“Right.” The other man kept looking back and forth between the women, watching for any sign of their getting loose. Miles’ specialty was stirring up others to action, not calming them down: for that, he deferred to his better half. But he had to try. “You’re both stopping this nonsense. Sorting your shit out on the street is one thing, but we don’t need noble guests wondering why the dresses are ripped and the both of you are bruised and scratched.”
His gaze slid to the sinks, and Miles wistfully considered filling buckets of water and dousing them both with it. If it wouldn’t have ruined those exact dresses, it was a very tempting idea.
The short laugh that escaped Damia, still held firm by Miles, was hollow. “Oh no, we wouldn’t want that,” she agreed, sounding very much like she did.
“Bruises and scratches are easy enough to fix,” Ari pointed out; now that the immediate danger of getting punched or kicked in the face was past, she could find some humor in the situation. “Dresses are a bit beyond me.”
Audrey seethed. Damia was antagonizing her and they were both getting blamed for it? Her rage was boiling over, roughly struggling from Tom. "If she wants a ripped dress so much, then rip hers and kick her to the street. She clearly doesn't want to be here."
“No,” the older blonde agreed, her grin almost manic. “She really doesn’t. In fact—” Damia moved to wrench herself free from Miles with little kindness, her eyes angry as they met his. “Maybe she’ll leave right now.”
His hand faltered in midair, lips thinning. “So long as this fight fucking ends,” Miles said.
Then that was that. The corsair’s eyes frosted over some as she brushed past in a flurry of red material, heels loud against the powder room floor. There was nothing left to say to anyone, nothing that she could tame and keep at all civil, nothing but a sharp “Pardon me, songbird” to Ari, who side-stepped to allow her to pass.
It was when Damia had gotten to the door that Audrey found her voice again. "What? Did you really expect him to come galloping in on his white horse and frisking you off into the sunset?"
Behind them, Miles went abruptly still.
Heels paused at the door, and before Damia could take too long to think about what to say, she said, “Let the horse trample him,” before breezing through the door, blonde hair whipping behind.
“Well,” Ari said after a few moments of uncomfortable silence, her voice too bright, “that was bracing.”
Tom stilled, his grip slackening on Audrey as he took in Miles, just as eerily quiet and still. Oh hell, he thought to himself. He knew that expression, and knew what kind of moodiness his future held. "Yeah," was all that he could think to say. He shot another look at Miles, a worried expression in place.
The grip on her loosened and Audrey began to rub her wrists and arms comfortingly before shooting a glare across the room. "You didn't talk to her, did you? How many more of your crazed love flings should I expect to jump me before this wedding is through, hm? Is there a guild of them? Humor me."
“Et tu, Alys?” Miles drawled, before he could think any better of it. His mood had soured exponentially, plummeting down to the floor by his feet. He tried not to look at Ari; she’d warned him, told him that this scheme was essentially a powderkeg waiting to explode.
The words had hit her—not in the usual way they scratched at her. It had stunned her and she had frowned. “Miles,” she called out softly.
But he shook his head, readjusting his wrinkled sleeves, fishing around for Basil’s glasses once more. “Come on, Thomas.”