He shouldn't have hit her.

He shoved the thought down, suffocating it. There was no reason for him to have not to.

He should have known-she came from bad blood; she was just like all the others. That would teach him to act with kindness. He had so often been on the other side of the deception, how had he fallen for her trap so easily? She was clever, he had forgotten that, had miscalculated her abilities. Damnable girl.

He had had to lie to cover his fault, had told them a convenient story so that they wouldn't suspect his folly. The injury had been a bit harder to explain, but people tend not to ask too many questions when they are afraid of you. He at least had that going for him. Stupid girl had less sense than the rest of his troop combined; she should have known she could never best him.

And yet, the look of hatred with which she had regarded him was not one of someone who was afraid and resigned. She was angry, angry that she had failed, angry that he so inconveniently hadn't died, and she would no doubt try to rectify that. He wouldn't give her a second chance though. She would pay. He took a sip of his wine. He would break her. She would either fall into her place beneath him or would be disposed of, but he would have no mercy this time. There was a tightening in his chest at the thought, a residual symptom of affection. He would unlearn it fast enough. There was no time for such nonsense.

She entered the room, and at the sight of her, his heart plummeted to the floor.

She had always been unnervingly pale for her skin tone, but she now had a purple tint to her face that he hadn't noticed in the darkness of the entrance hall. The bags under her eyes looked almost like bruises, comparable to the actual bruise forming on her cheekbone. Good, maybe she would learn her lesson, but still, he felt uneasy. There was no reason for him to feel guilty; she had tried to kill him, and all he had done was hit her, but still his conscious panged him. He looked away, unable to watch her any longer. This would become easier with time, he just needed to stay strong for now. He was acting like a sentimental fool. Maybe now he would learn to not act against his better judgement.

She couldn't look at him, couldn't acknowledge him. He seemed blissful ignoring her, banishing her back to the white noise of the room. That was fine, she didn't care. She wouldn't care if he never spoke to her again. All she had wanted was her freedom; surely he could understand that. Was that so terrible? And yet, it was. She hadn't felt this afraid of him in a long time. He had never been a comforting presence, but they had shifted towards some sort of comfortable understanding, the same way that a knife at your back is only comforting in the fact that it is not yet IN your back, and might, in fact, still be used against another's back, if necessary. But now? Now she was drowning in unknowns. What could she do?

She refilled his glass coldly. She had purposefully picked out the worst wine she could find. It was a petty, unsubstantial revenge, but it was something that she could do. She needed him to believe that she wasn't afraid of him. Although, the very fact that she hadn't taken the moment to try to run condemned her. Where could she go? She wouldn't get very far before being overtaken and most likely destroyed. She had lost, again.

The wine was godawful. He knew she must have done it on purpose; she knew him too well. Adorable. She glanced over at him slyly, no doubt hoping to catch his reaction. Clearing his throat, he held his arm out at length, and then dropped the glass to the floor.

She looked over at him, coldly, expressionless.

"Try again."

Her jaw tightened, but she didn't respond, turning to leave the room. He caught her by the arm, holding her tight, "Bring it back uncorked." She pulled her arm free, and then escaped through the door. He leaned his head against his hands, the laughter of the others pounding against his skull. What the hell was he going to do? He could never leave her unsupervised again. Logically, he knew he had to kill her, but something in him rioted against that. It wouldn't be satisfying enough. He needed to win, to see her defeated, to have her acknowledge him as the great man he was, to have her bend to him. How was he supposed to do that if she was dead? No, outright killing her would give him no joy. He massaged his eyes. So many excuses.

"You doin' alright?" He looked up. One of his henchmen was addressing him, the one with no pinkies.

"Yes, I just need that infernal girl to stop taking her time with the wine." The man smiled, laughing at his words.

"Don't be too hard on her-she may come in handy from now on."

"Yes, quite." His words were barely above a whisper."

The man hesitated, "You should get that injury looked at though. Don't want it to get more serious."

Olaf straightened his posture, sneering, "I didn't live this long by going to see doctors, and I hardly plan to start now."

The man shrugged, indifferent, before turning to walk away, "Alright, you know best."

She reappeared with the new bottle of wine, still uncorked. He raised his eyebrow at the proffered bottle.

"And? Is it going to open itself." Her jaw tightened, but she offered no comment as she turned to leave. "The bottle stays here." She slammed it onto the table a bit louder than necessary, causing a few of the members of the men to glance over. He did his best to appear unperturbed, as if it made no difference to him at all, but inside he seethed at her insolence. She reappeared with a corkscrew a few minutes later, opening the bottle before depositing it into his hands, as he quickly snatched it away from her. He waved her off with a flick of his wrist, not even bothering to look at her.

Her insides mourned. This was all her fault. She should have known better, should have done better. Stupid, stupid, stupid. The troop members continued their chatter, celebrating the victory. She wondered what he had told them, whether he had lied about her treachery. She supposed he had, otherwise there was no way they'd be quite so relaxed around her.

One of the men, the one with only half an ear, pressed a full wine glass to her hands. She looked up at him, confused.

"Do you want something else?"

"No, it's for you; relax, you deserve it. We were wondering when you'd come join us." She took the cup hesitantly, glancing over at Olaf out of the corner of her eye. She could practically see the hatred radiating off of him.

She smiled politely at the man, hoping to escape the situation unscathed, "Thank you." He placed a hand on her shoulder, steering her towards the group. There weren't many there, perhaps five or six total. They raised their glasses towards her as they drew near, smiling. It made her nervous; she wasn't used them them noticing her.

"Have to admit, I was a bit doubtful, but I'm glad to say you proved me wrong." The man with no pinkies spoke, and she realized, startled, that he was addressing her.

"Absolutely." The man with the silver nose spoke up. "Shame the job wasn't quite finished, but you're a natural as far as fire-setting goes. You almost had it; we just need to fix you up on pest control." The group laughed. The knot in her stomach loosened a bit. The Quagmires must have escaped. The thought made her glad, and she smiled, trying to pass her relief off as arson-based pride.

"Yes, quite." Olaf's long fingers curled around the nape of her neck, holding her in a tight grip. She stiffened, trying not to let her terror show. "One should never leave the job unfinished, though. Who knows what sort of… messes it could lead to."

"She'll learn," one of the men spoke with a smile. There was a quality of condescension in his tone, but not a malicious one.

His troop liked her now. She wouldn't need his protection anymore, and perhaps he was realizing that. She had her own power and her own plans, she didn't need him like they did. Things were about to become just that much more dangerous.