His brow rose, a minute gesture when compared to the stride of him as he took the few steps forward that would see him poured to the back of a chair. A minute gesture over the silken purr of her that did nothing but rile a vile bubbling in the middle of him, deep, deep down where those butterflies lived. Their wings half burned over with acid and many missing one if not both, and yet they did flutter every now and then. At the thought of sitting and painstakingly removing the skin from a foe as they writhed. At the elegant and thirsty part of legs upon the smooth crisp tone of his shoes upon the floor when work was done and saw him poured into his shared suite.
This purr however, was not a thing that would see anything flutter.
”I do hope you’re speaking for only yourself,” it was a tone bored and increasingly eloquent, where Loki’s drawled lightly, that cute boyish need to sound easy and lase fair, Matthias’ lilt was crisp and clean and left no room for assumption. A man who spoke words for a purpose, each one filed down and sharp enough to end a life is he pressed to hard against that delicate fleshy membrane that coated a throat. There was no love, nor hatred in his voice, a cool and calm dislike that tended to grab hold almost always.
It disliked everyone equally, even in this he found nothing special about the Faithless.
The corrupter had never made it any secret he cared none for his fellow Hellions, nor would he pretend now, as he wandered around the chair offered to sit, the soft draping of his jacket billowing every so gently in the soft rocking of his long-limbed saunter. That Kseniya was included in this rather bland and large grouping of people, was nothing that needed pointed out. He was, simply, a man with very specific tastes. Specific enough to count itself as one. The rest of the world was fodder he cared only enough over to them used to his benefit before they were discarded again.
He settled into his chair then, the woman behind her desk pulling wine and glasses, olive branches from a woman who cultivated grapes, it was also ironic if it’d not been something he eyed with everything like distrust. It lasted for seconds before he decided she’d need more than poisoned wine to see him rid of. If this was her plan, in point of fact, he’d be everything entirely disappointed in her overall. Like a father who’d need frown over the dinner table at his flunking daughter and her piss poor grades and rebellious holes in her face.
All the same, his fingers were long and wrapped easily around the wine glass though he saw none of it past his lips, merely sat it in his palm and saw its liquid swirled ‘round to coat the walls and waft its deep, rich scent into the air. His brow would cant in earnest then as Matthias made himself every bit as comfortable as a king upon his throne. He’d not quip at her, though it was there, a man who cared nothing for most and chatting was better suited for his cherub-cheeked brother. Glass lifted and yet it’d not see purchase against his lip as he eyed the woman across from him.
”A business proposition?”
He’d mentally handwave the idea of money, though it was nice, it was nothing he was lacking.
”You think that wise, between the likes of you and I, Faithless?”
It clucked from his tongue, a shameful title maybe, if you trusted the faint amused quirk of his mouth.
”And who do you assume will be walking out of that tie at the end of the day, yet alive? Me. Or you?”
The latter felt like a bear trap laid just before her feet. Did she also expect them to play nice and braid each other’s hair? Matthias wasn’t against it, not the hair, but rather the challenge to playing nice, until one or the other snapped and the city fell to its knees beneath the quake of them. Thoughtfully he stared, his eyes as cold as they were that same glacier blue, cutting as they painted the tips of your appendages to blacken and rot. When he spoke again it was in the air of disbelief—
”Well, do go on,”