The Twisted Crow (ft. a few slight edits)

He stood, an imposing figure, tall and lean with the grace of a snake and the strength of a pillar. His black hair hung his eyes—a strange admittance of failure coming from one who never fails. His lips twisted into a delicious grin and his voice, so dark it sounded like chocolate and stars, rose above the sound of the wind outside.

“I didn't think you possessed the courage to brave such undesirable weather this evening.”

She raised her chin in defiance, her jawline determined, and she replied, “Yes, well . . . perhaps you are unaware of the depth of my courage, sir.”

He chuckled, sitting his half-empty glass on the marble table before striding purposefully to her side. Whatever mirth his visage had held while he chuckled was suddenly gone, the door closed. His eyes bore into her own, and a slender eyebrow rose in question. “Perhaps you are unaware of the danger you brought upon yourself by traipsing foolishly out here at such a precarious hour of the night.”

“Precarious? How so?” She looked up at him with an amused twinkle in her eyes, her lips opening to welcome her half-full glass.

He schooled his expression to match her own and then said, with a terrible welling of affection in his chest, “Because a female only calls at such a late hour for one purpose . . . .”

“Hmm? And what is that purpose?”

“Never you mind . . . .”