March 26, 2017:

Azalea shows up with the files Trish recruited her to collect from Dorothy's apartment. After sorting through the information, things get really interesting…

//Trish's Apartment Fortress of Safety, Manhattan //

A secure penthouse apartment


NPCs: None.

Mentions: Jessica Jones Cindy Moon The Joker Batman

Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

For weeks she's meandered through the internal struggle of who she is and what she should be doing in the wake of an attack on someone she cares about. She's fought with Jessica, nearly burned that bridge to pave a way to hell after Zatanna and John, and beat criminals to a pulp across three states looking for The Clown, even though she wasn't quite sure what she'd do if she ever got ahold of him.

And all the while she had a files. The ones she'd promised to Trish. All the while she had found it almost impossible to take the drive. To knock on the door. To look her in the eye after not being there to protect her from a monster from HER city.

Azalea couldn't solve that problem. Not if Batman couldn't, and though she was loathe to turn up here without that monster's head to somehow show Trish that their was justice in the world, they had a lot to discuss, and more to read. Her hand raises for a knock at the fortified door, her gaze lifts to the camera and she remembers there's a button.

The bell rings forth and she waits and looks up, one hand smoothing down her black slacks, the other tugging at her red button up, self-conscious in all the minor ways someone might be when arriving for a date, but mostly just worried that in her lust for vengeance and drive for absolution, she might appear less human tonight than normal.

Trish was sitting at her kitchen counter, drinking coffee, and planning her next few interviews on her tablet. The interview with Stark had gone really well, managing to just squeak over the ratings of the previous show. The cynical side of her heart told her it was because everyone had been hoping for a meltdown or something else terrible to happen. But. A win is a win, so she didn’t dwell on it too much. The sound of the door buzzer had her jumping a little, causing the stool to wobble precariously for a moment.

She hopped off the stool, deciding she just might not be in, depending on who it was. Seeing Azalea had a huge smile breaking out on her face. She went through a similar grooming process, adjusting the large, dark grey chenille sweater she had on over black leggings, and patting at her hair. Once she was satisfied she was presentable, the door gets opened, and Azalea is getting the ‘get in here’ friendly hand wave.

“Hey, gorgeous, long time no see. Come on in. How’s things?”

The slight shadow of a bruise still shows on her jawline since she’s not actually wearing make up at that moment. Same with her wrist, faint reminders of the late night encounter in Hell’s Kitchen the other night. Her car was still in the shop and Trish was seriously considering trading the sleek little car in for an SUV. Something a little bigger and definitely sturdier than a sedan. Like a bulletproof Escalade. Or a tank.
It's the little things that she lives for anymore, on this slow decline into oblivion, one she has felt coming for some time. A talk without tension. A smile that isn't just polite. A compliment, to remind her she isn't all grit and grim, and once long ago had a charisma to hold a crowd's attention from a stage. The door sweeps open and it's the greeting, the compliment, that melts her inside. It forces her to look away for a moment, to fixate on the folders tucked under one arm, but then she sees the bruise on Trish's wrist. There's a slow glide of her gaze as it catches on all the parts of her that her Dark Passenger wants, until finally she reaches up to nudge her chin to one side, just a little, to look at that bruise.

There's a slow exhale, conflicting emotions from the two parts of her colliding. I'd like to bruise you that way says one. Why couldn't I stop this? says the other.

Fingertips dance along her jawline, right to the place where it is most tender, and then there's a pause as she feels a little less than certain. But she knows. She remembers, and in all the ways that matter, she couldn't be there for Trish before, but she can now. The smile that will reflect in Trish's eyes is hesitant, but she follows it up with a hug that will push Trish back enough that she'll have to let go of the door and allow it's weight to click shut behind them.

Azalea swallows her up in embrace and the human connection she so dearly wants, always soured by the thing inside her, and though the hug is clumsy and desperate and a substitution for for something that might be better or worst, she tucks her face in against the taller woman's neck and tries to make her feel like the only person in the world.

"Just glad you're alright. And sorry I didn't come over sooner."

Green eyes open wide for a moment, as Az reaches up to touch her face. Eyebrows climb to her hairline as she’s enfolded into the hug. She lets go of the door and wraps her arms around Azalea, leaning her cheek against the top of Az’s head. Trish’s hands lightly stroke up and down her back and her eyes close as she soaks up the contact.

“Better now. Don’t apologize for being busy, life happens. I’m just glad you’re here now.”

