we show off our different scarlet letters
Flora laughs quietly at Asta’s admission, grinning shamelessly up at him with zero apology. "No nepotism, huh?" she teases. "Well, I definitely wouldn’t have lasted long." The smirk that follows is pure trouble, the kind that says she’s used exactly who she came from every step of the way—when it suited her, at least. "I’ve never been above using my last name like a key when the lock’s too stubborn."
But then the hunt swallows them whole.
She watches her blade sink into the wolf’s throat with startling precision, blood fanning outward in a spray that paints Asta in red. And gods—he makes it look like art. The way he moves, all fire and sinew and instinct, wrapping himself around the beast with a violence so seamless it borders on sensual, steals the breath right from her lungs. Her chest tightens. Her stomach twists with heat. It’s beautiful. It’s brutal. It’s him.
Flora doesn’t move at first. She’s heard the stories—about how Ancients could be when the hunt overtook them, how the bloodlust settled in their bones like a second heartbeat—and so, even as her hands itch to be closer, she stays where she is until he glances over his shoulder and that single look is all the permission she needs. Crossing the blood-slick ground with quiet steps, she sinks to her knees beside him without a word, her coat soaking through at the hem. Asta’s hand offers her the dagger, the hilt slick with blood, and she takes it reverently. Her fingers curl around it like it belongs there.
The wolf is still breathing, though just barely. Raw might, brought low by something greater. She looks down at it, its body shuddering, foam and blood bubbling at its mouth, and for a long moment all she can do is stare. She should feel sorry for it, and maybe she does deep down, but the surge that rises in her chest isn’t grief. It’s something sharper.
Her hand presses lightly to the wolf’s muzzle as it snarls weakly, trying to fight even now. "You needed to be stronger," she whispers, the words not cruel so much as honest. Almost sad. "That’s the only way you survive." She knows—because she had survived. When Dahlia crushed her lungs and Pierce drove his blade through her chest, Flora had somehow crawled out the other side. And this? This was just a mirror of that, of what she would have been if she hadn't fought.
With a breath drawn through her teeth, the Doubletake doesn’t hesitate. She draws the blade across the wolf’s throat in one smooth stroke, slicing it open with clinical ease. No trembling, no pausing, just pure precision.
But then the hunt swallows them whole.
She watches her blade sink into the wolf’s throat with startling precision, blood fanning outward in a spray that paints Asta in red. And gods—he makes it look like art. The way he moves, all fire and sinew and instinct, wrapping himself around the beast with a violence so seamless it borders on sensual, steals the breath right from her lungs. Her chest tightens. Her stomach twists with heat. It’s beautiful. It’s brutal. It’s him.
Flora doesn’t move at first. She’s heard the stories—about how Ancients could be when the hunt overtook them, how the bloodlust settled in their bones like a second heartbeat—and so, even as her hands itch to be closer, she stays where she is until he glances over his shoulder and that single look is all the permission she needs. Crossing the blood-slick ground with quiet steps, she sinks to her knees beside him without a word, her coat soaking through at the hem. Asta’s hand offers her the dagger, the hilt slick with blood, and she takes it reverently. Her fingers curl around it like it belongs there.
The wolf is still breathing, though just barely. Raw might, brought low by something greater. She looks down at it, its body shuddering, foam and blood bubbling at its mouth, and for a long moment all she can do is stare. She should feel sorry for it, and maybe she does deep down, but the surge that rises in her chest isn’t grief. It’s something sharper.
Her hand presses lightly to the wolf’s muzzle as it snarls weakly, trying to fight even now. "You needed to be stronger," she whispers, the words not cruel so much as honest. Almost sad. "That’s the only way you survive." She knows—because she had survived. When Dahlia crushed her lungs and Pierce drove his blade through her chest, Flora had somehow crawled out the other side. And this? This was just a mirror of that, of what she would have been if she hadn't fought.
With a breath drawn through her teeth, the Doubletake doesn’t hesitate. She draws the blade across the wolf’s throat in one smooth stroke, slicing it open with clinical ease. No trembling, no pausing, just pure precision.
