~Laurent
The hand on my shoulder came loose with a practiced twist. I rolled the surprised weight of it over my palm, the motion small and economical, and brought the person down to the stone with a single, quiet movement. She hit the floor and lay there for a second like a fallen statue, breath fanning the air, then her lashes lifted.
She was beautiful in the kind of way that made the room hold its breath: bone-white skin that seemed to drink the skylight, hair the colour of old wheat poured and braided into a loose crown, eyes the slate-blue of stormwater, rimmed with lashes long enough to cast shadows on her cheek. Her cheekbones were high and sharp; her mouth was small and very nearly cruel in its composure.
She pushed herself up slowly, smoothing one hand across her skirt with an i
