[ At some point, Dorian will have to wonder what became of the lady, when he receives only the dog.
But for now--
Marcus takes her hand. He has had not very much wine, but he hasn't had a great deal to eat, and it has been a relatively short amount of time spent drinking it. It's enough that he feels it a little when he is on his feet. Blood flow, blood warmth. It's a good thing she's not a Chantry spy sent here to slit his throat or something. He'd be an easy mark.
He takes her to his room. He keeps a hold of her hand all the while, which is very indiscreet, but at this hour, they pass no one. He lets her into his room and shuts and locks the door while she makes her assessment. There would be no dust to lift, everything very clean and neat. His bed is made, a set of spare boots are lined up and polished at the foot of it. Any dirty laundry is packed into a basket. The desk is bare, save for a clean ash tray of glass. He could do with a rug. Some flowers. A decorative unread book.
At least it doesn't smell like dog. Just earth, and soap. A trace of smoke.
From behind, Marcus takes a hold of her hips and pulls her in close. His presence becomes the physicality her back meets behind her, him nosing into her hair above her ear. He asks the question he is curious about, not whispered but pitched quieter; ]
no subject
But for now--
Marcus takes her hand. He has had not very much wine, but he hasn't had a great deal to eat, and it has been a relatively short amount of time spent drinking it. It's enough that he feels it a little when he is on his feet. Blood flow, blood warmth. It's a good thing she's not a Chantry spy sent here to slit his throat or something. He'd be an easy mark.
He takes her to his room. He keeps a hold of her hand all the while, which is very indiscreet, but at this hour, they pass no one. He lets her into his room and shuts and locks the door while she makes her assessment. There would be no dust to lift, everything very clean and neat. His bed is made, a set of spare boots are lined up and polished at the foot of it. Any dirty laundry is packed into a basket. The desk is bare, save for a clean ash tray of glass. He could do with a rug. Some flowers. A decorative unread book.
At least it doesn't smell like dog. Just earth, and soap. A trace of smoke.
From behind, Marcus takes a hold of her hips and pulls her in close. His presence becomes the physicality her back meets behind her, him nosing into her hair above her ear. He asks the question he is curious about, not whispered but pitched quieter; ]
What is it you want of me?