How decidedly treacherous this very evening had become. Those accusations falling thick and fast from within his mistress then, those words veritably designed to make him stumble, to ensnare him in some lie or another that did not exist and yet- a single wrong word, a poorly executed glance- and her mind would see what it desired to see alone and paint him as the traitor. He has lived with her to long. He knows the manner in which her mind twists and slithers in those moments when logic and reason have all but fled and anger consumes her like a vortex. She will not be reasoned with. Not like this. Darcy capable of doing little but defending agianst that incoming storm as best as he was able. He had survived them before. He would survive them again. Yet- it was rare that her ire in any sense was targeted agianst himself. Darcy, more often than not, merely caught up in the riotous discord of her disdain for some other being. Tonight it was he whom he brought her that dissatisfying news and more then that- his pause in doing so had painted a picture of paranoia within her mind that presented him as a target. He had played his last hand somewhat...poorly. The vampire left dodging the veritable darts of that outcome and yet he is hardly foolish enough to speak as she throws those accusations towards him. To speak would only risk presenting her with some tendril of guilt even if none existed at all. Darcy instead remaining ever watchful of his beloved mistress, his gaze upon her own in a manner of respect and yet one that lacked any hint of his own dominance all the same. Darcy refusing to flinch from her and yet nor was he foolish enough to dare present her with any sort of challenge for her whip like fury to strike at.That Southern vampire, for now, merely biding his time with that attempt to remain...subservient in an effort to appease her anger. Yet- within that torrent of irritation and accusation his affection for her hardly lessens.

She was right to be angry. He understood her rage. That same irritation at those whom would plot and plan agianst them turned within the depths of his own mind. That anyone believed they might threaten his beloved Mistress was.....disturbing to him. The mere thought of it along sparking that near dangerous possessiveness within him. That same possessiveness that relishes her approach in that moment near as much as his body braces for it all at once. Her movements are almost sensual. Her grace cat-like as she approaches. That conflict rioting within him once more. How much he desires her closeness, her attention, her affection upon him alone and yet how wary he remained off her in that moment all the same. His mistress, in that moment, very near aking to a double-edged sword so likely to slice him from any angle of approach he took and yet how he craved her attention all at once like some sickening disease. She is behind him almost instantly. Her hand resting upon his chest. Her touch affording him little by way of pleasure before her nails dig like talons into his flesh. He could hardly help that soft sound of pain that gesture brings about and yet- Darcy is decidedly quick to swallow it. His jaw setting firmly in a silent refusal to allow himself any further sound lest she relish in it. How well he knew her. How well he knew what those cires of pain did to her. The frenzy they were capable of stirring within her. That predatory part of himself all but adoring that very trait and yet here and now it would do little but bring about his own destruction. Self-preservation and a veritable desire for her colliding in a war within himself. His very mind, after so many years, having come to near associate that pain she brought him with....affection. That riotous confliction of thoughts turning within the depths of his own mind and yet that sudden tightening of the chain around his neck was quick to prompt his mind back to his precarious position.

For all his love for her, for all his affection- he can so hardly help the dominance of his own nature. Perhaps, to some extent, it was Risques own doing that it existed at all. After all, had she not raised him? He had been dominant within his human days and yet beneath his Mistress he had become far, far more so until he remained submissive to only her. How quickly he had dispatched anything and everything that poses itself as a threat to his own position. How readily he had climbed that hierarchical ladder within the ranks of Syn and any other coven that had formed around them over the years. Darcy installing himself as the dominant male in any and all situations until that dominance was second nature. Risque was hardly his Maker and yet it had been her whom had plucked him from the veritable swamps of the South and whom had shown him, in those formative early years of his own 'death', just how to be a vampire. She had taught him only dominance and how dangerous it had flourished within him. How readily it rebelled agianst even her in that moment in which she forced him backward. That position distinctly vulnerable and one he abhorred. That sound escaping him instinctively and quite before he could suppress it. Darcy aware of his mistake near instantly and yet it was far too late to stop it. That growl reverberating within the depths of his throat.

