struttin into town like your slingin a gun
#4
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     There had never really been a plan, per say. There was an idea, an impulse, something like that. He kept his eyes on her and studied her body, reading the tension and the terror. She remembered him. She remembered everything. And truthfully, he didn’t want it any other way. A coy patience was in his walk, never adverting as her eyes grew wide, grew panicked. Then she was running, doing the worst possible thing she could have done. Instinct took over and he had no willpower—this was a game, a very dangerous game. He intended to come out victor.
     Despite the fact his body was healing, despite the fact he could only run for so long, he knew if he caught here then everything would quiet down. The speed pushed them out of the territory, away from the borders, back into the wild. There, no rules applied. Really, no rules had ever really applied here. A few more steps caught him up to her, and one hand grabbed a chunk of the thick, snow-white hair, the other going out and striking her shoulder. The force sent her to the ground and he panted heavily, laughing quietly, almost hysterically as he tried to regain his breath. “Where are you going so fast on those little legs of yours?” Some arcane folktale wafted through his memory, distorting his vision. For a split second, she was his mother, and for a split second, she was Matinee. The hand around her hair tightened and he kept grinning, hair falling into his face and hiding the blind eye.



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