Folders were noticed and forgotten as Trish simply enjoyed being around someone who wasn’t trying to hurt her. Her lips curl in a cheeky smile before she speaks again.

“I was thinking about you the other day and kinda missed you a little. I managed to not worry for about a grand total of three days. I believe that’s a record.”

It takes a little while before Azalea lets go, a soft exhale painting Trish's neck, and when she does ease away she pulls her hands between them, holding the folders up, thick with papers of all sorts. "You asked me to get these for you. I thought we could go over them together." It's clear that it's everything that Trish had wanted from her mother's house. A little breaking and entering between friends, no big deal, right?

She offers them, because these papers belong to Trish now. If she prefers to keep them to herself, Azalea will try not to look to crestfallen, but if she asks her to stay she promises herself she'll be nice.

Her expression is on the edge of enthusiasm, eyes lighting up with hope that she might not just be unpacking tonight. It isn't until Trish speaks of her worry that she turns up the corner of her mouth in a little smirk. After all, worrying about Az was like worrying about the weather. There's no mileage in it.

"Or, if you're not really up to the grit and grind of looking over Jessica's medical records, and if you're still worried about me, maybe you could give me a Krav Maga lesson." She's joking, of course, but it wasn't lost on her the last time that she was here that Trish has her own private training room.

Trish’s eyes drop to the folders, a wicked grin spreading as she realizes the one thing Dorothy had on her was now in her apartment. At the suggestion of a little Krav Maga lesson, her eyes meet Azalea’s, amusement causing them to crinkle at the edges.

“How about a bit of both? We can look through papers until it gets too boring to take and then maybe a little sparring. I could use the practise since fate seems to be throwing thugs and assholes in my direction a lot lately. Did you hear about my little adventure the other night? If no, I’ll fill you in while we get settled.”

Her grin gets a little toothy as she recalls the photos she had Jess send her. She turns towards the kitchen and motions for Azalea to follow her.

“Can I get you anything? Make yourself at home and get comfy where ever you want to work.”

As Azalea watches Trish go, her brows lift and her head gives the smallest tilt, her gaze lingering on all the parts of Trish that she shouldn't. The joke becomes possibility, and she's reminded of her promise to Jessica, flopping onto the living room couch as she opens up the folders and spreads papers out all over.

"Black coffee." Anything sobering. Anything that can keep her attention on the here and now and not some horrible corner ofher mind. Finally she's settled in, a highlighter plucked from her pocket. Jessica's old habits are her new ones, and she starts pouring over the initial paperwork, making piles of test results they'll need a real doctor to interpret, stuff she can look up on her phone, and a third pile they can probably just read through.

"Jess neglected to mention it. Though.. I've been busy too. So has she. I decided to move to New York full time, so there's been a little bit of a hustle. Not that I have much to move. Ramen is light weight."

Trish chats away as she brews Az a cup of joe, black, on the handy dandy Keruig. She grabs a package of cookies out of the cupboard as well, while she describes her encounter with the bikers, the assault on her car, her ridiculous response to being called ‘bitch’, and the intervention of Hell’s Kitchen’s Devil. Excitement fills her movements and voice as she describes taking out the leader, almost knocking over the coffee with her enthusiastic re-enactment of breaking his finger. By the time she’s done, her face is flushed, and she’s practically dancing across the floor to set up beside her guest.

Her eyes scan the piles quickly, noting there was a sorting system, as she passes Az her cup of coffee. “It was something. I didn’t even know I had help until the rest were down. He seems pretty cool, he called me bad ass, and I think Jess finally sees me as more than just delicate. I heard about you moving and wanted to say congratulations and welcome to New York officially. If you need help moving anything, I’m pretty sure I can handle a case or two of ramen. How do the piles work?”

She picks up her own file and starts thumbing through the pages to discover the contents so she’ll know where to put it in the pile system.

As the story unfolds her mind fills in the gaps, imagining every bit of violence in a splendid mental cinematic. It's a gift, knowing as much as she does about violence, it makes it so easy to see in her mind's eye, her breath quickening, her heart racing. Trish might share a fraction of the sensation she feels in the middle of combat, but a fraction is enough entrance her, so much so that her question falls away to the background for a moment, and she thinks only of showing her the truth behind it all: Violence is medicine for the soul.

Or at least, it's medicine for one of her souls.

