[LOG] Drama.
Who: Sunniva, Adrian.
What: Their dinner. Things do not go well.
Where: Adrian's quarters, ISW.
When: Day 5, month 5, turn 18 of Interval 10 (December 1st, 2008)
Notes: Log stolen from Sunni. <3
It is perhaps a quarter of an hour before the general announcement is made regarding dinner's readiness in Ista's main cavern, meaning most, if not all, of the Weyr's residents are oblivious to its status. Unless they're very good at their timing, in which case they'd know simply based on routine. While those that staff the kitchens are busily putting the finishing touches on the meal they intend to serve, Adrian is making preparations of his own. His will not be for the hordes of weyrfolk but for one single soul. By the light of the lamps on the wall he moves as if in slow motion, adjusting the plates on the table, filling her glass; on his way by the chair she'll choose he reaches to touch it with just the barest brush of his fingertips. All as if set to some strange and haunting melody. While he works, the girl he paid races through the halls and corridors on silent, bare feet, her braids bouncing on her shoulders. She dodges a crowd of people here, skips around a man and, eventually, rushes to Sunniva's side to tug on her sleeve and hand her a delicate white flower whose stem is decorated with an even more delicate twist of grey satin. It's time.
And Sunniva's prepared for it, when the moment does come. Or, at least, prepared enough that she need only make a momentary detour to the dorms to complete the ensemble. The girl is bid adieu, quickly, and away she moves in a flurry of movement. Something old, a holdover from her days at the Hold, but still suited to the balmy conditions of the Weyr: pearl gray-hued, silken; thin straps of some elegant black and silver brocade and an empire waistline, also delineated in the same. The skirt parts into an inverted 'v', with an underskirt of stark black to contrast the pallor above. Flowing, of course, the sort of thing that swishes and swirls unless caught in the hands. Over her top is a not-quite-jacket of lace, meant only to conceal to a point; to hint at what lies beneath without betraying all. Added while at the dorms is that locket, a weighty silver disc of a thing; above, a choker in that same pearl-gray fabric, a thin band of that brocade around with a charm dangling in the center. Her hair is quickly twisted up, bound with a elegant tangle of ribbons, while drop earrings of silver hang from ears that haven't seen their use in so long that it hurts to put them in. Dressed up, but not for him; for herself, to ensure that she is not the one to be a further source of embarrassment to a family that no longer wishes to lay claim to her. For her sake; her pride. Nothing more. And then, ready. Rose in hand, she moves to the door she had hoped to forget but which her memory refuses to. Once there, she lifts a hand and knocks. Thrice.
Truthfully, once would have been enough. Three knocks is almost overkill, for Adrian within has been waiting very impatiently for nearly a whole handful of minutes before her arrival. Standing, of course, as straight and still as a statue. To sit would be far too lazy; to pace would only aggravate him more, make him feel all the more rushed. Standing, that is appropriate. Her knocks stir him into motion so quickly it's as if a band snapped in his body; long strides carry him to the door and he reaches for its handle to pull, to open. To eliminate the only barrier between them. It only takes a second, and there she is. The very sight of her gives him pause, his black eyes performing their customary sweeping glance as if he no longer needs to tell them. She is a vision in beautiful muted colors, an ensemble he might have seen before, perhaps. Not a terrible choice on her part, if his lingering stare is any indication. /He/ is likewise attired, though his choices are much more severe, of course. Black for both pants and boots, naturally, and the same for the tunic with the laces left undone at his neck, and the jacket over that with its decorative gray buttons. In a strange way they match, albeit invertedly. There's a silver glint from the ring finger of his left hand when he uses it to welcome her in, a ring caught by the light. Nothing flashy, just a thick band and some sort of crest. His careful mask in place, he pitches his voice quiet to say, "Please come in."
If his haste in answering registers at all, it's not a thing he'll have a chance to note on her face. For, even before the door is opened, the cultured mask of polite neutrality is shaped, placed, and adhered to; her smile is a careful construct of propriety. And in that moment that he studies her, she does likewise, green eyes suddenly keen and sharp, at odds with the smooth serenity of her mien. Her hands are folded before her, as always, her posture as straight as his. A study in contrasts, connected only by the strange ties of their past; ties that she had thought severed and clearly have not been. At his gesture, an automatic inclination of her head that causes the ribbons to whisper. "Thank you," is dutifully intoned, with her gliding in the necessary few steps on slippered feet to clear the door and enter the room, where she waits.
They've been allowed their privacy tonight; Garet and Vence are nowhere to be seen. They're very much alone. Once Sunniva has entered fully he moves to close the door behind the both of them, the palm of his hand finding solid comfort in how very hard and unyielding the strong wood is; his eyes close and he takes a deep breath, as is necessary for any sort of encounter with /her/. That done, Adrian turns with /his/ hands clasped behind, his expression solemn, his hair in careful disarray. The lamplight puts an almost malevolent glint in his warm dark gaze. "There was no trouble, then, I take it? In finding the room?" He makes it sound so /easy/, as if last night never happened. As if he never admitted to the things he admitted to.
For his sake or hers, she doesn't turn to look to him. It's always forward, surveying the tableau awaiting them. Thus, when Sunniva answers, it's without looking at him -- without needing to: "No, not at all. I know these tunnels like the back of my hand." That memory, of course; when paired with chatty patients in the infirmary, there is not much she does /not/ know, unless she specifically seeks to be oblivious. And if he'll kindly ignore the events of the previous night, so will she -- even if she cannot forget. And she remains as she is, poised and elegant, a birdlike entity of incomparable grace.
As always when they begin, he is capable of matching her calm and patience, of being still. Pleasant. "I am very glad to hear it." The gifts he was born with -- his voice, his grace, his physical appearance -- are put to better use when he isn't contorted by anger. Now, when he steps forward, he can manage a small, tight smile for her; when he gestures at the little table, with its plates full and steaming and its glasses full, he can act his role without slipping. And this makes him, if not happy, then at least comfortable. "Shall we?" Even if not, Adrian precedes her to the seating, to the back of one of those chairs so that he can pull it out for her and wait, ever the gentleman.
"As you wish," just this once will she indulge him with that phrase, so delicately crafted as it is. His movement before her is noted with something that might be pleasure; it's hard to say in the way the curve of her oh-so-polite smile is altered. As the chair is withdrawn, she gathers her skirts in hand and all but glides over, ghost-quiet and smooth; seating herself involves another adjustment of skirts and a smoothing of them, a task that she completes with her head bowed subtly forward and ends with her hands folding in her lap. Poised. "Thank you," is genuinely meant, though whether for the chair being pulled out or simply for his control is impossible to discern.
Thanks to the two of them being so coordinated, Adrian is also able to nudge her chair back under the table once she's seated to complete his gesture. In doing so he's brought a small bit closer to her, having to lean a little, and so in that one instant they can smell each other again. This pauses him again, bent as he is with his hands on either side of her chair, so close to her shoulders; his face, too, is so very close, close enough that his deep breath in is likely audible. That pause lingers for a long heartbeat before he's moving again, to reach past her for the ornately folded napkin. To unfold it gently and place it, just so, in her lap. And, straightening, he makes the very short trip to his side of the table to take his own seat. Without looking at her. "I hope red finds your favor," he remarks safely, no doubt of the wine in their glasses.
It's a well-orchestrated choreography, this dance of propriety. As he leans in, he'll smell her -- orchids, one of her favourites; as he reaches for the napkin, her hands withdraw to allow him to place it. Sunniva straightens once she's in place, hands atop the napkin and gaze settled on him as he takes his seat. He might not bear to look at her, but she is unafraid to do so; this, in and of itself, is something ... this looking at him. She's likely seen him more the past three times they've crossed paths than ever in their existance as it was before. "Yes, of course," she agrees with the emptiness in the response filled with politeness. "I adore a good red."
"Good." Not 'excellent' or even 'very good'. 'Good' will do, for a person who wishes never to over-compensate. All must seem natural, not affected. "Garet selected it. One of Benden's vintages." The security of small talk is far too sppealing to pass up, even though Adrian looks slightly uncomfortable to be taking such an easy road. Still he won't look across at her, but that can only last so long, unless he plans on pretending he is dining alone. Indeed, after he's settled his own napkin and settled his chair just so, he only stares down down another moment before lifting his gaze to meet hers. Once again he must take her in, focused despite the too-hard thudding of his heart. Needlessly he speaks again. "Dinner is... shellfish and vegetables. And a cream sauce." His mouth twitches. Once.
"Mm." Such a strange and thoughtful noise, that. Shapeless, she allows it to fill the void left after his description of the wine. When he finally deigns to look at her, her eyes are waiting, though still set in that facade of neutrality. She might feel a need to remark on a red wine being unusual for fish; she might even feel an urge to mention the fact that she does have functioning eyes and can see what his choice was for dinner. Instead, there's an incremental widening of her smile -- for politeness, for his mouth twitch, for both, perhaps -- a show of graciousness, and a murmured, "An excellent choice, then."
If any of this was actually his choice, he might be faster to respond to her approval. As it was not, he can only nod silently in agreement. If the wine doesn't match up with the food, it's no fault of his, and it all speaks of some hidden meaning or motive on the outer edges of this entire affair. In fact, even when it comes to him, there's something amiss. He's dressed well, he's been to the baths -- which was very likely a harrying experience for him -- and everything is in place, but how much of that is only on the superficial level? How deep does it run? Is there a reason for his calm, for the way he looks across at her now with nothing hinting at anxiety in his expression. If she looks close enough, can she see the faint shadows under his eyes, eyes that don't, for once, burn? There's small movement in his throat when he swallows; his lips part. His hands have formed loose fists on the table, to either side of his plate. Adrian does not touch his food, nor does he reach for his wine. He simple watches her, looking completely and utterly exhausted.
