It all happened in a blur of pale limbs and ink-black leather, and her breath was suddenly expelled from her lungs in a violent whoomph when Sparrow's hand shoved hard against her chest, sending the both of them back against the wall of the train car. There was a split second of viciousness that flickered across her face in the form of bared teeth and a snarl, but it was only instinct and fell away just as soon as she realized this wasn't a fight.
It was something much, much more fun and much, much more dangerous.
She found herself pinned between the unforgiving metal of the train car and the cage of his chest, though she was wily and fast enough that she could've gotten free should she have wanted to. His voice was low but empty, a hollow but enjoyable brush of velvet in the darkness of the car.
His nails left bright, stinging lines against her arm but Emilie didn't mind; if anything, it only spurred her on, adding gasoline to the charred insides of her soul. She didn't like the way he called her bitch, like she was some panting dog slut in the Hellhound park, and she paid him back for the slur with a sharp hiss and a flash of her wide, wild eyes.
"You couldn't keep up," she taunted, leaning forward so that her mouth was just centimeters from his. "Bitch."