When he wrapped his hands around her throat, the pressure behind his talented fingers enough to make drawing in her next breath an act of labor, she lifted her hands and wrapped them around his wrists. Not to yank them away, but to draw him in closer, perhaps even an invitation to squeeze harder. Emilie wasn't afraid of death; she was only afraid of losing Ezra and losing Prax.
Even with her breaths being thin and reedy around his hand, there was a smile spread out on those devilish, treacherous lips. He didn't even have to tell her to laugh; the moment his hand released some of the pressure around her throat, it was bubbling out like some terrible oil spill, turning everything black and dark and sticky.
"We're all somebody's bitch," she spat, perhaps the most sensical thing she'd said in a long while. Emilie was wash's bitch, and she would place good money that greed had made Sparrow its bitch long, long ago. It certainly had Emilie. "You, too."