And so it begins. She does not make the first move, either, simply studying him from her vantage. That too-perfect posture is then broken, not to allow her to start the process of cutting her food up in preparation for eating but, rather, to nudge the plate further away, to move the wine and to do the unspeakable by propping an elbow on the table and place a cheek in that palm. If they're going to stare at each other, then she, at least, is going to get comfortable. And he might feel it now, the weight of Sunniva's gaze; there are shadows under her eyes, but they are the permanent sort borne of a lifetime spent sleeping poorly if at all. She picks him apart in her own, not-so-surreptitious way, mutely dissecting the soundless opening of his mouth, the way his hands curl on the table. And the silence is finally broken with a soft, "What are your thoughts, Adrian?" On dinner. On himself. On her. On /anything/.
There is only the smallest reaction to her moving, and to how she chooses to move: a very brief, very subtle pulling together of his eyebrows. And then there is nothing, no lingering hint of whatever he might have felt; disapproval is the most likely, given everything, but concern is another possibility. There have been two occasions thus far that have given him cause for concern when she chooses to move, Faranth forbid she should touch him again. Whether or not he finds it easy to be under that calm sage-toned weight is hard to say; Adrian doesn't change. Not until she speaks, even then it takes him but a breath to do so. To match her, as he does so well, by pushing his plate and glass out of the way so that he can lace his fingers together and lean forward. Not that this relaxes his spine any; like hers, his posture remains perfect. At first he drops his gaze to the table but that doesn't last; a second later he meets her again. "That I owe you an apology."
"Oh?" is an open invitation for him to proceed, wrapped in a veneer of carefully selected surprise. As if his words were truly that unexpected. Not too much; not too little. Just enough for the situation. Nor does her posture shift, her new position change; one hand in her lap with fingers clenched but unseen, the other supporting her face with a relaxed regard. Her expression is unaltered, her gaze on him settled all the more securely. Anticipating. Expectant. Sunniva is silent, receptive; not judging, but she has always had a tendency toward that, when dealing with others, one-on-one.
So she has. And really, he doesn't deserve such grace, such light, but here they are anyway. The part she so suddenly plays, as if nothing has happened at the Weyr, this one or that, to change her. She is proper, well-spoken, certainly well-dressed. Every bit the ideal of someone whose future depends on a woman with certain qualities; if that is Adrian's ideal, his future, than she is harping to it with expert ease. But despite her thoroughness he remains unchanged. Perhaps it has something to do with his weariness; perhaps instead he simply refuses to be played. It doesn't matter, since his response is independent of a need for change. Eloquently, "My behavior during my stay here, during those encounters with you I have had the pleasure of experiencing, has been repellant. And inappropriate. And for that I am sorry."
She remains so until he speaks, unwavering and patient, without nudging or poking or prodding in any sense to goad the answer out of him. Such patience is ultimately rewarded when he does speak, the words themselves eliciting a gentle smile from her. It's a small thing, but a break in the mask nonetheless. "Thank you." The words are honestly meant and then Sunniva shifts, this time to draw her glass and plate closer, to start to prepare her food for proper consumption. Apology accepted, she appears willing to move on, to push all of that former ugliness behind her. The key to that being that she merely appears that way, but to discern otherwise might require a deeper consideration of her than she is willing to allow.
In answer, Adrian only dips his chin, a small nod. Her thanks is unnecessary, but he won't tell her so. And, now that the air is clear, the two of them can finally begin their meal, as was intended. Afterall, he's said his peace, they've made theirs, and there couldn't very well be anything more to say. These sorts of things are not meant for conversation, except for in the case of that ghastly small talk, which he's already demonstrated an aversion to. So, then, they would eat in silence, only the metallic clinking of their silverware and the small sounds of mastication to break the quiet. All would be just that simple except that Adrian doesn't pull his plate closer. His glass remains at a distance. And he watches her, still, quietly. He might even be deeply considering her.
She is, at least, intent on the task of carving her food into appropriately-sized portions. But it's only after she's halfway through that she realizes the sounds of her utensils have not been joined by his. Fork and knife hang for a moment, poised in the midst of making another neat cut, and then are placed down with only the softest of sounds. Green eyes lift, her lips subtly pulled to a side; just a touch, just enough to register what might well be confusion or consternation or some combination of the two. Not that she's one to speak, not now, but as her attention rises to him again, there's only the slightest and most delicate motions as her head tilts with an inquisitive air that's only compounded by the quizzical lift of her brows and the slight parting of her mouth in preparation to breathe the words, should he miss the purposefulness of her expression.
He doesn't. There is too /much/ to miss for him to be taking any chances, so he's watching her /very/ carefully. Watching her use her fork as if only she could use her fork in that manner; she can, for it's hers, but he's still fascinated or enthralled but probably both. Watching her realize he isn't eating; watching her make decisions to react based on her realization. And then, finally, watching her face when she sees fit to allow him her gaze again. He's waiting for her, his eyes warmed; gentle, and so eerie how easily the change in them effects his face as well. The liquid heat in the way he stares at her softens him, makes more pleasant his features. They were born that way, it's his own fault he chooses only the most wrong of expressions. Calmly he replies to the question he interprets. "And what are your thoughts?"
It should startle her, the gentleness there; yet, it doesn't seem to. Hands slide back and drop, resting in her lap, while her chin lifts just a little as she considers the question posed of her. The problem, of course, is that she has too many thoughts; too many disconnected ones, too many that don't involve him ... and those that do are thoughts that might be best left unsaid. Sunniva does not immediately reply as a result, instead opting to reach for the wine and to take a sip -- a sip to steel herself, perhaps -- before she finally speaks. The result, perhaps, is not satisfactory: "On what?" There's a gesture to the food, to the wine, to himself to indicate her dilemma -- there are many things to have thoughts on and it would be remiss of her to speak to the wrong thing.
Seem. Appear. Sunniva is good at seeming and appearing to be or not be many things, depending on what is best for her to seem or appear to be at the time. If nothing else, Adrian has grown familiar with that detail. The best he can do is try to take what she gives him, because otherwise interacting with her would consist solely of guess work, a possibility he finds no delight in. So she's allowed to seem unsurprised or thoughtful, oblivious to his true intent or not, however she feels comfortable. And she'll receive no harrassment from him. Perhaps he truly intended on this being a calm dinner between them, moments for bonding and relating in private. Appropriately. Her concern for the subject of his query stirs in him the smallest of smiles. It's a twitch, just a corner of his mouth pulled up around his words, wrapped in a voice as smooth as velvet. "On whatever it is you would like to discuss with me. Had you the opportunity." Here, wearing that same smile, he allows one dark eyebrow higher than the other. Wry.
That, of course, is simply the creature she was made to be, shaped to be. To be a malleable, adaptable thing; meant to weather the potentially fickle moods of would-be suitors. Expected to be prepared for anything, to be ready for anything. Such as now, of course. But as he speaks, her chin lowers, slightly, and there's a moment of consideration to go with the slight lidding of her eyes. Sunniva finally takes another sip of wine, then allows herself to push oh-so-slightly back from the table. "I am thinking that I feel sorry for you. That this-" the dinner, his presence, everything here "-is a terrible waste of your time, as I have tried to explain. I /am/ spoken for, if not in the- the most traditional of senses." Not married, of course. It leaves a few interesting options, and perhaps a few more if he's the clever sort. That it comes with a faint smile, far from proper even if it's just a flicker at the corner of her mouth, only serves to add insult to injury -- deliberately or otherwise.
Throughout her reply his smile remains. It isn't there that the real show of his reaction will display itself, not when he finds it so very easy to keep smiling. The tightening is in the corners of his eyes, in his jaw muscle; these are tells, things he cannot control and so they give him away. She can have him, then, if she's paying attention. Doubtless he is not fortunate enough that she won't be. "You mentioned that," he remembers, clear as day, every syllable perfectly formed. "And I told you that no other obligations you have would hamper my engagement to you. I am a man of my word, Sunniva, and mark me, I will not be turned away." Only now, with so much laid out before them that /isn't/ on their plates or in their glasses, he selects his wine and lifts it for a sip; he watches her over the rim.
"Truly?" she wonders, her plate being nudged away, her fingers lacing under her chin. And gone is any polite pretense; any false showing of the demure thing she ought to be. In its wake, something dark and canny that only manifests in her eyes, in the set of her mouth, in her altered posture. Perhaps there were other words, but she eschews them for something else, something more tactful. "Would you then tell me that the very thought does not bother you, if you truly intend on pursuing this- this so-called engagement," her tone is ever-so-dismissive of that word, "to what might normally be its inevitable conclusion. No more wine for her, not now, with too-sharp eyes suddenly on him. "You said you thought I might find some comfort in you," the topic is slightly shifted, her words not precisely rhetorical, "but how could I ever find comfort in someone who is not comfortable in his own skin, let alone comfortable with me?"
Throughout her reply his smile remains. It isn't there that the real show of his reaction will display itself, not when he finds it so very easy to keep smiling. The tightening is in the corners of his eyes, in his jaw muscle; these are tells, things he cannot control and so they give him away. She can have him, then, if she's paying attention. Doubtless he is not fortunate enough that she won't be. "You mentioned that," he remembers, clear as day, every syllable perfectly formed. "And I told you that no other obligations you have would hamper my engagement to you. I am a man of my word, Sunniva, and mark me, I will not be turned away." Only now, with so much laid out before them that /isn't/ on their plates or in their glasses, he selects his wine and lifts it for a sip; he watches her over the rim.