There's a slow blink, and she picks up her coffee to take a steadying drink, to give herself a moment to recover from the story. Finally, she points to the papers in turn. "Stuff we need consultation on, stuff we can Google. Stuff we can just read. It'll mean a disjointed picture at first, but that's how it happens sometimes. Jess showed me how to connect lines on all this stuff, and if you don't understand the subject matter this is how you work."

There's a look to the space between them on the couch, and she scoots in a little closer, leaning in to mark important sections with highlighter. "I guess I can see why your mom kept this stuff. I mean, I can see why a normal mom would. Your mom? No idea. But she can't hold it over you any mo.. holy shit. Holy fuck."

It's the page that shows how they kept Jessica in her coma even though she was fine. The one that shows she was basically imprisoned in her own body. "Fuck. Does Jess know any of this?"

Trish unconsciously closes the distance between them to a mere couple inches, so they can share information they find easier. For a brief moment, she has a flashback to her high school study dates, and has a little internal giggle over it. A grin of approval flashes as she appreciates the intelligence of the sorting system.

“That makes great sense and it’s a great way to avoid getting overwhelmed and giving up.” So far, her pick was looking like it was going in the doctor pile since it had a list of the results of various biopsies, which was the extent of her understanding. Her hand pauses on the way to pick up another one and she leans over to scan the contents herself.

“She keeps things because ‘you never know when it might come in handy to have a little information on someone’. Especially if it’s something they might not want to get out. She’s a dick like that. Holy fuck is right! Why would they want to keep her in a coma? That’s messed up. I don’t know if she knows or not. I don’t think so. Man, that’s, I just, I can’t even. I have no words.”

She picks up that file and scans it with interest, hoping to find the answer to her questions, knowing it’s probably not going to be that easy.

Anger surges through The Dark Devil as she begins to shift through papers, her sorting system taking the brunt of the damage as she moves things around. Her focus centers on the tests, on how they only stopped when they couldn't keep upping the dosage to keep her under. She stops then, staring at it for the longest time, a slow exhale steadying her as she sets it down.

"We should show her. She might end up being mad at us for doing this. But she should know. And we should check out this location. It's.." She glances at her phone and her face screws up a little in frustration. "Fuck. It's a restaurant now. I mean.. maybe there's still something there. In the back, or under it. But I doubt it at this point."

Azalea looks grim, because she can't imagine how Jessica will feel about learning she was a lab rat for the time she was at her most vulnerable. Except to want to tear apart whatever is left of this company. If there's anything at all. When she looks to Trish it's with a resigned manner, and her shoulders slump a little. "I owe your sister everything. I'd have gone crazy without her. Without finding someone willing to forgive the very worst part of me, while encouraging me to find the hero. I'll do whatever you want. She's your sister. But I think she should know."

Trish deliberates for all of three seconds. She knows what it’s like to be cut out of the loop and just can’t do that to Jess. Her own anger has risen, feeling outraged at the violation of Jess’s body and the years stolen from her. It would be tough, she might have to replace a few things afterwards, but Jess needed to know what was in the files.

“We tell her. Whatever the fall out, she needs to know this. If she’s going to be pissed at anyone, it’ll be me, and I can take it.”

Feeling the slump in Azalea’s shoulders, Trish gives her back a light rub. The words have her heart hurting a little. Regardless of where things end up, Az is now a part of the messy, twisted little Jones family. Since that’s how Trish thinks of herself. A Jones, not a Walker. Not really.

“You are a hero, Az. You get up every day and do what you do, for the simple reason of wanting to make a difference. If everyone did that, things wouldn’t be as rough as they are out there.” A case of deja vu hits as she starts to repeat things she said to Jess after the biker incident. Not word for word, but in essence. “No matter what, don’t forget that you are loved, wanted, and needed. No matter what, because family forgives, and that’s what you are now. Even if Jess is royally pissed at me, she’ll get over it, cause I’m the Wunder Brat to her Super Snark and she’ll have to forgive me eventually for snooping into her stuff.”

"I'm not so worried about her being angry at us. Maybe she will be. Fuck that, nothing you can't handle. I just.. when we met, it wasn't under great circumstances. I did something horrible to her, Trish. Something that for her.. I don't know everything she's been through. Not all the details, but I know she's been violated before. And this, on top of it. It's like going back in time and inserting a nightmare into your nightmare."

