of her mouth curling like the start of a wicked spell.
Then she laughs, tossing the sound over her shoulder like a silk scarf in a storm. "Your value babe, is entirely dependent on what someone’s in the market for." One hand leaves the wheel to lift in a vague, airy gesture. "Maybe I’m selling you to someone with a thing for fast talkers. Or maybe they’ve got an ex who looks just enough like you to make a few hours with you and a set of pliers cathartic." Her tone is light, teasing, soaked in sugar and suggestion. But there's a blade beneath it—there always is these days.
Reaching into the leather pouch at her hip, Flora pulls out a folded square of waxed paper and smooths it open on the console. The rough map inside is sketched with fluid lines and curling symbols, each one sharp with intent: thieves’ cant, drawn in curves of seaweed and serpent spine. She taps a cluster of the markings near a hook-shaped root structure. "This is us," she says. "Somewhere under that twisted bit of limestone, there’s a drop marked with a double-crossed dagger that we need to find."
Tilting her head toward him, her grin returns. "Are those pretty eyes of yours good for anything besides getting you into trouble? Or do you think you can help me find what we're looking for so we won't be here all night?"
Then she laughs, tossing the sound over her shoulder like a silk scarf in a storm. "Your value babe, is entirely dependent on what someone’s in the market for." One hand leaves the wheel to lift in a vague, airy gesture. "Maybe I’m selling you to someone with a thing for fast talkers. Or maybe they’ve got an ex who looks just enough like you to make a few hours with you and a set of pliers cathartic." Her tone is light, teasing, soaked in sugar and suggestion. But there's a blade beneath it—there always is these days.
Reaching into the leather pouch at her hip, Flora pulls out a folded square of waxed paper and smooths it open on the console. The rough map inside is sketched with fluid lines and curling symbols, each one sharp with intent: thieves’ cant, drawn in curves of seaweed and serpent spine. She taps a cluster of the markings near a hook-shaped root structure. "This is us," she says. "Somewhere under that twisted bit of limestone, there’s a drop marked with a double-crossed dagger that we need to find."
Tilting her head toward him, her grin returns. "Are those pretty eyes of yours good for anything besides getting you into trouble? Or do you think you can help me find what we're looking for so we won't be here all night?"