"Truly?" she wonders, her plate being nudged away, her fingers lacing under her chin. And gone is any polite pretense; any false showing of the demure thing she ought to be. In its wake, something dark and canny that only manifests in her eyes, in the set of her mouth, in her altered posture. Perhaps there were other words, but she eschews them for something else, something more tactful. "Would you then tell me that the very thought does not bother you, if you truly intend on pursuing this- this so-called engagement," her tone is ever-so-dismissive of that word, "to what might normally be its inevitable conclusion." No more wine for her, not now, with too-sharp eyes suddenly on him. "You said you thought I might find some comfort in you," the topic is slightly shifted, her words not precisely rhetorical, "but how could I ever find comfort in someone who is not comfortable in his own skin, let alone comfortable with me?"
As if rekindled by this kindred darkness in her, the burning backglow in Adrian's eyes begins to bank. Nothing else changes, only that intensity flaring up in his steady gaze. This is certainly a new side to her, a new feature, and one he clearly hasn't entirely decided upon yet. On the one hand it's refreshing to see her shed those things about her he finds frustrating, those layers of meekness that mute her, but on the other he's meant to encourage such demure behavior, for that is how her kind are supposed to be. A woman is allowed her intelligence so long as she does not show it off. And here he is, torn. Also, forced to listen to her because of his own wiring. Do not interrupt, it is impolite. He doesn't even do her the injustice of distracting himself with his drink, during or after; instead he sets it aside and re-laces his fingers atop the table, before his congealing food. While looking intently to them and not to her, he provides an answer. His jaw clenches while doing so: tell. "It is not /you/," he bites down on the word, softly vehement, "that discomforts me, Lady." Risking a glance at her assures him he can manage eye contact again, so he does. "I have already resigned myself to the fact that once married I would not be the sole provider in your life, that you might find yourself wanting outside of our arrangement." What he doesn't speak on are his own feelings regarding that issue.
"That does not answer my question." Flat and sharp, prodding. "Does it bother /you/? The very notion that I would not consummate this arrangement with you as I have with him?" The interpretation of those words is left to him, with her smile, that terrible, inscrutable thing that it is, being the only hint to the truth of it. Those might be the words she opted to leave before, but now she's intent on something, on prying something up from him; anything that might elicit a reaction at all. She does not lean back; rather, she leans forward, no further interest in food she didn't really want to eat to begin with, nor in the wine that she suddenly has a burning craving for. No, Sunniva just seeks to pin him with her eyes, eyes that are both bright in hue and dark in demeanour, a shift that might seem more at place in Berit and her fickle ways than the typically meek and mild Sunniva. "What discomforts you, if it is not me?" And then there's relief for him for a fleeting second or two, as green eyes flick to one side then the next. But then it's back on him, a slight uptilt of her chin and subtle quirk of her lips preceding, "Or is it so utterly terrible that you cannot admit it to yourself, let alone to me? Or would you truly care not to speak to me at all? To continue this ridiculous farce, as if all eyes were on us, even when the only eyes here are our own?"
Again, as always, she's given her piece. He will only sit there and take such onslaughts in silence. Even if every question is clawing at his defenses, every single one of her forceful inquiries pushing him that much closer to anger. Anger is safe, he knows how it feels to burn and ache within him, impotent and unsheathed; perhaps that is why he returns to it so regularly in his dealings with her. And perhaps she'd rather have that than the unmoving stone statue across from her now, for surely he is chiseled from marble. Granite, maybe. But to say there are not still those small shows of his own inner workings would be false; his jaw still twitches spasmodically, there, and his eyes continue to smolder at her. More reactions to the changes in /her/, perhaps; she is as wind to his flame. The relief that comes is not relief at all for he knows she's to look to him again, inevitable, and she does. Not long enough was he freed from her gaze, or is it too long? How masochistic can he be? When finally she allows him a turn Adrian can only look at her, breathe deeply in, delays meant to remind him of where he is, a reminder her words help home. It's true, they are so utterly alone. The only door is that which she entered by, a noisy affair; besides, he faces it where he sits. So then there is no excuse for him to carry on. Very well. "Yes." To what? "It /bothers/ me." Tight, that, and he is not done. "What discomforts me, dear girl, is my own lack of self control when it comes to my dealings with you. My incessant inability to hush even the softest of urges whenever I should find myself fortunate enough for your regard. And above all else the undeniable truth of what I must do for your safety."
And it's her turn to listen, to brace. Help is just a scream away should his anger swell into something more dangerous, but there is an abiding faith that he would not allow it to happen. His trappings of control are not terribly unlike her own, though hers have loosened and, indeed, broken in many ways since her departure. Would that she were at the Hold and entertaining this, the food would be eaten with mechanical acquiescence and they would have been engaged in small talk until the bitter end. Something about this, however, pleases her. This notion of him being alive, for all that he might be a statue; she might not go so far as to consider him a kindred spirit, but she can certainly be sympathetic to him. For his words, though, Sunniva gently inclines her head. "Then, perhaps, I ought to go, if my presence is such a distraction -- such a source of discomfort for you, dearest Adrian. You would be better suited to find someone who does not elicit such a reaction in you; someone who might be more in need of your sort of protection." The shadow-angled side of her is not gone, just turned ... and she pushes to her feet with nary a sound, long fingers unlacing from under her chin, only to rest bare fingertips on the table. "Your persistence is admirable, but it would be best applied elsewhere."
If what she says had never been uttered for him before, Adrian would react differently to her words. As it stands, his venture, this attempt, did not initially find any ears willing to listen to his plea. It wasn't until his sister stepped in to add a second voice to his persistence that his father finally bent his head and moved his hand for his son. Even then, there were more people to persuade, more of his limited power to flex, an exercise he hadn't as of yet lowered himself to; and even /then/ there had been talk. Talk of how inept a notion this would be, how the Lord of Grey River must have surely lost his mind, to be so indulgent of his broody son's whims. Obviously this was just another attempt at Adrian's endeavor to collect as many pretty things as he could, just another girl. That marriage was a newly added thread in the tapestry meant little. And now here he sits, after so much abuse and after invoking the suffering of his family for this cause, with the object of his attentions choosing a hasty exit instead of a simple meal with him. Well, such was to be expected; she had only to start in on those questions for him to know. All he has left to him is to speak, and hope she finds something worth hearing. Much like before when she threatened to leave, and indeed did make her move to do so, a pained panic ripples across his face. No. That his chair scrapes, once and briefly, when he stands as well is another tell. Damn. "And do I not deserve a reaction?" he asks her quickly, standing well above her, a dark and imposing figure. His voice is thick. He hesitates before making this next move. "If I could not ever have more of you than your hand, could never feel you warm to me, would you deny me this stirring of emotion as my only sense of you?"
To her credit, she does not move; does not leave. One hand remains lightly resting on the table; the other comes up, fingers curving around the locket. And her eyes, those are on him, all that darkness fled for now. She has what she wants and, so, it's a return to herself that she goes. Just looking. Listening. And, finally, dipping her head to him in apology. "Would that you had told me any of this before, we would have been in a different situation." Perhaps it's a poor selection of words, but the certainty is still there; he can see it, if he cares to, in the wells of her eyes. That things would have been different; should have been. "But," and there's always a but, "things are different now. The situation has changed. It is not fair of me to agree to something that would affect another, even if it meant nothing more than a contractual obligation being fulfilled. I will not leave here; this is /home/." In goes a breath ... and then out, as she continues, sympathy taking a pained edge, "And how terribly unfair for you it would be, for me to be here and you to be there, all other complications aside."
That locket. That she should return to it, here, only adds a new kind of fuel to the black fire within him: jealousy. It isn't like him to miss small details; that she wasn't wearing that necklace last night did not pass him up. And here she is again, wearing it as if nothing's changed. But, as she says, things are different now. A weaker man would probably forfeit. He's been faced with incredible odds, not the least of which is the fact that his family suffers for him during this. She is unmoving. These should be reasons enough, when tallied with all of the other complications, and yet here Adrian stands, equally unmoved, with that tension along his jaw that implies so much stubbornness, frustration and, yes, expresses the control he has on himself quite vividly. "And this-- other obligation, does he find it so easy to see you suffer the removal from your home? Has he made it clear to you his intentions, how he designs to provide for you? Where is he now, that his claim to you remains silent?" A pause, here, before, "If you are spoken for as you say, why is it I do not hear him speaking?"
Her hold on the locket tightens, just a little, in a momentary lapse of control. There's a narrowing of her eyes, a flattening of her lips, and then she's pulling back. The hand on the table is withdrawn, allowed to dangle as dead weight at her side. And it is her turn to be frustrated, in a sense, with steady tension threading through her neck and shoulders and inevitably holding her utterly rigid. "He is not here," she finally states, though her hold on the bauble doesn't release. "He is of High Reaches. A bronzerider. He does not need to provide anything for me beyond his affections, for those times when we are together. I provide for myself, here; I have duties as everyone else and I enjoy them." And now it's her that's cleching her jaw, eyes naught but cold chips glinting in a mask that's broken. "As for the removal of myself from the Hold, that is of no concern to him because I make it of no concern."
That he has incited such a response does not bring him any joy. Rather, when confronted with her own version of the same sort of tension as keeps him so tightly locked in place, Adrian must find it most unappealing, maybe disheartening; his chin lifts though, as the only suggestion. If he notices he may have gained a small measure of ground by asking those questions of her he doesn't show it. There is only a small, unspoken apology in the way his eyes soften. Apology for her need to defend what she finds defendable, for what small claim she's managed to stake for herself in this vast and ugly place. Still, he is not so great a man that he does not seek to reiterate her answers. "Of High Reaches. Not of Ista Weyr." Her supposed home. "And a dragonrider. I wonder then if he plans to say the same to his next bed partner as you have said to me." The venom in his voice is hard to mask; he cannot. It's suddenly very clear how he feels about this man in her life that has her so twisted around his little finger. Suddenly his eyes close; another deep breath.
