Little did she know, but his own gut was twisted up in knots and an invisible fist was locked around his heart, squeezing it tight. He still forced himself to watch her dress as the heated words scattered likes flames turned to ash once they hit the floor -- they started out hot, but they lost their scathe the harder she went. James was an observant man. He saw the tears that watered her eyes and threatened to spill, blinding her to the fact that his own set in stone expression was a forced thing, just like the hardness in his eyes, the drawn down brows of scrutiny while he propped himself up onto his elbows, the sheet bunched across his lap. He restrained himself that way from getting up out of the bed to stop her from leaving and instead remained motionless until he heard the door slam behind her.<br/><br/>“Don’t change,” he managed to say instead, half under his breath, and mostly once she had hastened out the door to his bedroom and making her retreat out his door. His eyes strained as he watched her back retreat back into the night with a forced grimace that scrunched his brow.<br/><br/>Only once he was alone again in his bedroom with the tick of the ceiling fan overhead the only noise other than the sound of his breath did he collapse back down and roll over until his feet dangled off the edge of the bed. With his elbows propped up onto his thighs, he pressed his palms into his face and groaned out loud. His words were husky, spoken to the generic beige that came with all apartments in front of him.<br/><br/>“You had to do it,” he reminded himself once he lifted his face and raked his fingers back through the sex strewn dark hair, making it stand on in. Bloodshot eyes stared for a long few minutes in front of him before he grunted and rose. The adrenaline that he'd had before was gone, sapped with Lane's energy as she walked out his door. “You had to do it because you can't destroy her with your bullshit.” That was what he was going to keep telling himself as he made his way down the hall and into the bathroom. The shower came on shortly and James didn't bother to wait for it to heat up before he stopped behind the mottled class door and ducked his head down for the water to smite him. “It's better like this. That you pushed her away now.” And just who was he talking to? The voices inside his head?<br/><br/>The water turned off only a few short minutes later, after he had turned the auto-pilot on in his brain, his hands and fingers blindly scrubbing himself down with the three in one shampoo-conditioner-shower gel until he was lathered up and smelling like that stereotypical<i>man scent</i>, pungent and spicy with a hint of mint that was an all too familiar combination of stench and pleasant aftershave. The pat down he gave himself with the towel afterwards was just as monotonous as the shower was, his attention only vaguely settling on the vision of himself in the mirror in front of him. He wore his bags heavily under his eyes and his joints ached from inside. He felt as bone weary as he looked, like his body had been cooked from the inside out and then scraped clean. He was coming down from the high that she so accurately had pointed out and, as always, the crash would be hard if he didn’t do something about it tonight. Because he would have to – with the spots of blood he had taken from her, combined with the stray strands of hair. No, he didn’t need her by his side when he fucked around with the darkness that lurked inside her spiritual doppelganger’s spellbook, but he did need some components of her to set himself right.<br/><br/>She had been right to leave while she could.<br/><br/><i><br/>
<br/>
Three days later . . .</i><br/><br/><br/><br/>Time hadn’t stood still and the world still had a tendency to turn on its axis. The Syndicate was still not a fan of unpleasant surprises, regardless that Lane Barnes had found herself on their radar through her intimate – albeit brief – interaction with James Sinclair, who had once been a member of their society, turned rogue. That a powerful spellbook – and one very well known in their ranks – had been transferred to his hands caught the Society’s eye and turned its heated stare on the young woman. Remington Moore was the agent sent out to make contact with the Valkyrie, though, as with all things, timing was of the essence. And Ms. Lane Barnes, as it turned out, was not the kind of young woman who loitered long in public spaces.<br/><br/>Still, Remy found her tonight perched on a bar stool in a quaint dive near where she worked with her brother. Inconspicuous as he was conspicuous in the sharp, pressed suit, he represented a man that had gone out of his way after a busy work day in a sky rise window suite to sit himself down at the bar next to the blonde sipping her drink. Cut to fit the trim physique with its broad shoulders that tapered down around his hips, he was the epitome of a business professional come to life outside the corporate drone.<i>Or something</i>. Crisp white peeked from beneath the slate gray of his jacket and the glint of a sleek, dark tie that complemented the lighter hue finished the depiction. His hair was dark, but not quite brown, but not quite black, and cut close to his skull while still holding volume. It went well with the sharp cut of his jaw, the angles of his face and aquiline nose that gave him that classically handsome look, almost as if he had been chiseled from stone and then turned to flesh. Even his skin had taken on a bronze tone, seeming unnatural in the dim lighting of the bar, and his eyes glinted like flint and or silver as they slid over to look at her face. Quiet for now, an unobtrusive but noticeable presence, Remy turned to the bartender behind the counter and flashed a charmed, polite smile in the other man’s direction, leaving deep grooves to cut their way into his cheeks that only added to the aesthetic. Like the rest of him, his teeth were shining and bright, as flawlessly cut as the rest of him.<br/><br/>“Scotch on the rocks, if you don’t mind. And a fresh drink for the lady on my right,” he told the tender smoothly, flashing the same politely charmed smile in her direction after he had ordered. He turned to her in the same motion, offering his hand. “Remy,” he introduced himself. “I hope I’m not imposing on your evening, …?” He left it a question, brow quirked to indicate that he wanted to know her name.