His mood blackened with the night behind her. His fingers hooked at his sides, his anger demanding at least one last grapple, but the window was still too near and Tifa was too quick and her hands had darted too high above his knee besides. Her tugging finally overbalanced too much of his weight for his ankle to bear - and the Consul of Rabanastre found himself hobbling in the grasp of some common rebel girl. And just when the rage overcame her, so did she, launching her body at his like a javelin.

Damn it all.

Vayne fell. He hit the carpet on his back without a word, his hair lashing around his head like the tendrils of a Mallicant's mane, and he found himself pinned under his own courtesan and bloody hell she'd actually...

All pretense of his collected demeanor fled him. His breath smoked in his chest, and his eyes glared up into Tifa's face, but what he felt went beyond mere fury, just as the weight of her body pressing onto his went beyond mere temptation. And for once, Vayne's tongue could make no rhetorical foin. His lips formed a hard line on his face, mute and molten with frustration.