[ if sévérine was wary before, she's certainly on her guard now; she sits on the edge of her chair, barely breathing, one hand keeping a white-knuckled grip on the edge of the desk. ( if she tries to pick up her glass again, she knows her hand won't be steady enough to keep her chardonnay inside. best not to, really. she's wearing cream. )
she wants to run. and when does she not, really, but it's moments like this that make her want to flee or shoot him dead or both, the skin-crawling anticipation almost worse than anything that could possibly come after. silva is... unpredictable, at the best of times, and even sévérine—who has possibly spent more time around him and with him than anyone else, and isn't that a comforting realization—never knows what he'll do next. for example, right now? when he's at his most affable. ]
I'm sorry. [ there's a small, hesitant pause before she speaks again. making excuses won't help, but... ] I thought I had it under control.
[ she doesn't respond to silva's last question; she's—relatively sure that was meant to be rhetorical. ]
☲ action
she wants to run. and when does she not, really, but it's moments like this that make her want to flee or shoot him dead or both, the skin-crawling anticipation almost worse than anything that could possibly come after. silva is... unpredictable, at the best of times, and even sévérine—who has possibly spent more time around him and with him than anyone else, and isn't that a comforting realization—never knows what he'll do next. for example, right now? when he's at his most affable. ]
I'm sorry. [ there's a small, hesitant pause before she speaks again. making excuses won't help, but... ] I thought I had it under control.
[ she doesn't respond to silva's last question; she's—relatively sure that was meant to be rhetorical. ]