That chain snapped tighter around his throat like a fucking lightning crack until it threatened to crush his throat all together. That singular, purred word hardly missed as his own gaze slices towards her and for a singular, precarious moment he teeters ipon that dark and dangerous edge as if he very near considers challenging hr authority entirely. That dominant beast within himself so loathing to be forced into submission, into vulnerability and yet......who was he to dare displease his beloved? That very tension within his figure so suddenly seeming to all but evaporate. His gaze turned away from her own once more in that decidedly clear acceptance of his position- and her own. If she desired to have him upon his back with his throat exposed then so be it. It was her right. If it pleased her his own desires hardly mattered. In the end....only she mattered. She was not mad at him, not really, surely? No. She was mad at them. Cade and Blue Moon. Fucking imbeciles whom had displeased his Queen! Who had made her...behave this way towards him. Yes. Is was their fault. Not his and not hers. Never hers. Risque, to the mind of Darcy, so never at fault. Never. She was faultless. This paranoia, this aggression, they had been prompted into existence by others and oh how he fucking loathed them for it. Darcy wholly oblivious in that moment to the twisted path off his own thoughts. To the fashion in which his mind so absolved that woman near strangling him from any wrongdoing. It was not her fault. It never was.

She leans over him once more then. Her gaze meeting that mismatched blue and green of his own to offer those final, whispered words. His body very near reacting to her presence alone as it had been all but trained to do. Those final accusations thrown like barbs agianst him. Barbs that twist within his own thoughts until her very words have become nothing more then misguided affection. She feared his betrayal because she feared losing him. Because he meant something to her. He always had. He had known it. This was merely further proof of her adoration for him, was it not? That very thought so daring to prompt a fleeting simper to his lips- only he is quick to shift and yet that resolute belief remains all the same. It was her love for him, surely, that prompted this outrage within her. It had to be. That chain around his neck suddenly falls loose, at least, enough to allow him to speak. Darcy already prepared with those words even if he was near forced to take a decidedly human-like breath to utter them. That very action prompting the tips of her nails to threaten to dig into his chest once more. Each word he offered entirely capable of prompting her outrage. How very...precarious this game they played. Yet how very much he almost enjoyed that challenge in turn. He offers her logic at first. Admitting to his own error in keeping that information from her a day to long. After all, to have her accuse him off that fault again would only further prompt her ire. No. it was far better to offer it to her willingly.

"It won't 'appen again."

Those southern sounds fall easily from him. A promise he would not break a second time. Darcy not accustomed to failing to learn from his own errors. This one, like those that had come before, stored within his mind. Risque's own attention shifts then, if only ever so slightly, to question how they had been deceived for four long months. Darcy himself having considered that very prospect time and time again.

"We shouldda been more vigilant-like ta dem signs. Day was 'dere Darlin, we just missed 'em. I'll find out if any of ours knew 'bout dis and said nothin'. If I find someone I'll bring 'em to ya."

A new and much needed outlet for her rage. It would hardly be difficult to make a 'traitor' even if there had never been one. To allow her someone to take her rage out upon whether or not they were guilty of any crime. Yes. That might soothe her. He would find.....a sacrifice of some kind to appease her. His gaze returns easily to her own then as she lingers above him, demanding to know why she should trust him and yet that answer was simple enough. That answer had not changed in all the years he had known her. That admittance of love falling easily from his lips in that southern drawl. This hardly the first time he had professed his feelings for her. Yet, each and every time it seemed to....baffle her. A confusion of sorts lingering upon her features, well concealed though it was. Was it truly so confusing to her? Was he not clear enough? Was this why she never said those words back? Perhaps....he had still not pleased her enough to earn having them spoken in return. Perhaps she still wanted more from him? What else did he have to give? He would need find more, it seemed. That very love for her, that adoration so decidedly clear upon his features in that moment. Those words had never been a lie. Not from the moment he had first uttered them all those years ago. She was the only thing she could ever use agianst him. How careful he was to ensure she alone remained his only weakness. Love, after all, had not made him foolish and yet she too hardly seemed to understand the very depths of that power she possessed over him. Love given so freely, after all, was perhaps the most binding chain of all and yet how it only seemed to confuse her. He would have to try harder.

