I call him the devil because he makes me want to sin
(and every time he knocks, I can't help but let him in)
He shivers a little when she talks of the first day—of how he had frightened her. It is such a wildly delicious memory for him, the way she had quaked and run from him, the way she had smelled, soaked in the sweat of her terror. The beautiful prey she had been, so obediently listening to him as he drove her through the hallways of a nightmare of his own design, the paths crooked and narrow and dangerous.
Of course, he cannot tell her that he aches for that feeling again—that if he wanted short-term instead of long-term pleasure that he would gladly turn on her again, pressing the edges of his fangs into her jugular to let her bleed out on the gray, dusty floor of Pangea. He cannot admit such things to her so instead, he turns the shiver into a shudder of regret, of embarrassment, his dark eyes downcast.
“I am sorry. I don’t know why you do that to me.”
Her fault. Of course that day had been her fault. He couldn’t have controlled the way she made him feel. But she apologizes, falling into place, and so he leans over, rewarding her with a lingering kiss along her jaw. “I forgive you. We won’t let it happen again.” Or he wouldn’t let her know that it would happen again. One day, he would chase her again. One day, he would turn on her, the predator that she thinks that she has tamed enough to sleep by her bedside. One day, he would leave her broken and alone.
He forces the thought from his mind, instead focusing on her body pressing up against him, the way that she shivers and blushes—both wonton with need and recoiling with fear as the wasteland opens up before them. She folds into him and he leans down, playing with the beautiful, pale tendrils of her mane for a moment before forcing her away so that he could look at her. His eyes are clear, steady as they hold hers.
“Good,” he nods, although he does not immediately tell her that he loves her back. Let her think on that for a while. “People who are in love would do anything for the one they love, right?” It was rhetorical but he paused as if he expected an answer. “You would do anything for me, wouldn’t you?”
His face is beautiful, serious, and almost a little sad as he looks at her.
“Otherwise, you wouldn’t really love me.”
