Vaene was dangerously over-focused as he made his way out of Lord Vitorre's estate. He was blinded to everything else. It was his arrogance. He feared nothing within his master's walls, not even Lord Vitorre himself. It would seem like Vaene was useful to the decrepit fool.
Dalek had ordered him to do what he could not. Vaene was expected to infiltrate the abode of master's rival, kill him, and bring back proof. The act neither bothered him nor did it weigh on his conscience. After all, it was simply a power dispute between two Sith Lords. The young pure-blood was merely Vitorre's weapon.
He knew his master expected him to die attempting this task. The fat man was a fool. He had no clue as to the true power that Vaene possessed. He had done all within his power to hide that strength from Lord Vitorre's attention. Had it been noticed, Dalek would have tried to kill him years before.
Now he would be forced to unleash his power, and there would be no opportunity to hide it again. If he returned alive from the assassination, then Dalek would have to die as well. Vitorre would be fearful. If Vaene could kill one Lord, then he could kill another. That would be the rationale within Dalek's mind, Vaene thought. The old man would see it as self preservation in taking Vaene's life.
However, there was something that made him uneasy within the estate, though he was not able to press it under his thumb. It felt like a pressure bubbling, frothing from unrestrained energy. He felt a brewing power, brooding in silence. He knew it wasn't Vitorre. That much was certain, he thought. Who, or what, it was eluded him.
“He goes to kill the master's enemy,” a sultry voice purred, thick with seduction, interrupting his thoughts. He had never heard the voice before, but he instantly knew who was speaking. It was the slave girl, the one that was in the room with Vittore and him. Such a voice could only originate from the true species of Sith. Only a pure-blood could spark his interests in such a way.
Vaene turned towards her, gliding his gaze over her sultry form. He took silent admiration of the sheer, ivory fabric that attempted to hide her sanguine flesh from him. The garment failed miserably as it gave her curves a hidden silhouette. Vitorre's hunger for the most exotic women would turn towards his own species. Hatred spread over him, blotting his soul with its fiery embers. Lord Vitorre was a hypocritical imbecile. He owned a pure-blooded as a slave, but he had the audacity to have one as his apprentice. It would lead to the other man's downfall.
“He goes to do Vitorre's bidding, when it is Vitorre's blood he truly wants.”
“Mind your tongue, slave,” Vaene growled, trying to keep his guard up. He might have had an interest in this particular woman, but he was no fool. It was very possible that Dalek, himself, had sensed Vaene's interest in her and had sent her as a trap. Even though it was a weak attempt, it was was not something that the coward would not resort to.
She walked towards him. Her bare footsteps echoed, and he was sure that Vitorre's guards had heard him. The slave looked strange among the surreal paintings of women smuggled in from Coruscant, the large, purple petals of a flower acquired from Vjun, and large stone monuments of Dalek, commissioned from an artist on Alderaan. To Vaene, she looked like an Acklay amidst a treasury of rare holocrons. Both creatures were beautiful and deadly.
“You speak out of turn. I should behead you for the mere suggestion. Lord Vitorre is always grateful when mutinous seeds are destroyed before they ever get the chance to spread roots.”
If he meant to frightened her, he failed. Miserably. There was no fear dancing in her ardent twin orbs. In fact, fury roared off of her. He found the scent intoxicating. It tempted him to seek her delights, to give into her devious plans, and to give her everything that she wished in her penetrating gaze. Vaene knew if he was a weaker man, he would have.
“You are wise to take care of who you trust,” the slave girl murmured as she stopped before him. Raising her hand, she ran her fingertips over his collar bone.
Ivory need sizzled deep within him, faltering the rage that had been building since he had left Dalek's presence. The wanton desire mixed with the fury. It blended together, creating a powerful conglomerate that only a Sith would know how to internalize and feed upon. He would use the years of longing for this particular woman to exterminate Lord Vitorre's enemies.
While the touch effected him more than he showed, he would not allow her to become privy to such an emotion. He would show no one weakness. When he took a mate for his own, she would not even be allowed into the innermost sanctum of his heart. Weakness was death.
“I assure you that I wish the man dead, as well.”
“Are you an idiot?” Vaene sneered. “You approach me in the man's estate and tell me these things. I should kill you for such stupidity. I'm not convinced that I won't, as a matter of fact.”
There, he thought. For a brief moment, he saw the hesitation in her gaze. Whatever the woman was angling to get, he knew that she was questioning the value of it in regards to her life. It thrilled him to put this slave in her place. No one should be above their station.
As soon as the fear bubbled to the surface of her eyes, it was replaced with arrogance. He understood that she knew how she effected him even before the words left her mouth.
“You won't kill me because you can't stand the way that scum paws at me,” she spoke brazenly. The sheer audacity of it was enough to stay his hand. That, and she was right.
The absolute truth of it stared him in the face as if he was looking into a mirror after consuming Jawa beer the night before. He hated the way Vitorre was with her. Vaene would never admit the jealousy that was flowing inside of him and burnt him to his core, nor the true reason of why he hated this woman. She represented a normal life far beyond what it meant to be Sith. In truth, she gave him power because of the emotions she inspired.
“I'm much more perceptive than you think. Every look you think you steal at me, I see them. I see the look on your face when Vitorre puts his hands on me. I see the hatred in your eyes, powerful hatred, when you look upon him. You want to dance in his entrails. You have to do it soon, I know that, too. You're leaving for Korriban.”
“How did you know that?” Vaene asked. Surprise rippled through his body. He never liked not knowing what he was dealing with. This female should not have startled him with her admission. Of course, he could not deny that she did.
“I told you that I'm very perceptive.”
“Just what are you suggesting?” Vaene growled, cutting straight to the point. Throughout his long apprenticeship, Vaene had never demonstrated any form of patience. When it came to listening to something, he wanted a direct answer. That trait would never change.
“Poison Master Vitorre,” she cooed, trying to keep her voice smooth and seductive.
He lifted his hand, running his fingertips down one of tendrils hanging from his chin. Vaene would not admit to her that he found it intriguing that she came to him. If he were to admit that, he would have to admit to the other nagging emotion that he felt around her.
“Kill him and his other apprentices, and take what is rightfully yours.”
“Poison?” Vaene scoffed. He hated the use of poisons. When he wished someone dead, he preferred to look them in the eyes as they died. It made the act more exciting to know his face would be the last his enemy would see. Their fear gave him power. Power would secure his own ambitions. “I would rather kill him face to face.”
“There is value in subtlety sometimes,” the slave persisted. Passion shone in her eyes. It sparkled like moonlight gleaming off fire. He loved the way she talked about death. That part of her spoke to a primal part of him that he had annihilated long ago.
“Subtlety is for cowards. I fear nothing. I am perfection personified.”
“Then kill them all,” she suggested. The slave was a woman after his own heart. As blood-thirsty as he was, it would seem that he met his match. Of course, he was not planning to leave anyone alive in Lord Vitorre's estate.
He looked at her through lowered eyelashes. Yes, it was true. Vaene did not plan on leaving anyone alive. The blood of the servants, the apprentices, and Lord Dalek, himself, would flow through the many halls of the estate. There was one exception: her.
She stepped closer to him. Raising her gaze to his, he was struck by how much she did not act like a slave. The woman was too confident. He wondered what gave her the arrogance she possessed. Perhaps, it was because she knew that she was Vitorre's favorite.
“There won't be a heart left beating.”
“Good,” the slave uttered.