The fingers at her thigh soon seize, grasping at the skirt in an effort to conceal -- albeit poorly -- the urge to make a fist. His unspoken apology is no doubt received, but not accepted; not worthy of a response on her part. No, now she fixes on his words, the words that, when turned like that, only seem to irritate her further, to ruffle those oh-so-elegant feathers of her plumage and set her to take a step back. "Yes," is confirmation of location, of his station. "And, no. He has told me of his singular dalliance with another before we decided to try, even with the distance. The distance means nothing; we are, at any given time, only three heartbeats away." The span of a trip *between*, nothing more. "And should his dear lifemate catch another, it is of no consequence; in that, there is no choice for him, only for the dragons." It's when his eyes close that he might hear it, the rustle of fabric as she starts to move properly. It will necessitate her passing him, perhaps too close in her haste to be done, to be gone, to try to forget this -- as she's so often tried to forget him.
Ah, but he will always be there. Her ghost, her monster. Her dark and brooding apparition. What /does/ lie beneath his flawless skin, the perfectly composed bone structure, his burning eyes? That he irritates her further causes him some small amount of regret, but he is in far too deep to allow himself to back down now, not when he finally seems to be getting through to her. Even if it hurts her, even though it kills /him/ his desire to protect her far outweighs any sense of self-preservation, as he's demonstrated already with everything he's done to come here. Not that she would know of any of /that/, as she does not have a back stage pass to his dealings. Still, there are some things he can control; not her choosing to leave, no, that is entirely her move to make. But it puts her within his personal space, and he can choose to act or not to act. Before, in their earlier dealings, he chose stillness and self-control; now, as her dress swishes and she makes her move, he chooses utter recklessness. Though he doesn't move more than that, his arm twitches to put his hand in range of grabbing her wrist or anywhere on her forearm, to halt her, no, pull her back to face him, to trap her against his body.
It is perhaps because of her single-minded intention to get away that she's not aware of the danger she's placed herself in. "Do take-" is all that she is able to utter, a familiar farewell that's cut off rather abruptly when she feels his fingers on her wrist. Her skin is cool, in keeping with everything about her; while he might be a burning visage, she is a chill wraith, a cold and distant thing not meant to be touched save under her own terms when she might deign to become tangible. But he has ruined that illusion, broken it, and further still when she is drawn in and trapped. Eyelashes flutter, frenzied, as she suddenly looks up at him; alarm registers on a face that mere moments ago was coldly determined and assured of her success in escape. Lips part, a question forming somewhere, surely, in the back of her mind or in the inarticulate workings of her throat, but there is nothing, no words, that she can find that would be strong enough to pry him loose. And would that she knew she could break down the walls of the trap he's laid for her, she might well break her newfound wings to try; but here, now, she's utterly caught, eyes wide, and breath held.
Adrian's grip is hard and hot enough, perhaps, to hurt. At first. But only until he's caught her, has her, holds her, and then he comes back to himself and relaxes his hold. That is not to say he allows her release; he could not, not now, not when he's slipped again. And this is no mere miscalculation of their distance or wrong choice of words-- this is the step too far, the crossing over into that area of grey where nothing is certain anymore. It's truly terrifying, but his face remains that same expressionless, tense mask. Nevermind that the arm and hand that hold her both tremble violently; either some amount of force on himself is needed to stop him doing anything harmful or he's giving himself away again. Staring down at her, with those burning eyes, this moment stretches on like eternity. That she doesn't fight him is a sign of warning; again, she gives him too much to be safe. A man prone to violence would take advantage of this situation; a man less accustomed to his own temper might have let it fly. He, though, is not that man. And so he neither harms her nor seeks to disturb her by saying anything more. Disturbing still might she find what he /does/ choose to do. Just after the mask he wears breaks and that sudden and gentle defeat weighs heavy in his features, he bends just enough to claim her open mouth with a kiss.
The inevitability of what he chooses to do is one Sunniva sees coming before it happens, would be foolish to not see otherwise; eyes widen a little further, a terrified little noise finally slips from her throat, and then even that is smothered when his lips touch hers. She could pull away, could move her head, but there's a searing understanding that this is the price of her release -- unbearable as it is, some dim part of her mind reminds her that it could be worse, much much worse than this. Perhaps she should be grateful. For that reason alone will she endure it, even as her eyes shut tightly against the sting of furious tears and her hands twist themselves into impotent fists. His trembling is matched with a similar sense of the same, hers borne of a frustrated anger that cannot be released; striking him would be futile, shoving him away pointless for so long as he persists. The best she can hope for is that it ends quickly, an end to which she can only work toward in her own way by returning his kiss with a lackluster version of the same -- defiant, still, deliberate in her choosing to do so and making no attempt to hide it, to hide the what-could-have-been with something angry and forced. And yet, even despite that, a taste of the same -- of what surely must be reserved for her 'Reachian lover and him alone -- is spared, in a terrible, wordless taunt. The price is his to demand, for her to pay, but he would be a fool to think she would do so eagerly.
Of course he knew she wouldn't fight him. Has she fought him in every other of his efforts, apart from her downright refusal of him? But even that denial has been but a blanket, a general 'no'; in specifics, she has only been too accommodating. There's irony in how she sees this, as her price to pay for whatever outcome she sees in her future, be it release from him in this moment or for the rest of her life. Ironic, because that's also how /he/ sees it; as a price he must pay, a teasing, taunting taste of what he could have, could have had, had things gone differently. Of what he's wanted for so long, but of which he can only have this. What sweet torture it is, to be able to feel her in his hand, taste her, breathe her in without suffering the aching of tensed muscles later. But this is not for him, this single, desperate thing; in a sick way it's for her, much like she sacrifices this small portion of herself for him. Two outlooks, so similar yet so utterly different. It isn't lost on him, even from the beginning, that she is anything but warm to his touch; comfortable. He could not even hope for the way she fights him even in complying with him to fade given a few seconds' time. Just as he could not hope to be able to endure this for very much longer. And so, without so much as even trying to mold her mouth to his in a more pleasant manner, their hard, fierce kiss is complete when he pulls away so abruptly with a small, sharp intake of breath that could be considered a gasp.
Does it translate, the fact that this is for her? Perhaps not, given the way her eyes snap open when all's said and done, cold and sharp and too-bright with her unvoiced rage. She's too stubborn to cry, to yell, to do anything except just /look/ at him, to make him see her as she is now; too controlled to yield to the urge to do anything but that. "Are you satisfied?" she wants to know in a low, tensely restrained voice; not a threat, just a demand. She is owed that, or so she feels. The quiver in her voice is something beyond her, something soft and terrified and she swallows, hard, to try to rid herself of it; the run of her tongue over her lips is purely to wash the taste of him, the feel of him off of them, even if doing so means she must endure it longer than she would care to. The wrist in his hand is limp and cold and trembling still, unwilling to struggle for fear of breaking, but there's a tension running through her, in every other line of her being, that insists otherwise; that she wants only to be released now that this deed is done, to be released to fly and seek solace somewhere else. To be anywhere else but here, with him. And that's the crux of it, that desire; to be anywhere that he is not, to disavow herself of his presence. To be anywhere that he does not exist, since she cannot alter his existance.
Much like everything else in their disastrous relationship thus far, everything is lost in communication. Had he but said something, anything, to her before making such a rash move, perhaps they would not be as they are now, staring at each other with expressions of either barely concealed anger on her part or blatant need on his. Need for her, need for her touch on his skin again, oh if only he hadn't wasted those moments she gave him before, it seems like ages ago now. Need for her to understand how much he would change if he could change anything. That she speaks is a major accomplishment, for both of them; if she hadn't, he like wouldn't have, and then all would be silent while they bore into each other. She isn't happy; neither is he. She very likely hates him; so does he. He wouldn't ever blame her. His answer, a low and even, "Hardly," is uttered with such reverence it might be startling. And suddenly it's as if she has agreed to marry him, has joined his life as if she was meant to be there, for the way he looks at her. Like a husband would look at his wife; like a weary soldier would look upon his Lady entering the battlefield to offer her blessings. And yet, there, so subtle it might as well not even be there, is the dryness of regret in his dark and warmly lit gaze. Adrian turns it from her suddenly to look at her shoulder, a noncommital glance for a part of her that doesn't look back at him. The hand around her wrist loosens and, finally, releases her.
There isn't anything left to be said. Her jaw tightens, further words restrained by biting her tongue so hard she almost wants it to bleed, but knowing that might grant him some small satisfaction, that she would hurt herself before hurting him any more than she has already. That she meets his look and sees it for what it is, that is a rare accomplishment; a significant moment where nothing is lost. His need for her, her anger for him -- and, even now, she can't bring herself to hate him. Can't. Because, if only for a moment, there's pity there. Pity he might hate her for having, pity that she hates herself for giving. There are no words left to be given, none she could spare that didn't consist of her giving in to the need to hurt him, to make him see how she is hurt; nor is there a desire to open herself up for another of those kisses, so her mouth remains resolutely shut, lips pressed into a bloodless line, and gaze slanting away from his even as his fixes on her shoulder. He sees her as his wife, as she ought to be were she to fulfill those contractual obligations he has brought with him; but he is a warden, the last unyielding shackle to her past that she has no key to remove. All she can hope for is to struggle, to fight, until something breaks, but she gives no thought now to which will be the first to give. Her release comes with it a flurry of movement, of skirts being gathered and feet moving for the door she doesn't need to see to know is there; the lay of the room was committed to memory seconds after her arrival and she relies on that memory to bring her there. A blind, unerring grab for the door, a door that's shut behind her without a sound; to slam it would be reckless, would draw needless attention to the room. But once outside, she slumps against it, too-cold hands brought up to cover her face, to reshape it manually into the mask it needs to be for her to make her escape without question.
