In another time, another place, another situation, another set of circumstances, he could have slipped her any number of poisons now--by her own mouth, through her skin. He could have magicked up any number of traps or torments for her to rise up and catch her even now. He could have thrown her against the floor and either taken her or shattered her skull or both, as it pleased him. He could still.

But she was soft--soft, soft. All curves and sweet tastes. Red wine and red lips. Salt sweat and bitter fear and anxiety and panic and anger and sweet wine. He held her a little tighter. She was soft--soft, soft.

And she had given her word and she had kept her half of the bargain. Brave girl. Clever girl. Maybe he'd even keep his half of it.

Maybe.

He kept the kiss longer than one might have wanted it (longer than she might have wanted it? that's up to her, of course). But, not without a parting glance, he nipped at her lip. And now smiled again.

"There. And because you were a good girl and did what I asked--" he brought his left hand, open, between them "--I'll keep my promise too."

He smiled again, wider this time. He closed his empty hand, opened it again, and suddenly the key lay in his palm. (Sleight of hand, a conjuror's trick, scarcely different from the little magic show he'd put on for Lloyd back in the day--and that was a locked door too, wasn't it?)

"Off you go. Fly away, dove."