"I'm sure I can figure it out," he snarled. Probably Ash. She hated his guts half the time.
Well, whatever. She was gone, and he was a few ninja stars richer.
Damia, to say very least, was not impressed. Now that everything was said and done, and the threat dealt with (a council member, Faram's balls, even though they hadn't dispatched her), something tense hung in the air, every unasked question lingering in the back of her throat. Danger was never too far away in this city, and she was no stranger to being in the middle of a sticky situation, but this rubbed her in all of the wrong ways. This matter, at its core, didn't concern her. An assassin coming to take out another guild member? It didn't happen all the time, and no one controlled who their main targets were, but it hit too close to home.
She vividly remembered the warmth of Castor's blood as it rolled over her glove, across her wrist -- through the back, she'd stabbed him through the back and hadn't mercifully slit his throat; it had been the hesitation just before that stifled her -- and closed her eyes to rid herself of the vision, pivoting on a heel to return to the vicinity of the bed.
Seven years. Seven years and he still haunted her.
Upon reaching the bed, there will little to do but sit down on the edge of it, heel of her hand pressing hard into her thighs. The other drifted up to her face, slender fingers pinching the bridge of her nose, as if somehow it would erase the image of her dead lover and a dead Cian from her mind.