He tired, quite suddenly, of his little diversion, and yet he wasn't entirely ready to let the fish go. The all consuming importance of having her at his beck and call when she was now no longer sharing a common room with him grew in importance; shadowed his former irritation with the witch so quickly that before he quite realized what he was doing he had crossed the distance to her, his mouth crushing against her own. The utter familiarity of her taste, of the feel of her body pressing against his own had him moaning with the need to slake his lust.

He had her, within moments, against the wall by the head of his bed, his hands tearing at the slight outfit she wore. He breathed his need against the skin of her throat. It wasn't her though, that he imagined in his head. Not as his mouth praised her skin silently. Instead, his mind brought a very different image to the forefront and, when he broke contact and let his eyes drift to the face, his lip curled into an instant sneer.

"Weak promises," he declared. "It's all you ever can give to anyone. Weak promises."

What he meant, he didn't even know, but he yanked her from against the wall and threw her forcefully at the bed. "I could kill you this time. I could, Deveruex. Who'd miss you? Who'd care to even hunt for you?"