The hand finds her back and it drains her of tension, her eyes falling shut as she thinks about how to talk to Jess about this, and how to calm herself of her desire to find these people who did this and find out what they wanted. Though, she can already guess. When her eyes open she looks to Trish, picking over the flush of her cheeks and the way her expression softens as she tries to reassure her. The frustration of the tale these files tell makes her want to leap out a window, find some gang that doesn't know anything about The Dark Devil, and make a proper introduction.

Instead she fights against the desire to never again leave the touch at her back, and leans forwards to pile up the papers, leaving the easily searchable stuff on top, and the hard to research stuff on the bottom. In the end, it's all folded up.

"I'll research the rest of this later. I'll need to make some notes. Draw some lines. But.. once I do find them, once we tell her, we'll all go to wherever it leads. All of us." Even New York's newest hero, Trish Walker.

Trish munches a cookie while Az packs up the papers. There were quite a few in the gone through pile, although ‘I need a doctor to understand me’ had been used quite often, at least from her perspective. On the topic of doctors, there was a name that kept popping up in those files, making her the top of Trish’s get to know list.

“If I have to cancel shows, I’m going on that trip. I’d like to get my hands on the pricks who did this. Asshats. Dr. Miriam Kelt is officially on my radar. She’s all through those files. So, where do we stand on the sparring? If you’ve got things on the go, we can always do it another time.”

The first was said with a light growl of determination, though it quickly changed to borderline laughter by the time she was mentioning sparring. If Az wasn’t in the mood, they could always get something to eat, and if she was busy, there was always another day.

Most of the time Azalea struggles with her humanity, even how to interact with those she cares about most, and it's little different as she reaches back to the conversation she had with Jessica. Frank. To the point. She thinks about it often when she's with Trish, when the dark part of her soul salivates and churns, and the better angel of her mortal coil tries not to let too much through.

Tries, and fails.

Her gaze shifts sidelong to watch Trish eat, her anger about the betrayal of these doctors and professionals who should have helped Jessica so long ago demanding an outlet she had already been thinking about. She'd go out somewhere. Find a dark alley where a tiny thing like her shouldn't be caught dead, and upset someone's expectations.

It isn't until her half-joke about sparring is turned into a realistic expectation that she falters inside, her eyes sliding down that figure Trish works so very hard on, assessing just how up to this she might is.

Certainly she's assessing other things, too.

The answer comes when she leans forward, fingers pulling at the latches on her boots, and then she stands and steps out of them. It's a backwards walk that takes her towards the hallway, towards the room Trish uses to train in, never taking her eyes off her would-be opponent. At least not until she ducks inside.

Trish’s grin gets bigger with every step Az takes towards the training room. She was kind of looking forward to the opportunity to getting an impromptu workout in before the end of the day. She slipped the grey sweater off, revealing a black tank top underneath, tossed it over the back of the couch, and followed Az down the hall. She leans up against the door jamb and gives Az a half grin, one eyebrow arched.

“So, if we’re going to do this, I want you to promise you’ll do your best on two things.” One finger was lifted. “First, try not to hit me in the face. I don’t like it much and it’s hard to cover, even with makeup.”

A second finger lifted to join the first. “Second, don’t hold back like I’m going to break. I don’t have super strength or healing, like Jess, but I’m not made of glass, yeah. I mean, don’t try and rip my arm off or anything like that, cause that’s no fun, but I like to think I can hold my own.” She stuck her hand out for a shake. “Do we have a deal?”

When Trish arrives at the door, The Dark Devil is already taking stock of this new domain, one hand reaching out to trail fingers against a training dummy, another batting at a speedball that hangs in the corner. It's a full circle, a slow stalk, and when she stops it's close enough to look at Trish and her hand just inches in front of her.

Fingers find the outside of her wrist, a touch far to gentle for sparring, guiding that hand in like a dance partner might, and all the while leaning in and up towards her ear, as if to close the several inches of height that Trish has on her to deliver a whisper.


The proximity allows a sudden shift to Az's right, hip tucking hard in against the place where pelvis and thigh meet on the celebrity as her right arm snakes up behind Trish's left shoulder and the pivot is complete.

She'll only ever know what's happening after her feet have left the ground, the hip-toss and throw meant to send Trish onto her back after a flip. The continuing motion she delivers is the kind of thing that would almost help the other woman into a roll, and Azalea stays in a crouch as she completes her attack, trying in vain to keep her breathing under control, to keep her heart rate down, and maintain her focus. She did just make a promise, after all.

