Widow
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Lancel Atria
For one glorious second, his lips barely brushed against hers. Lancel was breaking. Frosty silver melted back into sun-gold as Cal waited. His restraint had frayed to a hair’s length. He was hers.
Lancel recoiled violently from her. Cal grunted and stabilized herself against the tree, snarling as silver resurfaced. He slapped a tree with his open palm and raged. Pain was there, but it was mostly rage. The Dark side whirled, cloying but tantalizingly powerful now. She watched him breathe for a moment, her own anger forgotten.
That made a difference. He hated him. Strong enough Cal could practically taste blood in the air, a thin thread of murder weaving through the Force. They were both consigned to being in someone else's shadow. Maybe they could help each other.
“Then do something about him,” she spat. “Everyone not trying to weasel their way into your family’s good graces knows he’s an idiot, they just won’t say it.”
And if he wouldn’t do something about it, she would. Faustus’ next proposal might just make her snap.
