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(danya)
One of her final questions had ascertained his ability with numbers. The obvious requirements for his state of employ would have answered the inquiry sufficiently enough. Perhaps there was something else that prompted the construction of coy response which earned reprimand wrapped in approval.
It is a mistake that Danya will not repeat.
The message center attached to what numbers she gave him registers a waiting message.
"Natasha." There is no background noise indicating any presence he would shelter his words from, however, the kinsman's voice is once again little more than a murmur. Loud enough to clearly record by digital means - but nothing more than a soft impression against her ear. "You will find a package waiting for you at the security desk beneath my offices. Please retrieve it at your earliest convenience, or supply an address to which I will immediately have it delivered."
No parting wishes.
No identification of caller nor location.
Danya is confident there exists no need.
---------------
The guards manning Devlin Biotech's security desk most likely recognize the uncannily unnerving blonde should she choose to grace their presence with the subliminal predation of her own. Should she withold from them such an experience, the small package is sent by discrete courrier within half an hour of an address relayed by inter-office telephone by the scientist reigning over laboratory 8-A. It arrives at destination before the business day draws closed.
Once the package finds its way to Natasha's attention and hands, she will find it weighs little more than a pound, occupying a space no larger than eight inches square by two and a half deep. Outer wrapping discarded, the top flap hinges easily to reveal a bundle of small objects protected by wax paper held by sticker bearing company's logo seal, in addition to a single business card. His own, of course, with a concise message written neatly on the back with black ink matching Devlin's choice embossed hue across it's face.
Natasha, please enjoy this sample of salt water taffy with my compliments. I do hope I estimated enough to meet your needs should you choose to share any with your brother.
A single word emphasized. None but she would understand its significance correcting his careless mistake, assuring there would not be another.
There is no offer for his services should the Shadow Lord Trueborn require more of the confection. Assuredly, she would commandere his time without hesitation.
(natasha)
The parcel is received at the Shadow Lord apartments, the address given to the kin via a responding message left on his voicemail. In addition, "Grant Park holds our interest now, as I understand it did those of our family who were here before us. Should you have need, we can also often be found there."
Nothing could be read into the additional information the philodox supplies, but then she expects so much more of Mr Tretiak. Including, if unspoken, acknowledgment of the offer she had just given him - even if it were a double-edged sword. But then, perhaps he really was expecting no less.
At the apartment, Natasha opens the parcel in concise, efficient movements until the contents are revealed. Consternation filters through her unguarded expression as the business card is picked up and the message read, culminating in a dark brow hooking up in what could be surprise or approval. The latter confirmed at the faintest hint of a smile.
One of the confections is picked up, brows drawing close as its inspected. Then with the widening of that mouth to open amusement, she moves over towards her brother where he lounges, knee sliding on the leather settee against his thigh. "Open your mouth," she instructs, the stern tone she adopts not quite dismantling the undercurrent of humour. And when he does so? The taffy is popped into his mouth, the soft pad of her fingers gliding against his tongue, grazed against his teeth, moist-tipped against the flesh of his lower lip.
"A gift from the kin, Danya Tretiak," she explains, eyes darkening at the lingering feel of his warmth. "How does it taste?"
(vasek)
The male of the twins, yang to her yin, is drowsing on the settee.
That alone should give some indication of the decor of their flat. Since moving in, they've knocked down several walls, opening the space into a high-ceilinged vault. Slate floors, tall windows, a color scheme nearly devoid of color -- a sunken living area in which said leather settee is situated, flanked by cubist couches and loungers; a kitchen of gleaming chrome and black marble, not unlike the bathroom; a bedroom tucked in the back, private. Three or four rooms, depending on how you counted in, occupying the space of what had been a 4bdr/3.5ba... you know the terms. The result is modern, sparse, minimalist, monochrome, full of space. And it's always cold.
Hence the blanket pulled up to his broad chest, incongruously baby-blue. When the cushion beneath him indents to her weight, the Theurge's eyes fly open. Piercingly dark, they fix on her; it seems he might speak, but instead opens his mouth obediently, a spark of humor in his eye. Her fingers glide out and he bites down, a quick hard nip that precedes a slow laugh.
"Like you."
He burrows one arm out from beneath the blanket then, taking the taffy cube back out of his mouth to turn this way and that, examining it. "What is this? Candy?" He bites off a small piece, chewing slowly and thoughtfully. "I thought roses and chocolates were more a customary present."
(natasha)
"For you?" Natasha scoffs, sinking down next to him, her gaze following his movements with the confectionary to his mouth. "It is an apology note for something the kin said to me. Salt water ... taffy," again she stumbles over the word, the unfamiliar syllables getting lost in the back of her throat. "An example of what he can do."
Her body reclines along the slope of the lounge, pressed against her brother's side to steal his warmth in the constant, frigid temperature of their apartment. It reminded her much of their ancestral home, where even the modern improvements of heating throughout had not always kept away the cool draughts of medieval stone walls. There had been many ways to keep themselves warm then, before the large open fireplaces, against the furs on the floor. One such possibility runs across her mind now, as her hand roams across the taut muscle of his stomach. Like a leech in its mindless seeking.
"I would prefer an example of his other skills, don't you think? Some more useful to our needs." Her voice already so naturally low-pitched, is made husky with the slavic tongue. To sink even deeper now, like smoke, as lulling bodyheat seeps beneath her skin. The remainder of taffy is plucked from his fingers, her teeth scraping the finest edge off the small block to sample the flavour herself. "He had quite the exciting list."
(vasek)
"He can make salt water taffy?" There's a distinct tease in Vašek's tone. "How impressive."
His hand soon traps hers against his stomach, high, just beneath where the apex of his heart beats close beneath the surface. The human body is designed to withstand; evolution has shaped the ribcage as armor for the fragile lungs, crucial heart. Even so, every armor has its chink, and where the sternum ends is a soft spot rich with nerve ganglia, where an appropriately slid knife would instantly end a life. That is where he holds her touch, her hand cool, his body warm beneath its layers of clothing and blanket.
A list, she says. "Such as?" he prompts, watching her devour what remains of the small cube of taffy.
[in play]
Posted by danya at August 25, 2005 12:00 AM