What: Their dinner. Things do not go well.
Where: Adrian's quarters, ISW.
When: Day 5, month 5, turn 18 of Interval 10 (December 1st, 2008)
Notes: Log stolen from Sunni. <3
It is perhaps a quarter of an hour before the general announcement is made regarding dinner's readiness in Ista's main cavern, meaning most, if not all, of the Weyr's residents are oblivious to its status. Unless they're very good at their timing, in which case they'd know simply based on routine. While those that staff the kitchens are busily putting the finishing touches on the meal they intend to serve, Adrian is making preparations of his own. His will not be for the hordes of weyrfolk but for one single soul. By the light of the lamps on the wall he moves as if in slow motion, adjusting the plates on the table, filling her glass; on his way by the chair she'll choose he reaches to touch it with just the barest brush of his fingertips. All as if set to some strange and haunting melody. While he works, the girl he paid races through the halls and corridors on silent, bare feet, her braids bouncing on her shoulders. She dodges a crowd of people here, skips around a man and, eventually, rushes to Sunniva's side to tug on her sleeve and hand her a delicate white flower whose stem is decorated with an even more delicate twist of grey satin. It's time.
And Sunniva's prepared for it, when the moment does come. Or, at least, prepared enough that she need only make a momentary detour to the dorms to complete the ensemble. The girl is bid adieu, quickly, and away she moves in a flurry of movement. Something old, a holdover from her days at the Hold, but still suited to the balmy conditions of the Weyr: pearl gray-hued, silken; thin straps of some elegant black and silver brocade and an empire waistline, also delineated in the same. The skirt parts into an inverted 'v', with an underskirt of stark black to contrast the pallor above. Flowing, of course, the sort of thing that swishes and swirls unless caught in the hands. Over her top is a not-quite-jacket of lace, meant only to conceal to a point; to hint at what lies beneath without betraying all. Added while at the dorms is that locket, a weighty silver disc of a thing; above, a choker in that same pearl-gray fabric, a thin band of that brocade around with a charm dangling in the center. Her hair is quickly twisted up, bound with a elegant tangle of ribbons, while drop earrings of silver hang from ears that haven't seen their use in so long that it hurts to put them in. Dressed up, but not for him; for herself, to ensure that she is not the one to be a further source of embarrassment to a family that no longer wishes to lay claim to her. For her sake; her pride. Nothing more. And then, ready. Rose in hand, she moves to the door she had hoped to forget but which her memory refuses to. Once there, she lifts a hand and knocks. Thrice.
Truthfully, once would have been enough. Three knocks is almost overkill, for Adrian within has been waiting very impatiently for nearly a whole handful of minutes before her arrival. Standing, of course, as straight and still as a statue. To sit would be far too lazy; to pace would only aggravate him more, make him feel all the more rushed. Standing, that is appropriate. Her knocks stir him into motion so quickly it's as if a band snapped in his body; long strides carry him to the door and he reaches for its handle to pull, to open. To eliminate the only barrier between them. It only takes a second, and there she is. The very sight of her gives him pause, his black eyes performing their customary sweeping glance as if he no longer needs to tell them. She is a vision in beautiful muted colors, an ensemble he might have seen before, perhaps. Not a terrible choice on her part, if his lingering stare is any indication. /He/ is likewise attired, though his choices are much more severe, of course. Black for both pants and boots, naturally, and the same for the tunic with the laces left undone at his neck, and the jacket over that with its decorative gray buttons. In a strange way they match, albeit invertedly. There's a silver glint from the ring finger of his left hand when he uses it to welcome her in, a ring caught by the light. Nothing flashy, just a thick band and some sort of crest. His careful mask in place, he pitches his voice quiet to say, "Please come in."
If his haste in answering registers at all, it's not a thing he'll have a chance to note on her face. For, even before the door is opened, the cultured mask of polite neutrality is shaped, placed, and adhered to; her smile is a careful construct of propriety. And in that moment that he studies her, she does likewise, green eyes suddenly keen and sharp, at odds with the smooth serenity of her mien. Her hands are folded before her, as always, her posture as straight as his. A study in contrasts, connected only by the strange ties of their past; ties that she had thought severed and clearly have not been. At his gesture, an automatic inclination of her head that causes the ribbons to whisper. "Thank you," is dutifully intoned, with her gliding in the necessary few steps on slippered feet to clear the door and enter the room, where she waits.
They've been allowed their privacy tonight; Garet and Vence are nowhere to be seen. They're very much alone. Once Sunniva has entered fully he moves to close the door behind the both of them, the palm of his hand finding solid comfort in how very hard and unyielding the strong wood is; his eyes close and he takes a deep breath, as is necessary for any sort of encounter with /her/. That done, Adrian turns with /his/ hands clasped behind, his expression solemn, his hair in careful disarray. The lamplight puts an almost malevolent glint in his warm dark gaze. "There was no trouble, then, I take it? In finding the room?" He makes it sound so /easy/, as if last night never happened. As if he never admitted to the things he admitted to.
For his sake or hers, she doesn't turn to look to him. It's always forward, surveying the tableau awaiting them. Thus, when Sunniva answers, it's without looking at him -- without needing to: "No, not at all. I know these tunnels like the back of my hand." That memory, of course; when paired with chatty patients in the infirmary, there is not much she does /not/ know, unless she specifically seeks to be oblivious. And if he'll kindly ignore the events of the previous night, so will she -- even if she cannot forget. And she remains as she is, poised and elegant, a birdlike entity of incomparable grace.
As always when they begin, he is capable of matching her calm and patience, of being still. Pleasant. "I am very glad to hear it." The gifts he was born with -- his voice, his grace, his physical appearance -- are put to better use when he isn't contorted by anger. Now, when he steps forward, he can manage a small, tight smile for her; when he gestures at the little table, with its plates full and steaming and its glasses full, he can act his role without slipping. And this makes him, if not happy, then at least comfortable. "Shall we?" Even if not, Adrian precedes her to the seating, to the back of one of those chairs so that he can pull it out for her and wait, ever the gentleman.
"As you wish," just this once will she indulge him with that phrase, so delicately crafted as it is. His movement before her is noted with something that might be pleasure; it's hard to say in the way the curve of her oh-so-polite smile is altered. As the chair is withdrawn, she gathers her skirts in hand and all but glides over, ghost-quiet and smooth; seating herself involves another adjustment of skirts and a smoothing of them, a task that she completes with her head bowed subtly forward and ends with her hands folding in her lap. Poised. "Thank you," is genuinely meant, though whether for the chair being pulled out or simply for his control is impossible to discern.
Thanks to the two of them being so coordinated, Adrian is also able to nudge her chair back under the table once she's seated to complete his gesture. In doing so he's brought a small bit closer to her, having to lean a little, and so in that one instant they can smell each other again. This pauses him again, bent as he is with his hands on either side of her chair, so close to her shoulders; his face, too, is so very close, close enough that his deep breath in is likely audible. That pause lingers for a long heartbeat before he's moving again, to reach past her for the ornately folded napkin. To unfold it gently and place it, just so, in her lap. And, straightening, he makes the very short trip to his side of the table to take his own seat. Without looking at her. "I hope red finds your favor," he remarks safely, no doubt of the wine in their glasses.
It's a well-orchestrated choreography, this dance of propriety. As he leans in, he'll smell her -- orchids, one of her favourites; as he reaches for the napkin, her hands withdraw to allow him to place it. Sunniva straightens once she's in place, hands atop the napkin and gaze settled on him as he takes his seat. He might not bear to look at her, but she is unafraid to do so; this, in and of itself, is something ... this looking at him. She's likely seen him more the past three times they've crossed paths than ever in their existance as it was before. "Yes, of course," she agrees with the emptiness in the response filled with politeness. "I adore a good red."
"Good." Not 'excellent' or even 'very good'. 'Good' will do, for a person who wishes never to over-compensate. All must seem natural, not affected. "Garet selected it. One of Benden's vintages." The security of small talk is far too sppealing to pass up, even though Adrian looks slightly uncomfortable to be taking such an easy road. Still he won't look across at her, but that can only last so long, unless he plans on pretending he is dining alone. Indeed, after he's settled his own napkin and settled his chair just so, he only stares down down another moment before lifting his gaze to meet hers. Once again he must take her in, focused despite the too-hard thudding of his heart. Needlessly he speaks again. "Dinner is... shellfish and vegetables. And a cream sauce." His mouth twitches. Once.
"Mm." Such a strange and thoughtful noise, that. Shapeless, she allows it to fill the void left after his description of the wine. When he finally deigns to look at her, her eyes are waiting, though still set in that facade of neutrality. She might feel a need to remark on a red wine being unusual for fish; she might even feel an urge to mention the fact that she does have functioning eyes and can see what his choice was for dinner. Instead, there's an incremental widening of her smile -- for politeness, for his mouth twitch, for both, perhaps -- a show of graciousness, and a murmured, "An excellent choice, then."
If any of this was actually his choice, he might be faster to respond to her approval. As it was not, he can only nod silently in agreement. If the wine doesn't match up with the food, it's no fault of his, and it all speaks of some hidden meaning or motive on the outer edges of this entire affair. In fact, even when it comes to him, there's something amiss. He's dressed well, he's been to the baths -- which was very likely a harrying experience for him -- and everything is in place, but how much of that is only on the superficial level? How deep does it run? Is there a reason for his calm, for the way he looks across at her now with nothing hinting at anxiety in his expression. If she looks close enough, can she see the faint shadows under his eyes, eyes that don't, for once, burn? There's small movement in his throat when he swallows; his lips part. His hands have formed loose fists on the table, to either side of his plate. Adrian does not touch his food, nor does he reach for his wine. He simple watches her, looking completely and utterly exhausted.
