Like Passion. Like Love.

It was the most intimate thing she had ever, would ever and could ever experience. Nothing could compare to the pleasure that coursed through her veins, to the adrenaline that pounded out a hypnotic rhythm to her body. Every night it was different and yet the same, fulfilling and euphoric; the caresses so soft, the cries rising in a crescendo, bathing her senses in a joy unparalleled by anything else. The people that she took always differed of course; you could hardly have a person twice. But that mattered little – so long as her blood sang in that way, so long as their voices reached that note, their bodies attained that rhythm; nothing else mattered.

She had been told that no one would ever suspect such a thing of her. Her eyes, wide and doe like hinted at none of the chained emotions that she let loose behind close doors, beneath a dark sky. Her face, small, delicate, only alluded to a most innocent woman; one who would find peace and happiness even in their troubled times. The way she walked, so quiet and soft, her body barely breathing in the daylight was enchanting. But none of it alluded to a beguiling woman who smiled like a temptress and wooed the night; who slipped through locked doors unbidden and released a pleasure unheard of. Men smiled at her when she served food but none raised a leer, few let loose a suggestive word.

But ignorance rarely erases truth. That those who surrounded her knew nothing of her night forays did little to wipe them away.

It was dark – the way she enjoyed it. Light revealed things, showed things, made things real and substantial. The real and substantial hurt; it was sharp and gray, angular and dull. It left little to the imagination and most times, during nights like these, imagination was her companion; her alluring, mystifying, entrancing companion. Her small feet carried her up the wooden steps of the inn silently. Her body barely breathed, the only sound surrounding her petite form the whisper of her gauzy dress.

She paused at the landing. Her heart…it pounded and her fingers trembled slightly. Her body ached for the rhythm, for that pounding desire, for that taste that nothing else could bring to her mouth. And then she was moving again, a whisper in the hall. One door, two doors, three.

And then she was there, slipping the pilfered key into the lock quietly, turning it slowly, muffling the soft click. The door swung open with a barely audible creak and then she was inside the room, closing the door behind her, her entire being trembling with anticipation.

The window was open, the moonlight streaming into the room lazily. He was laying on the bed, half asleep, brown hair splayed across the pillow, his rough and weathered face unguarded. When he heard the door click shut his eyes opened. A grin spread over his features slowly, almost as if it took him a moment to realize that the apparition standing at his door, clad in a gauzy gown, with her shockingly white hair loose about her shoulders was there and there for none other than him. She returned his smile with a demure one of her own.

They said nothing to each other as he sat up and she crossed the room to him. Her lithe figure moved fast, and he had hardly sat up before she was on his lap, her knees pressed against his hips. He opened his mouth as if to express some sort of gratitude or pleasure – a few delicious parting words before they commenced. But she pressed her fingers against his lips, hushing him easily, her wide eyes sparkling with a well of passion that had been absent in the dining hall only hours earlier.

Close your eyes.

He gave her a confused grin but complied. She liked it when they did that – humored her because of her innocence; when they stayed silent and acquiescing. The silence suffocated them, made them choke with repressed pleasure; when it was too much the sound, nay, the music they let loose caressed her ears like nothing else was capable of. Here, with in these walls, under a dark sky, she was powerful.

Do you love me?

"Will it make you happy if I do?"


"I love you."

Say it again.

"I love you."


"I love you."

She pushed him pack, pressing his hard body against the pillows. There was so much strength, so much power in those corded muscles and for the time they were hers and hers alone. Her fingers wrapped around the hilt as she leaned over him. Her fingers trailed over the side of his face, over his chin, down his throat.

What do you like?


Really? A smile.

"Yes." The voice was now strained; he didn't want to wait anymore. He hated laying beneath her like a sheep for slaughter, hated allowing her to toy with him like that. And yet, he loved it. Loved it enough to stay still, silent unless spoken to, and acquiescing.

Say my name. Whisper it.

He did, dragging it out, tasting the syllables, rolling them over his tongue; making love to the name because he couldn't have her at the moment. There was emotion rolled into that single name that only her night forays could discover, raw and chafing that electrified the air around her.

Do you like pain?

"Yes." It was getting hoarse, thick with yearning. She smiled and then kissed him, trailing her hand down his side, over his hips, his thighs.

I like pain.

It was a soft whisper, a murmur barely heard except that she had said into his ear, kissing it softly. And then she dragged, pulling the glinting silver piece through his robes, in the center of his abdomen just above his hips. She could hear ripping and tearing, things cracking, blood pounding and gurgling.

And screaming. Screaming, so pure and untouched, raw and powerful, raising to an almighty crescendo. She raised her voice with his, crying in pleasure as the warm, thick liquid rolled over her arms, across her chest, tainted her white hair. Her body trembled, rocking with unrestrained passion as it continued further up. She could hear her name in his cries and it brought about a euphoria so powerful it blurred her vision.

She dropped the silver instrument, digging her fingers into his flesh, pulling apart, listening to the cracks of her symphony, drenching her fingers in his essence, her lips caressing his torn face.

I love you.

And then it was over, the crescendo peaked, breached and left behind. Her body slumped against his, her muscles exhausted and tired. She looked up at his face, his wide eyes still open, his lips parted just so, bruised and covered in red, red that had come from him, covered her lips and then returned to him.

"I love you," she murmured sadly, "Really, I do."

It was like passion, like love, so close, so very close. But it could not breach the barrier fully.

She gathered her clothes, picked up her knife, glanced once more at the ravaged body on the bed; a beautiful portrait of macabre and carnage. A smile flitted across her features. It had been most fulfilling.

Like passion. Like love.