The slight stammer in my voice makes him smile mockingly and I try my best not to keep myself bristling in discomfort. Those fingers tighten around me, claiming, repulsive. I almost gag.
"Yes, in fancy terms I would be called a psyche tractatori, but for a simple little thing like you it means I can take your mind, and do whatever I wish with it. Crush it, if I want." My whole body goes cold. I look him over, searching in those dark eyes for any sign of it, of his power, but all I see are pools of lazy red that swirl under the light of the chandeliers.
Something prods at the back of my mind, cold and sharp, a claw, or a finger, sudden enough to make my body go rigid and my mouth fill with a horrible dryness. The necklace pulses on my chest an evident warning. The claw withdraws.
