She looks away and snorts. Shaking her head, she peers down at her book and peels it open at the corner, but lets it fall closed. She lacks the desire to open the pages and pretend she wishes to read it.
"I believe you."
And she hates that she does.
She'd prefer to hate him. She'd prefer it if he hated her. What would happen if she poured all her anger inside him again? What would happen if she summoned his to the surface and shook him until he burst? It was easier when he used his self-righteousness to make himself a target. She was a bull who only saw red, and he happily waved his cape for her to charge at.
Wanda keeps her feelings about her apparent survival to herself. He's not her friend—not that she'd tell her friends any of her feelings. She liked being easy to deal with. She was always enough of a problem.
With a deep sigh, she makes herself look up at him, her expression intentionally neutral and pleasant. There's no anger there. "How long have you known I was here?"
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"I believe you."
And she hates that she does.
She'd prefer to hate him. She'd prefer it if he hated her. What would happen if she poured all her anger inside him again? What would happen if she summoned his to the surface and shook him until he burst? It was easier when he used his self-righteousness to make himself a target. She was a bull who only saw red, and he happily waved his cape for her to charge at.
Wanda keeps her feelings about her apparent survival to herself. He's not her friend—not that she'd tell her friends any of her feelings. She liked being easy to deal with. She was always enough of a problem.
With a deep sigh, she makes herself look up at him, her expression intentionally neutral and pleasant. There's no anger there. "How long have you known I was here?"