The deal Ra's had struck with your warlord father almost seemed too good to be true. He was promised a flower, a delicate, pleasing thing. Easy to bend to his will, someone loyal and quiet, lingering in the background. Your father had been all to eager to unload you, and Ra's, in hindsight, should have been suspicious as to why.

Yet now it was clear. You had never asked to marry him, and had begun to express it. Greatly. Truly, you were just as much of a Demon as he was.

The Demon Head glanced around at the ruins his art room had become. He took great pleasure in it, in all the precious pieces he had collected over his many centuries of living. But now they littered the floor in shards and shreds, by your beautiful, albeit destructive hand. He did not scream or berate you, however. He merely huffed a breath.

Things, he had learned, could be easily replaced.

Instead, he simply looked up at you, with that face you had grown to despise. He raised the faintest eyebrow, his eyes of Lazarus green boring into yours. He checked briefly for your own injury. Smashed ancient pottery was sharp, after all.

"Are you done?" he asked simply.