The vodka is set on the floor, a dull clink of glass against stone, and then he has both hands free. He's not thinking of Rodolphus right now; perhaps he'll recall later that Bella is, in the eyes of the world, another man's fiancee. Or perhaps he won't. She wears his ring, after all. Regardless, right now, he's a little too drunk and a little too distracted to think of anyone who isn't in this room. Instead, he focuses his attention on the far too many buttons that close her robes, and then the far too many buttons that close the equally black top beneath.

"You always have too many clothes on, Bellatrix," he says, and because he knows her and knows her well, he tugs sharply on her hair, forcing her hair back with just a bit of a burn. His teeth scrape against the pulse in her throat as her robes float to his floor.