Page 72 of Florescentia

I could no longer bite back the smirk pulling at my lips.

A temper, I could work with. An ego, I could bend. Things with inflated self-importance made mistakes: impulsive, costly mistakes. It was only about finding a breaking point.

The art of making your own power was not about what you had to offer materially, not always at least. It was about patience, attitude, the way you made someone feel. It didn’t have to be anything complex. Even the simplest of creatures understood some of the most primal urges. At least for anything sentient, the way we understood the term.

I turned on my heel, staring at the blank canvas in front of the camera. With one foot in front of the other, I twisted the flower in my hand until I stood where the stool had once been. I turned to the camera.

And I did nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

I inspected the flower, ignoring my environment despite the outburst just before.

There was a tickle along my skin; I would have thought it a breeze. The edges of my robe pulled. First softly, then with a little more intention. Off my shoulders, the opening widening. The silk was smooth against my skin, the marks exposed like uncovering some sort of long-lost map.

Then with one yank, it was on the floor.

The air around me became cold. The only thing touching my skin was my hair along my back, just touching my tailbone. My marks began a gentle glow, but not all at once. I first noticed it at my hand, then the light moved down my arm to my elbow, over my hip, and to my front.

I twisted the flower stem in my hand, then used it to cover the glowing area low on my abdomen.

“You’re not subtle,” a deep voice said in my ear, followed by a chorus of whispers, mocking my words from earlier.

“Neither are you.” I tilted my head away.

“You seem proud of your spectacle,” he said plainly, then I felt the brushing of what could have been fingertips along my back.

“I don’t know what you mean; not everything is for you.”

“You mean to distract.” The voice again, but in my other ear. “A clever distraction, but I know you.”

“I don’t know if it’ll work. With you, I mean.”

“I’d rather you not waste my time if you’re going to summon me.”

“I didn’t summon you, did I?”

There was a sensation around my ankles, my throat. A cold touch around my body, something crawling. Then a hold at my waist.

“Does it make you jealous?” My throat felt a bit tight. “When I pay more attention to other creatures in spite of you? Or does it anger you?”

There was silence, only accompanied by invisible sensations.

“Do you ever just want a taste?” I asked. “The smallest, gentlest taste.”

The feeling stopped, but the air was still cold and the grip was still firm.

“Do you think you can command such a force with so little to offer back?” he hummed.

“Something small,” I said, “bite-size.”

“Careful,” he warned, his voice smooth and sleek, like oil on marble, “I’m not like your other Peculiars.”

“You’re just like my other Peculiars, or like any other earthly man—”

“You wouldn’t finish that thought if you were bright.”

“Indulge me, sweet Beast,” I nearly purred, “show me what I’m missing. I’m a hands-on learner.”