The other side of Trish’s mouth lifts as she watches Az prowl the space. The grin widened again as her hand was taken in acceptance of her requests. She was so pleased with how clever she had been, offering the deal in the first place, that she’s caught completely off guard by the sudden toss.

Her feet left the ground with a whoop of surprise. The room spun around her and her ass hit the ground with a small grunt. Had she been expecting it, she might have managed to use the momentum to roll onto her feet. Probably not, but one can dream, no? Instead, she lay there laughing, so hard that tears started in her eyes. She tilted her head back, so she could look at Az, upside down.

“I suppose I walked right into that, didn’t I? Alright, it’s now on, like Donkey Kong.”

She rolled over and up into a crouch similar to Az’s, though far less lethal looking, given the laughter that danced in her eyes. She lifted one hand and crooked her fingers in a ‘bring it’ kind of gesture.

"What's Donkey Kong?"

There is no greater sentence capable of bringing their age difference to bear, but it's clear a moment after she says it that true or not, it is a tactic of distraction. When Azalea wades in, it's with a short slide to the left, then the right, no longer crouching, her motion fluid from step to step but erratic in where she ends up. It lets her come at Trish without the usual pretense of the circling gait. It lets her strike like an attacker might in some dark alley, rushing not quite head on, but from one side, a low blow meant to loop towards her lower back for a kidney shot is her opening salvo, while her followup is an almost teasing push that's meant to drive her towards the nearest wall.

This is her war of attrition, and though amusement held for a moment after the throw, now Trish will see what they see at night. Those who earn her ire see a predator, and though she lacks the size, the physical presence, she is every bit as dangerous as a stalking lion.

Pupils dilate, her breath quickens, and already Trish has helped her lose the anger she had before in the dance of primal violence.

Trish’s mouth worked for a minute, struggling to define the epic struggle between Mario and the big, angry monkey, before giving it up as a bad job. Maybe Google or YouTube would be able to shed light on the subject. Later. For now, her hands were full with keeping Az from taking her down. Again. Her eyes track Azalea’s movements as she tries to predict where she’s going to strike from.

She manages to block the shot to her back, completely missing the push, which accomplished the task of driving her towards the wall. For the barest of moments, she wondered if she hadn’t made a mistake, before the thrill seeker completely takes over. What better thrill than dancing with the Devil.

Green eyes narrow in concentration as she steps forward, leg sweeping at Az’s feet, adding a small shove of her own in an attempt to not be the only one who got acquainted with the floor. She is outmatched and she knows it, but that doesn’t stop Trish Walker from giving it her best effort.

The crowding stalk that comes after the shove should play right into Trish's counter, but the little hop The Dark Devil gives to avoid the trip is nearly prescient, though she does nothing to avoid her shove. The way she grits her teeth, the way she braces, it's everything she wanted. Arms wrap around Trish's extended one, her vice-grip digging into skin and the muscle beneath.

There's a clamoring leap, hips tucking in as she throws her legs up and to either side of that arm one looping over the closest shoulder, the other crooking around Trish's neck.

The triangle is incomplete, but the weight of her will drag like a noose weighted with lead and tossed into an ocean, Azalea's ankles meeting, and then she tightens her grip to draw one ankle under the crook of her other knee.

"Ten seconds left. Ten seconds before the blood is crushed from your brain!" The way she says it is a tease, but it isn't an idle threat. Stronger than she looks by an order of magnitude, Azalea's squeeze is slow and careful, the touch of someone who knows what it feels like to sink in and never let go with this hold, and the touch of someone who is doing everything she can to hold back. In doing so she savors the expression she'll see, but she does not let go.

She made a deal: No holding back.

Any thought of knocking Az on her ass disappears as Trish finds herself wrapped up in Azalea’s legs with her airways closing off. She writhes like a snake, trying to get out of the hold that she knew was almost unbreakable. Had she had the strength to do it, she’d have lifted Az up and drop her hard on her back to break her grip. She pictured it in her mind and willed her body to comply. What she actually gets is a weak little flopping motion, while her vision greys at the edges.