And so it begins. She does not make the first move, either, simply studying him from her vantage. That too-perfect posture is then broken, not to allow her to start the process of cutting her food up in preparation for eating but, rather, to nudge the plate further away, to move the wine and to do the unspeakable by propping an elbow on the table and place a cheek in that palm. If they're going to stare at each other, then she, at least, is going to get comfortable. And he might feel it now, the weight of Sunniva's gaze; there are shadows under her eyes, but they are the permanent sort borne of a lifetime spent sleeping poorly if at all. She picks him apart in her own, not-so-surreptitious way, mutely dissecting the soundless opening of his mouth, the way his hands curl on the table. And the silence is finally broken with a soft, "What are your thoughts, Adrian?" On dinner. On himself. On her. On /anything/.
There is only the smallest reaction to her moving, and to how she chooses to move: a very brief, very subtle pulling together of his eyebrows. And then there is nothing, no lingering hint of whatever he might have felt; disapproval is the most likely, given everything, but concern is another possibility. There have been two occasions thus far that have given him cause for concern when she chooses to move, Faranth forbid she should touch him again. Whether or not he finds it easy to be under that calm sage-toned weight is hard to say; Adrian doesn't change. Not until she speaks, even then it takes him but a breath to do so. To match her, as he does so well, by pushing his plate and glass out of the way so that he can lace his fingers together and lean forward. Not that this relaxes his spine any; like hers, his posture remains perfect. At first he drops his gaze to the table but that doesn't last; a second later he meets her again. "That I owe you an apology."
"Oh?" is an open invitation for him to proceed, wrapped in a veneer of carefully selected surprise. As if his words were truly that unexpected. Not too much; not too little. Just enough for the situation. Nor does her posture shift, her new position change; one hand in her lap with fingers clenched but unseen, the other supporting her face with a relaxed regard. Her expression is unaltered, her gaze on him settled all the more securely. Anticipating. Expectant. Sunniva is silent, receptive; not judging, but she has always had a tendency toward that, when dealing with others, one-on-one.
So she has. And really, he doesn't deserve such grace, such light, but here they are anyway. The part she so suddenly plays, as if nothing has happened at the Weyr, this one or that, to change her. She is proper, well-spoken, certainly well-dressed. Every bit the ideal of someone whose future depends on a woman with certain qualities; if that is Adrian's ideal, his future, than she is harping to it with expert ease. But despite her thoroughness he remains unchanged. Perhaps it has something to do with his weariness; perhaps instead he simply refuses to be played. It doesn't matter, since his response is independent of a need for change. Eloquently, "My behavior during my stay here, during those encounters with you I have had the pleasure of experiencing, has been repellant. And inappropriate. And for that I am sorry."
She remains so until he speaks, unwavering and patient, without nudging or poking or prodding in any sense to goad the answer out of him. Such patience is ultimately rewarded when he does speak, the words themselves eliciting a gentle smile from her. It's a small thing, but a break in the mask nonetheless. "Thank you." The words are honestly meant and then Sunniva shifts, this time to draw her glass and plate closer, to start to prepare her food for proper consumption. Apology accepted, she appears willing to move on, to push all of that former ugliness behind her. The key to that being that she merely appears that way, but to discern otherwise might require a deeper consideration of her than she is willing to allow.
In answer, Adrian only dips his chin, a small nod. Her thanks is unnecessary, but he won't tell her so. And, now that the air is clear, the two of them can finally begin their meal, as was intended. Afterall, he's said his peace, they've made theirs, and there couldn't very well be anything more to say. These sorts of things are not meant for conversation, except for in the case of that ghastly small talk, which he's already demonstrated an aversion to. So, then, they would eat in silence, only the metallic clinking of their silverware and the small sounds of mastication to break the quiet. All would be just that simple except that Adrian doesn't pull his plate closer. His glass remains at a distance. And he watches her, still, quietly. He might even be deeply considering her.
She is, at least, intent on the task of carving her food into appropriately-sized portions. But it's only after she's halfway through that she realizes the sounds of her utensils have not been joined by his. Fork and knife hang for a moment, poised in the midst of making another neat cut, and then are placed down with only the softest of sounds. Green eyes lift, her lips subtly pulled to a side; just a touch, just enough to register what might well be confusion or consternation or some combination of the two. Not that she's one to speak, not now, but as her attention rises to him again, there's only the slightest and most delicate motions as her head tilts with an inquisitive air that's only compounded by the quizzical lift of her brows and the slight parting of her mouth in preparation to breathe the words, should he miss the purposefulness of her expression.
He doesn't. There is too /much/ to miss for him to be taking any chances, so he's watching her /very/ carefully. Watching her use her fork as if only she could use her fork in that manner; she can, for it's hers, but he's still fascinated or enthralled but probably both. Watching her realize he isn't eating; watching her make decisions to react based on her realization. And then, finally, watching her face when she sees fit to allow him her gaze again. He's waiting for her, his eyes warmed; gentle, and so eerie how easily the change in them effects his face as well. The liquid heat in the way he stares at her softens him, makes more pleasant his features. They were born that way, it's his own fault he chooses only the most wrong of expressions. Calmly he replies to the question he interprets. "And what are your thoughts?"
It should startle her, the gentleness there; yet, it doesn't seem to. Hands slide back and drop, resting in her lap, while her chin lifts just a little as she considers the question posed of her. The problem, of course, is that she has too many thoughts; too many disconnected ones, too many that don't involve him ... and those that do are thoughts that might be best left unsaid. Sunniva does not immediately reply as a result, instead opting to reach for the wine and to take a sip -- a sip to steel herself, perhaps -- before she finally speaks. The result, perhaps, is not satisfactory: "On what?" There's a gesture to the food, to the wine, to himself to indicate her dilemma -- there are many things to have thoughts on and it would be remiss of her to speak to the wrong thing.
Seem. Appear. Sunniva is good at seeming and appearing to be or not be many things, depending on what is best for her to seem or appear to be at the time. If nothing else, Adrian has grown familiar with that detail. The best he can do is try to take what she gives him, because otherwise interacting with her would consist solely of guess work, a possibility he finds no delight in. So she's allowed to seem unsurprised or thoughtful, oblivious to his true intent or not, however she feels comfortable. And she'll receive no harrassment from him. Perhaps he truly intended on this being a calm dinner between them, moments for bonding and relating in private. Appropriately. Her concern for the subject of his query stirs in him the smallest of smiles. It's a twitch, just a corner of his mouth pulled up around his words, wrapped in a voice as smooth as velvet. "On whatever it is you would like to discuss with me. Had you the opportunity." Here, wearing that same smile, he allows one dark eyebrow higher than the other. Wry.
That, of course, is simply the creature she was made to be, shaped to be. To be a malleable, adaptable thing; meant to weather the potentially fickle moods of would-be suitors. Expected to be prepared for anything, to be ready for anything. Such as now, of course. But as he speaks, her chin lowers, slightly, and there's a moment of consideration to go with the slight lidding of her eyes. Sunniva finally takes another sip of wine, then allows herself to push oh-so-slightly back from the table. "I am thinking that I feel sorry for you. That this-" the dinner, his presence, everything here "-is a terrible waste of your time, as I have tried to explain. I /am/ spoken for, if not in the- the most traditional of senses." Not married, of course. It leaves a few interesting options, and perhaps a few more if he's the clever sort. That it comes with a faint smile, far from proper even if it's just a flicker at the corner of her mouth, only serves to add insult to injury -- deliberately or otherwise.
Throughout her reply his smile remains. It isn't there that the real show of his reaction will display itself, not when he finds it so very easy to keep smiling. The tightening is in the corners of his eyes, in his jaw muscle; these are tells, things he cannot control and so they give him away. She can have him, then, if she's paying attention. Doubtless he is not fortunate enough that she won't be. "You mentioned that," he remembers, clear as day, every syllable perfectly formed. "And I told you that no other obligations you have would hamper my engagement to you. I am a man of my word, Sunniva, and mark me, I will not be turned away." Only now, with so much laid out before them that /isn't/ on their plates or in their glasses, he selects his wine and lifts it for a sip; he watches her over the rim.
"Truly?" she wonders, her plate being nudged away, her fingers lacing under her chin. And gone is any polite pretense; any false showing of the demure thing she ought to be. In its wake, something dark and canny that only manifests in her eyes, in the set of her mouth, in her altered posture. Perhaps there were other words, but she eschews them for something else, something more tactful. "Would you then tell me that the very thought does not bother you, if you truly intend on pursuing this- this so-called engagement," her tone is ever-so-dismissive of that word, "to what might normally be its inevitable conclusion. No more wine for her, not now, with too-sharp eyes suddenly on him. "You said you thought I might find some comfort in you," the topic is slightly shifted, her words not precisely rhetorical, "but how could I ever find comfort in someone who is not comfortable in his own skin, let alone comfortable with me?"
Throughout her reply his smile remains. It isn't there that the real show of his reaction will display itself, not when he finds it so very easy to keep smiling. The tightening is in the corners of his eyes, in his jaw muscle; these are tells, things he cannot control and so they give him away. She can have him, then, if she's paying attention. Doubtless he is not fortunate enough that she won't be. "You mentioned that," he remembers, clear as day, every syllable perfectly formed. "And I told you that no other obligations you have would hamper my engagement to you. I am a man of my word, Sunniva, and mark me, I will not be turned away." Only now, with so much laid out before them that /isn't/ on their plates or in their glasses, he selects his wine and lifts it for a sip; he watches her over the rim.
