( she shuffles embry over on his side, but the gin drunk sleep is enough that he only murmurs something with the vague inflection of a swear as parisa separates from him, a perfect dichotomy of actual platonic interest from danny's relationship with his sister. when she swipes to answer his call, it's after she's lifted embry's shirt up and over her shoulders, padding into the bathroom and checking out her naked body in the mirror's reflection. discerning, one twist of the hips from the next. in the low light of midnight, she can't see the gray hair in her hairline, but she still knows it's there. old age is a physical disease. )

I see.

( for someone who generally lives life scraping and clawing and lying her way towards the next day, it seems a pretty shitty question to ask. she still feels that very real pang of fear in her gut, white hot and bottoming out, a blade already in her stomach. still, it's nice to know the method, the thought process. it's nice to imagine dying again, after being killed by callum. )

Methodical, with intention. ( isn't danny just a little boy scout? parisa smiles, skirts her hand down her stomach, into her panties. she's disappointed by not surprised to find herself wet. ) I'm glad I wouldn't be a rush job, though there is something a little romantic about a crime of passion. What next? I'm in your scary white van, I'm locked in your cage. The stalking is slow, but what about the death? Quick, painless? Would you enjoy it?