"You know," Tom hummed as he played with the blade of his knife. "The one emotion I was never able to emulate properly was fear."
There was a whimper and it resounded with an echo. He inhaled sharply and savored the taste of blood, sweat, and tears before glancing down at her. This one... had been quite a fighter. When she'd thrown a punch and landed it on his jaw, he felt a stir of exhilaration. Perhaps, this was the cure to his boredom. The answer to the excitement he craved. Perhaps, the challenge he needed was the fight, not the risk.
"You do it so beautifully," he frowned, pressing his face closer to hers. "Do you think-"
"You sick fuck!" she spat. "My brothers will be looking for me and when they find you they will fucking rip you apart, you little piece of-"
"Now, now," he grimaced, straightening up to his full height. "There's no need to be so crass. Granted, your impending death and concurrent torture would make anyone feel less hospitable but please, let's be elegant about it."
She screamed.
He laughed.
"Come now, Ginny. Please make that face again. I have to learn after all. It's really the only way that someone like me could hope to imitate the emotions of someone like you. Once more," he clapped twice, sharply.
He could tell she didn't want to. She scowled and cursed as angrily as she could – it practically rivaled a sailor – but he could still see it. A stricken, raw look of terror – a feeling he'd never felt. He sighed. Maybe he'd never been pushed with the right circumstances. Terror implied the fear of losing something.
Tom hardly had anything so precious to lose.