"Truly?" she wonders, her plate being nudged away, her fingers lacing under her chin. And gone is any polite pretense; any false showing of the demure thing she ought to be. In its wake, something dark and canny that only manifests in her eyes, in the set of her mouth, in her altered posture. Perhaps there were other words, but she eschews them for something else, something more tactful. "Would you then tell me that the very thought does not bother you, if you truly intend on pursuing this- this so-called engagement," her tone is ever-so-dismissive of that word, "to what might normally be its inevitable conclusion." No more wine for her, not now, with too-sharp eyes suddenly on him. "You said you thought I might find some comfort in you," the topic is slightly shifted, her words not precisely rhetorical, "but how could I ever find comfort in someone who is not comfortable in his own skin, let alone comfortable with me?"
As if rekindled by this kindred darkness in her, the burning backglow in Adrian's eyes begins to bank. Nothing else changes, only that intensity flaring up in his steady gaze. This is certainly a new side to her, a new feature, and one he clearly hasn't entirely decided upon yet. On the one hand it's refreshing to see her shed those things about her he finds frustrating, those layers of meekness that mute her, but on the other he's meant to encourage such demure behavior, for that is how her kind are supposed to be. A woman is allowed her intelligence so long as she does not show it off. And here he is, torn. Also, forced to listen to her because of his own wiring. Do not interrupt, it is impolite. He doesn't even do her the injustice of distracting himself with his drink, during or after; instead he sets it aside and re-laces his fingers atop the table, before his congealing food. While looking intently to them and not to her, he provides an answer. His jaw clenches while doing so: tell. "It is not /you/," he bites down on the word, softly vehement, "that discomforts me, Lady." Risking a glance at her assures him he can manage eye contact again, so he does. "I have already resigned myself to the fact that once married I would not be the sole provider in your life, that you might find yourself wanting outside of our arrangement." What he doesn't speak on are his own feelings regarding that issue.
"That does not answer my question." Flat and sharp, prodding. "Does it bother /you/? The very notion that I would not consummate this arrangement with you as I have with him?" The interpretation of those words is left to him, with her smile, that terrible, inscrutable thing that it is, being the only hint to the truth of it. Those might be the words she opted to leave before, but now she's intent on something, on prying something up from him; anything that might elicit a reaction at all. She does not lean back; rather, she leans forward, no further interest in food she didn't really want to eat to begin with, nor in the wine that she suddenly has a burning craving for. No, Sunniva just seeks to pin him with her eyes, eyes that are both bright in hue and dark in demeanour, a shift that might seem more at place in Berit and her fickle ways than the typically meek and mild Sunniva. "What discomforts you, if it is not me?" And then there's relief for him for a fleeting second or two, as green eyes flick to one side then the next. But then it's back on him, a slight uptilt of her chin and subtle quirk of her lips preceding, "Or is it so utterly terrible that you cannot admit it to yourself, let alone to me? Or would you truly care not to speak to me at all? To continue this ridiculous farce, as if all eyes were on us, even when the only eyes here are our own?"
Again, as always, she's given her piece. He will only sit there and take such onslaughts in silence. Even if every question is clawing at his defenses, every single one of her forceful inquiries pushing him that much closer to anger. Anger is safe, he knows how it feels to burn and ache within him, impotent and unsheathed; perhaps that is why he returns to it so regularly in his dealings with her. And perhaps she'd rather have that than the unmoving stone statue across from her now, for surely he is chiseled from marble. Granite, maybe. But to say there are not still those small shows of his own inner workings would be false; his jaw still twitches spasmodically, there, and his eyes continue to smolder at her. More reactions to the changes in /her/, perhaps; she is as wind to his flame. The relief that comes is not relief at all for he knows she's to look to him again, inevitable, and she does. Not long enough was he freed from her gaze, or is it too long? How masochistic can he be? When finally she allows him a turn Adrian can only look at her, breathe deeply in, delays meant to remind him of where he is, a reminder her words help home. It's true, they are so utterly alone. The only door is that which she entered by, a noisy affair; besides, he faces it where he sits. So then there is no excuse for him to carry on. Very well. "Yes." To what? "It /bothers/ me." Tight, that, and he is not done. "What discomforts me, dear girl, is my own lack of self control when it comes to my dealings with you. My incessant inability to hush even the softest of urges whenever I should find myself fortunate enough for your regard. And above all else the undeniable truth of what I must do for your safety."
And it's her turn to listen, to brace. Help is just a scream away should his anger swell into something more dangerous, but there is an abiding faith that he would not allow it to happen. His trappings of control are not terribly unlike her own, though hers have loosened and, indeed, broken in many ways since her departure. Would that she were at the Hold and entertaining this, the food would be eaten with mechanical acquiescence and they would have been engaged in small talk until the bitter end. Something about this, however, pleases her. This notion of him being alive, for all that he might be a statue; she might not go so far as to consider him a kindred spirit, but she can certainly be sympathetic to him. For his words, though, Sunniva gently inclines her head. "Then, perhaps, I ought to go, if my presence is such a distraction -- such a source of discomfort for you, dearest Adrian. You would be better suited to find someone who does not elicit such a reaction in you; someone who might be more in need of your sort of protection." The shadow-angled side of her is not gone, just turned ... and she pushes to her feet with nary a sound, long fingers unlacing from under her chin, only to rest bare fingertips on the table. "Your persistence is admirable, but it would be best applied elsewhere."
If what she says had never been uttered for him before, Adrian would react differently to her words. As it stands, his venture, this attempt, did not initially find any ears willing to listen to his plea. It wasn't until his sister stepped in to add a second voice to his persistence that his father finally bent his head and moved his hand for his son. Even then, there were more people to persuade, more of his limited power to flex, an exercise he hadn't as of yet lowered himself to; and even /then/ there had been talk. Talk of how inept a notion this would be, how the Lord of Grey River must have surely lost his mind, to be so indulgent of his broody son's whims. Obviously this was just another attempt at Adrian's endeavor to collect as many pretty things as he could, just another girl. That marriage was a newly added thread in the tapestry meant little. And now here he sits, after so much abuse and after invoking the suffering of his family for this cause, with the object of his attentions choosing a hasty exit instead of a simple meal with him. Well, such was to be expected; she had only to start in on those questions for him to know. All he has left to him is to speak, and hope she finds something worth hearing. Much like before when she threatened to leave, and indeed did make her move to do so, a pained panic ripples across his face. No. That his chair scrapes, once and briefly, when he stands as well is another tell. Damn. "And do I not deserve a reaction?" he asks her quickly, standing well above her, a dark and imposing figure. His voice is thick. He hesitates before making this next move. "If I could not ever have more of you than your hand, could never feel you warm to me, would you deny me this stirring of emotion as my only sense of you?"
To her credit, she does not move; does not leave. One hand remains lightly resting on the table; the other comes up, fingers curving around the locket. And her eyes, those are on him, all that darkness fled for now. She has what she wants and, so, it's a return to herself that she goes. Just looking. Listening. And, finally, dipping her head to him in apology. "Would that you had told me any of this before, we would have been in a different situation." Perhaps it's a poor selection of words, but the certainty is still there; he can see it, if he cares to, in the wells of her eyes. That things would have been different; should have been. "But," and there's always a but, "things are different now. The situation has changed. It is not fair of me to agree to something that would affect another, even if it meant nothing more than a contractual obligation being fulfilled. I will not leave here; this is /home/." In goes a breath ... and then out, as she continues, sympathy taking a pained edge, "And how terribly unfair for you it would be, for me to be here and you to be there, all other complications aside."
That locket. That she should return to it, here, only adds a new kind of fuel to the black fire within him: jealousy. It isn't like him to miss small details; that she wasn't wearing that necklace last night did not pass him up. And here she is again, wearing it as if nothing's changed. But, as she says, things are different now. A weaker man would probably forfeit. He's been faced with incredible odds, not the least of which is the fact that his family suffers for him during this. She is unmoving. These should be reasons enough, when tallied with all of the other complications, and yet here Adrian stands, equally unmoved, with that tension along his jaw that implies so much stubbornness, frustration and, yes, expresses the control he has on himself quite vividly. "And this-- other obligation, does he find it so easy to see you suffer the removal from your home? Has he made it clear to you his intentions, how he designs to provide for you? Where is he now, that his claim to you remains silent?" A pause, here, before, "If you are spoken for as you say, why is it I do not hear him speaking?"
Her hold on the locket tightens, just a little, in a momentary lapse of control. There's a narrowing of her eyes, a flattening of her lips, and then she's pulling back. The hand on the table is withdrawn, allowed to dangle as dead weight at her side. And it is her turn to be frustrated, in a sense, with steady tension threading through her neck and shoulders and inevitably holding her utterly rigid. "He is not here," she finally states, though her hold on the bauble doesn't release. "He is of High Reaches. A bronzerider. He does not need to provide anything for me beyond his affections, for those times when we are together. I provide for myself, here; I have duties as everyone else and I enjoy them." And now it's her that's cleching her jaw, eyes naught but cold chips glinting in a mask that's broken. "As for the removal of myself from the Hold, that is of no concern to him because I make it of no concern."
That he has incited such a response does not bring him any joy. Rather, when confronted with her own version of the same sort of tension as keeps him so tightly locked in place, Adrian must find it most unappealing, maybe disheartening; his chin lifts though, as the only suggestion. If he notices he may have gained a small measure of ground by asking those questions of her he doesn't show it. There is only a small, unspoken apology in the way his eyes soften. Apology for her need to defend what she finds defendable, for what small claim she's managed to stake for herself in this vast and ugly place. Still, he is not so great a man that he does not seek to reiterate her answers. "Of High Reaches. Not of Ista Weyr." Her supposed home. "And a dragonrider. I wonder then if he plans to say the same to his next bed partner as you have said to me." The venom in his voice is hard to mask; he cannot. It's suddenly very clear how he feels about this man in her life that has her so twisted around his little finger. Suddenly his eyes close; another deep breath.
