would that I could

"Remi," Isla says, and suddenly her own voice is low and tinged with an almost predatory need; it's compounded by the glint of fangs against her lower lip when she smiles. "If the sounds you heard me make in that room didn't tell you that you were very good at it, I'm not really sure what more I could say to convince you." Raising her eyebrows, she purposely sits back on the stool lest she drag him closer, torn collar and bruises and all, to press a kiss against his lips. "Also, it was hardly pretentious, cleaning blood and shit and infection out of war wounds." It had certainly made her into the woman she is today, but pretentious is not the word she'd use. Collecting up the paper cup to throw it in the waste basket, Isla still doesn't miss the way Remi inhales, the sudden danger she almost senses from him, and there's a reason she puts some space between them. Gazing back at him, Isla nods both her understanding and her confirmation that his checkup is over. "Well," she says, "in that case, your lip is already healing, and those bruises will be colourful, but they don't look dangerous. You can go back to the Greatwood in peace." Isla the flesh is weak