"It'd do you some fucking good if you ever didn't," she muttered at the threshold of the kitchen just before she disappeared into it. There was silence for a few brief moments, the harsh rustling of vellum, muted words that could have been curses -- certainly weren't blessings -- and then the clink of glass on marble, the rippling of liquid pouring. Another pause. More pouring, and then more.
When she reappeared, it was with the note tucked into the top of her dress. Today, her hair was wholly fire red, worn in unbound, messy waves. Her black dress was short, flaring at the waist, tight everywhere else, with a corset in shining patent black. Red lipstick stained the edge of one of the slim glasses she carried. The other was clean, but filled in the same way as her own - to the center with ice, to the top with vodka.
She didn't approach Akheron, but rather set the glass meant for him on one of the ebonywood end tables beside an overstuffed arm chair. She reconsidered, then moved the glass to the coffee table in front of a long leather couch. The couch was where she dropped herself, curled carelessly in the left corner, one leg thrown over the opposite knee. She bent over her lap, then, and tugged out her note again. Read it once more.
"What're you doing here, Akheron," she said absently. It hardly seemed a question. Better to seem aloof than nervous. Better to be distant than intimidated. But those violent green eyes tugged up away from the vellum briefly all the same, darted to the dark god across the room by her staircase, then returned just as quickly to the paper. She finally crumpled it in a fist.