The fingers at her thigh soon seize, grasping at the skirt in an effort to conceal -- albeit poorly -- the urge to make a fist. His unspoken apology is no doubt received, but not accepted; not worthy of a response on her part. No, now she fixes on his words, the words that, when turned like that, only seem to irritate her further, to ruffle those oh-so-elegant feathers of her plumage and set her to take a step back. "Yes," is confirmation of location, of his station. "And, no. He has told me of his singular dalliance with another before we decided to try, even with the distance. The distance means nothing; we are, at any given time, only three heartbeats away." The span of a trip *between*, nothing more. "And should his dear lifemate catch another, it is of no consequence; in that, there is no choice for him, only for the dragons." It's when his eyes close that he might hear it, the rustle of fabric as she starts to move properly. It will necessitate her passing him, perhaps too close in her haste to be done, to be gone, to try to forget this -- as she's so often tried to forget him.
Ah, but he will always be there. Her ghost, her monster. Her dark and brooding apparition. What /does/ lie beneath his flawless skin, the perfectly composed bone structure, his burning eyes? That he irritates her further causes him some small amount of regret, but he is in far too deep to allow himself to back down now, not when he finally seems to be getting through to her. Even if it hurts her, even though it kills /him/ his desire to protect her far outweighs any sense of self-preservation, as he's demonstrated already with everything he's done to come here. Not that she would know of any of /that/, as she does not have a back stage pass to his dealings. Still, there are some things he can control; not her choosing to leave, no, that is entirely her move to make. But it puts her within his personal space, and he can choose to act or not to act. Before, in their earlier dealings, he chose stillness and self-control; now, as her dress swishes and she makes her move, he chooses utter recklessness. Though he doesn't move more than that, his arm twitches to put his hand in range of grabbing her wrist or anywhere on her forearm, to halt her, no, pull her back to face him, to trap her against his body.
It is perhaps because of her single-minded intention to get away that she's not aware of the danger she's placed herself in. "Do take-" is all that she is able to utter, a familiar farewell that's cut off rather abruptly when she feels his fingers on her wrist. Her skin is cool, in keeping with everything about her; while he might be a burning visage, she is a chill wraith, a cold and distant thing not meant to be touched save under her own terms when she might deign to become tangible. But he has ruined that illusion, broken it, and further still when she is drawn in and trapped. Eyelashes flutter, frenzied, as she suddenly looks up at him; alarm registers on a face that mere moments ago was coldly determined and assured of her success in escape. Lips part, a question forming somewhere, surely, in the back of her mind or in the inarticulate workings of her throat, but there is nothing, no words, that she can find that would be strong enough to pry him loose. And would that she knew she could break down the walls of the trap he's laid for her, she might well break her newfound wings to try; but here, now, she's utterly caught, eyes wide, and breath held.
Adrian's grip is hard and hot enough, perhaps, to hurt. At first. But only until he's caught her, has her, holds her, and then he comes back to himself and relaxes his hold. That is not to say he allows her release; he could not, not now, not when he's slipped again. And this is no mere miscalculation of their distance or wrong choice of words-- this is the step too far, the crossing over into that area of grey where nothing is certain anymore. It's truly terrifying, but his face remains that same expressionless, tense mask. Nevermind that the arm and hand that hold her both tremble violently; either some amount of force on himself is needed to stop him doing anything harmful or he's giving himself away again. Staring down at her, with those burning eyes, this moment stretches on like eternity. That she doesn't fight him is a sign of warning; again, she gives him too much to be safe. A man prone to violence would take advantage of this situation; a man less accustomed to his own temper might have let it fly. He, though, is not that man. And so he neither harms her nor seeks to disturb her by saying anything more. Disturbing still might she find what he /does/ choose to do. Just after the mask he wears breaks and that sudden and gentle defeat weighs heavy in his features, he bends just enough to claim her open mouth with a kiss.
The inevitability of what he chooses to do is one Sunniva sees coming before it happens, would be foolish to not see otherwise; eyes widen a little further, a terrified little noise finally slips from her throat, and then even that is smothered when his lips touch hers. She could pull away, could move her head, but there's a searing understanding that this is the price of her release -- unbearable as it is, some dim part of her mind reminds her that it could be worse, much much worse than this. Perhaps she should be grateful. For that reason alone will she endure it, even as her eyes shut tightly against the sting of furious tears and her hands twist themselves into impotent fists. His trembling is matched with a similar sense of the same, hers borne of a frustrated anger that cannot be released; striking him would be futile, shoving him away pointless for so long as he persists. The best she can hope for is that it ends quickly, an end to which she can only work toward in her own way by returning his kiss with a lackluster version of the same -- defiant, still, deliberate in her choosing to do so and making no attempt to hide it, to hide the what-could-have-been with something angry and forced. And yet, even despite that, a taste of the same -- of what surely must be reserved for her 'Reachian lover and him alone -- is spared, in a terrible, wordless taunt. The price is his to demand, for her to pay, but he would be a fool to think she would do so eagerly.
Of course he knew she wouldn't fight him. Has she fought him in every other of his efforts, apart from her downright refusal of him? But even that denial has been but a blanket, a general 'no'; in specifics, she has only been too accommodating. There's irony in how she sees this, as her price to pay for whatever outcome she sees in her future, be it release from him in this moment or for the rest of her life. Ironic, because that's also how /he/ sees it; as a price he must pay, a teasing, taunting taste of what he could have, could have had, had things gone differently. Of what he's wanted for so long, but of which he can only have this. What sweet torture it is, to be able to feel her in his hand, taste her, breathe her in without suffering the aching of tensed muscles later. But this is not for him, this single, desperate thing; in a sick way it's for her, much like she sacrifices this small portion of herself for him. Two outlooks, so similar yet so utterly different. It isn't lost on him, even from the beginning, that she is anything but warm to his touch; comfortable. He could not even hope for the way she fights him even in complying with him to fade given a few seconds' time. Just as he could not hope to be able to endure this for very much longer. And so, without so much as even trying to mold her mouth to his in a more pleasant manner, their hard, fierce kiss is complete when he pulls away so abruptly with a small, sharp intake of breath that could be considered a gasp.
Does it translate, the fact that this is for her? Perhaps not, given the way her eyes snap open when all's said and done, cold and sharp and too-bright with her unvoiced rage. She's too stubborn to cry, to yell, to do anything except just /look/ at him, to make him see her as she is now; too controlled to yield to the urge to do anything but that. "Are you satisfied?" she wants to know in a low, tensely restrained voice; not a threat, just a demand. She is owed that, or so she feels. The quiver in her voice is something beyond her, something soft and terrified and she swallows, hard, to try to rid herself of it; the run of her tongue over her lips is purely to wash the taste of him, the feel of him off of them, even if doing so means she must endure it longer than she would care to. The wrist in his hand is limp and cold and trembling still, unwilling to struggle for fear of breaking, but there's a tension running through her, in every other line of her being, that insists otherwise; that she wants only to be released now that this deed is done, to be released to fly and seek solace somewhere else. To be anywhere else but here, with him. And that's the crux of it, that desire; to be anywhere that he is not, to disavow herself of his presence. To be anywhere that he does not exist, since she cannot alter his existance.
Much like everything else in their disastrous relationship thus far, everything is lost in communication. Had he but said something, anything, to her before making such a rash move, perhaps they would not be as they are now, staring at each other with expressions of either barely concealed anger on her part or blatant need on his. Need for her, need for her touch on his skin again, oh if only he hadn't wasted those moments she gave him before, it seems like ages ago now. Need for her to understand how much he would change if he could change anything. That she speaks is a major accomplishment, for both of them; if she hadn't, he like wouldn't have, and then all would be silent while they bore into each other. She isn't happy; neither is he. She very likely hates him; so does he. He wouldn't ever blame her. His answer, a low and even, "Hardly," is uttered with such reverence it might be startling. And suddenly it's as if she has agreed to marry him, has joined his life as if she was meant to be there, for the way he looks at her. Like a husband would look at his wife; like a weary soldier would look upon his Lady entering the battlefield to offer her blessings. And yet, there, so subtle it might as well not even be there, is the dryness of regret in his dark and warmly lit gaze. Adrian turns it from her suddenly to look at her shoulder, a noncommital glance for a part of her that doesn't look back at him. The hand around her wrist loosens and, finally, releases her.
There isn't anything left to be said. Her jaw tightens, further words restrained by biting her tongue so hard she almost wants it to bleed, but knowing that might grant him some small satisfaction, that she would hurt herself before hurting him any more than she has already. That she meets his look and sees it for what it is, that is a rare accomplishment; a significant moment where nothing is lost. His need for her, her anger for him -- and, even now, she can't bring herself to hate him. Can't. Because, if only for a moment, there's pity there. Pity he might hate her for having, pity that she hates herself for giving. There are no words left to be given, none she could spare that didn't consist of her giving in to the need to hurt him, to make him see how she is hurt; nor is there a desire to open herself up for another of those kisses, so her mouth remains resolutely shut, lips pressed into a bloodless line, and gaze slanting away from his even as his fixes on her shoulder. He sees her as his wife, as she ought to be were she to fulfill those contractual obligations he has brought with him; but he is a warden, the last unyielding shackle to her past that she has no key to remove. All she can hope for is to struggle, to fight, until something breaks, but she gives no thought now to which will be the first to give. Her release comes with it a flurry of movement, of skirts being gathered and feet moving for the door she doesn't need to see to know is there; the lay of the room was committed to memory seconds after her arrival and she relies on that memory to bring her there. A blind, unerring grab for the door, a door that's shut behind her without a sound; to slam it would be reckless, would draw needless attention to the room. But once outside, she slumps against it, too-cold hands brought up to cover her face, to reshape it manually into the mask it needs to be for her to make her escape without question.