/Yup, you made a mistake, should have asked her to hold back/ came the mocking thought as Az calmly tells her she has about ten seconds left. /Nine, eight, seven, oh, look at that, you’ve got a weird ringing in your ears, better do something…./

She manages one more burst of struggle to get free before nature takes its course and she loses consciousness, going limp in Azalea’s grip. Had she been able to watch what was happening, like a fly (or Cindy) on the wall, she may have been amused by the fact that she was currently caught in the ‘Hell’s Gate’ hold. There was a guy in college, which she had wanted to impress, so she had watched the wrestling stuff religiously, until he had hooked up with some sorority bimbo.

When they both hit the mat Az keeps her hold, because she knows there are a few seconds left. Then her eyes begin to roll, and Azalea's heart begins to race. There is no greater drug than victory for Xiuhnel, and she can practically smell the vulnerability in the air, her fingers tightening in a way that will bruise, legs trembling with a desire to hold on. To squeeze tighter. Her own eyes flutter, just a little. Just a tiny bit more.

I want to feel you die.

The voice in her head is her own but not, and her eyes go a little wide, a little wild. She holds on for only a moment longer than she should have, but it's long enough to ensure that Trish will know the drowning sensation that comes with forced unconsciousness. Bitter and harrowing, it feels exactly like dying should. And waking up feels like being born, a slow return with a heavy breath, and crystal blues looking down at her with the tick of concern that comes with someone who pushed a little to far.

Fingers barely capable anymore of a gentle touch slide down across her cheek, thumb brushing her jawline, until she's cupping her neck. Feeling her pulse, and holding her like Xiuhnel held Itzpapalotl when they first took human form, the touch a greeting and a curse, intimacy turned possessive. "Turn me into someone good. That's what I really need. Tell me that I'm someone good, so we're not so far apart." She's talking to herself more than anything else, because she knows Trish might not yet understand, though as she comes back, as oxygen returns to her system, she'll manage a hopeful smile. "Still with me?"

Trish wanted to groan and rub her throat. She wanted to throw an epic tantrum at getting taken down so easily. She wanted to shake herself until she stopped being ridiculous. What she does is take slow breaths like her trainer taught her to do in the beginning when she tended to hyperventilate. Her eyes open as she feel’s Az’s touch slide down to her neck

Some might flinch, fearing a repeat, but that’s not Trish’s style. She trusts and follows her heart regardless of the risks in doing so. A small frown furrows her brow as she tries to process the words she’s hearing. Her hand comes up to cover Azalea’s as it finally clicks.

“I’m still here. Embarrassed, but here. When you retell this, play it up like I lasted longer than three seconds.” She squeezed Az’s hand before letting go. “Hey, you’re a good person, don’t doubt that, hon. Because if you weren’t we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Since I only invite good people into my inner sanctum.”

"I've been so many killers, Trish. Past lives that I feel in my bones, more than remember. All of this is second nature. Muscle memory. No one should know how to do the things I do, as easily as I do them, or feel like a God when I take control, when I win. I should feel embarrassed for doing that to you. But I don't. Because I'm not a good person.. I'm only half of one." Her hand withdraws a little, thumb tracing over her jawline again, a touch born of presumption or disregard, or maybe both. Maybe the moment matters more to her, and as her thumb brushes over Trish's bottom lip it draws a blink, finally resting there on her chin, as if to hold her head in place while she looks her over.

When she leans over her a dark curtain cascades around the blond, blocking out some of the light in the room, but leaving her with a clear view of the God-addled girl who couldn't say no to a fight, a burning reflection of the thrill seeker she looms over. "It's late and I should go, Trish. I have things to do. Responsibilities. Promises to keep." Her head tilts just so, lips parting, just a little, and her eyes search for the same spark she saw when they circled in this room just moments before.

"But not being a good person, Trish, I don't always do what I should do. And if you ask me to stay, I'll stay."

The frown deepens as Azalea lists all the reasons why she’s not a good person. Trish almost laughs as Az baldly states that she’s not embarrassed, because Trish wouldn’t be either, in her shoes. There would be a part of her that would be sitting back and gloating on the inside, so she can’t hold that against the other woman. She can’t help the increase in her pulse or the shivers dancing down her spine as she’s touched either.

The spark Az is searching for flashes, burning away all traces of restraint and responsibility. If Trish was a good person, she’d tell Az ‘no, not this time’, she’d remember all of her own responsibilities and promises made. But there was something irresistibly intoxicating about the way Azalea was looking at her right then. And Trish is not a good person, either.

She reaches up to tuck a bit of hair behind Az’s ear, hand staying to cup her cheek. Throwing all caution to the wind, her lips curl up, before parting to say one word.


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