Her voice was almost silken then. Her skin a pale, unearthly glow of porcelain perfection in the moonlight as she utters those words once more. Accusing him of using that love as a manipulation. How ironic those very words- when it was she whom held all the power to manipulate that very love. Her words fading like the moon's shadow itself. Darcy's figure shifting every so slightly and yet that singular gesture held within it far, far more meaning. His head tilted upward and to the side just so, offering her the full exposure of his neck then, his palms turned upward, releasing their grip from that chair in that near universal display of submission and a willing refusal to defend himself agianst her if she desired it. The vampire so affording her that complete submission in that moment. Even though it near burned him from within to do so.

"Naw, yar right, I dun want ta die."

How very much those words, complemented with that position, so afforded her. Darcy so very precariously at her mercy entirely in that moment. The man forced to trust that she would not end him then and there. Those silent few seconds passing. No final strike collides agianst him. His hand shifting to rest back atop the arms of that chair then. His head and neck returned to a more comfortable position. A near daring boldness seeming to find him once more then as it so often did and yet those words were true all the same. If she did not trust him she would not meet his gaze. She knew what it could do. Risque very near spat that response and yet he so hardly flinched once more. The vampiric man assured in his own answer even as her lips pressed agianst him, trailing from ear to neck in a sensual caress that seemed to summon every nerve within his figure to attention with that touch alone! That sound that stirred within his throat, this time, one far more inclined to desire. Her eyes meet his own then, unflinching, a direct challenge to that very power he had spoke of and yet, this time, he so hardly looks away. Darcy so daring to allow but a touch of that dominance to return- just enough to meet her own in that moment as she whispers those words- before her head dips suddenly once more, her teeth biting into the flesh of his neck. Forcing that jolt of surprise and pain to run the length off his figure and yet he stills readily beneath that bite all the same. Her teeth rake his flesh. Carving two deep marks within it. That blood rushing near obediently to the surface until he can feel it run down his own neck. Risque releasing him abruptly now that she was satisfied with the brand upon his neck once more. Prove his loyalty?
"Very well. I ain't out of ideas Darlin'. I ain;t never out of ideas."

How very....sneaky those words were in turn. As if very near a challenge to herself- without truly presenting as such. Yet he offers not more upon it for now. Darcy unwilling to press his luck further then it had been pressed tonight. He rises smoothly from that chair then, reaching into his own jacket once more to produce that roll of paper he spreads smoothly across that small table between them. Darcy nothing if not prepared. This, after all, was the world in which he excelled. War and strategy very much within his skillset. That vampiric man all business within that moment then, as if those moments prior had hardly occurred. His gaze lifted to his Mistress.

"Da reason we can't go ta Blue Moon is because we dun know it, Darlin. I know 'ow ya feel. I know what yar want ta do to 'em but marchin' on Blue Moon is marchin' in ta territory we know nothin' about. It's suicide. We dun know the layout of dat place, we dun know how many numbers he's got, we dun even know how well fortified dat club is. But Syn? Syn we know."

He paused once more, allowing those words to find place in her mind and to deduct her very reaction to them before he gestured to that paper rolled out across the table, a rather detailed and freshly drawn diagram of Syn itself scrawled across that paper. A series of arrows and numbers and markings etched beside each window and door and opening. That rear car-park that held the majority of Syn's own car collection detailed neatly in turn across that paper. This very plan so hardly poorly thought out in turn. Darcy choosing his words carefully then. Seeking to explain in a way that would both appeal to- and help- Risque understand.

"Da way Syn is set up is almost perfect. We only got a front door and a back door, plus dis roof. There ain't no easy way in. Dis means its defendable. Whether we likin' it or not we got less numbers. If we march on Blue Moon dat shows Cade exactly how many we 'ave. If Cade 'as to come 'ere then he aint got no idea how many we could 'ave in da bar. It makes him play cautious and we need 'im to play cautious if we gunna 'ave a chance. Da back carpark, right 'ere is da best place. Da walls of da car park mean dat Cade has ta bring most of his numbers in through dat driveway. It limits how many he can rush at us at one time, like a natural bottleneck. We can also move dat cats from underground ta da back carpark faster den we can move dem through da club ta get to da front. How many of dem cats can you control at once?"











d a r c y
and i'll stay alive, just to follow you home