crying at 3 a.m.

You have a rifle in your house; she taught you how to work that thing back then, even though you protested and gave her the silent treatment for a week. "I know you hate guns," she held your arms in the right position as your hands trembled, her face next to yours, adjusting your aim, "but I will be more at ease knowing you know how to shoot." You remember how confused you were at her statement, right before your thoughts were deafened by the gunshot.

You never used the rifle; it sits there as a souvenir. But, as you drag your feet across the wooden floor, moving as quietly as you could so the person on the other side of the door couldn't hear you, you grab it. Not with the intention of shooting, but as a twisted, fucked up version of a safe blanket, as if her hands still held the handguard for you.

You can't freeze; there is not a single living soul to come and rescue you if you do, and no phones, you were told to get rid of those, too. So you just go on.

The floor creaks when you arrive at the door and twist the doorknob. In slow motion, you open a smidge, just enough for the rifle to fit. You don't dare to see who's outside, but you can hear the grass ruffling with steps.

Your heart is either nearly stopping or beating at a hummingbird's heart rate; you can't feel it anymore, just the dizziness of it all. You hear what seems to be a humorless chuckle. You open the door fully now. It's one thing to try to invade your house in the middle of the night, but to laugh at you? Fuck them.

It takes some time for your brain to understand what you're seeing. You keep the rifle in your hand, on guard. It's not that you can't see it, her, you can and very clearly now. You simply weren't expecting it; you never did. You never thought she would look back.

Eva's hair is longer now. She always had long hair, you loved it. Loved twirling it when she was trying so hard to sleep, before she started telling you off for it. It tickled every time you held her, and it got in the way when you two kissed. She looks almost the same under the mist. There's not a hint of a smile on her face, only that slightly tilted head gesture she usually does when waiting for you to step aside and let her in.

The silence extends for whole minutes, you don't know exactly how many. Enough for the cow in the barn to moo. Probably swearing at her.

"Nice gun," she nods, her voice husky and dry. She must not have talked for the whole trip to your house. You put it down, your lips opening and closing like a fish, gasping at the surface. Your brain is full of oxygen, and you feel like you might pass out. "I'm coming in," she informs you.

"The whole house is a mess." You step aside, despite your protest. Great first words, you think.

"That's expected. Your room always was."

She comes inside. You take a look at the sky for a minute before following her. It's cloudy and freezing. You wonder if the Hail Mary ship is somewhere up there, if Stratt's last sacrifice was successful, and if her return meant things were going to be okay.

You turn around and see her amidst the darkness of your cramped living room. Books scattered everywhere on the floor and coffee table, a used-up leather couch, a bunch of abandoned projects you grew tired of, and an acoustic guitar. And there she was. Inspecting everything as she did back when she was your boss and ventured into your lab, or when she was yours and entered your room. You suppose she was yours. You hope.

You close the door and turn on the lampshade, soft yellow light shining on her face and yours. You just stand there, looking at each other for a bit. Now you can see the tattoo on her neck and a few frown lines that weren't there before. There are too many questions to ask, many of which she won't answer.

"Okay," you inhale, putting the rifle aside and turning the heater up. "Hello." You sit down, facing her, hugging your knees.

"Hello."

"Should I ask if you were taking a stroll out in the neighborhood and ended up here?"

She stands next to the window, fiddling with the sheer, white mesh curtains. You feel weird. It's not like you could jump into her arms and kiss the shit out of her; that's not who you two are, whatever 'you two' means or meant, or if it even existed, but it's so ridiculous to not know how to conduct this conversation.

“We have a lot to talk about.”

“I think you do.”

She presses her lips together, nodding and looking around at your living room, “They sent you to live like a hermit?”

“I chose it.”

“You?” she says in disbelief, almost humorously. You always joked about what your lives would look like after the mission ended. You said you wanted to go back to a big city, teach at a university, live in a loft, and throw dinner parties for your friends. You visualized Eva there but never told her that. She would hate the dinner parties and go out on the balcony to smoke, and you would follow her. You would wake up late, brew coffee for you two, then go back to bed and sleep with your head nestled on her chest. She never told you how she saw herself after it all ended, nor whether you would be in her version of the future. You used to grumble about it, but now you see why.

“I like quiet now. I have a farm—” “That’s not a farm.” “—and a nice lake to swim.”

Eva looks out the window now, pushing the curtains away. “It’s on the other side,” you inform her. “You can see it from my bed.”

“The cow smells like shit.”

“Well, that’s how they smell.”

She looks down, then at you. “You have— I want you to move in with me.”

You look at her and try to conceal the bewildered look that creeps into your expression, your head shaking slightly as you mutter a small ‘what the fuck’.

“Eva, sit down.” You say, almost annoyed. Not at her, never at her.

She doesn’t oblige. Of course she doesn’t. So you stand up and go to the kitchen, and brew the coffee you promised yourself you would brew for you both, years ago. It’s almost morning, anyway.

She stands still until you’re back, taking the mug from your hands. Unsweetened, black, and no milk for her, two teaspoons of sugar and a lot of creamer for you. “Please.” You gesture to the couch.

It’s been a while since you two last sat down to have a proper talk. The last months of the project were frantic; you only saw her once, maybe twice a week, and most of these times you wouldn’t talk. There was no need to when your lips were locked on her skin, trying your best to relieve her tension, even if most times she would get up and continue working as soon as she was done.

“We need you for the next step of the Project. It’s almost time we receive the beetles.”

“Why would you need me? I’m an engineer.” She doesn’t respond and takes a sip of her coffee instead. “Eva, what happened? Why are you here?” You exhale, placing your mug on the coffee table.

She looks at you, tight-lipped again, a slight shrug, and the smallest eyebrow scrunch. “I escaped prison. Well, that’s obvious.” Another sip of coffee as she eyes the ring on your finger, “Are you married?”

“No.” That’s also obvious. There’s only one pair of boots, one coat hanging, one plate on the sink. She just needed to get the ring out of the way. You don’t know why you wear the ring. Maybe it’s because of her. A rifle, a ring you hoped she would give you someday, and constant dreams are all that are left from your hopeful days.

She nods, another sip. “I have a team. They helped me to get out of there, and they helped me get here.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. “When did you escape?”

“Two weeks ago. You’re difficult to locate.”

“Do you want me to believe you started looking for me as soon as you broke out?”

“No, they are different sentences. I broke out two weeks ago, and you were difficult to locate.” You chuckle at that. “I started looking for you three days ago.”

“Where are you living?”

“Nowhere, for now. On a boat as soon as possible. And if you come with me—”

“Do you want me to come, or do they need me to?”

It’s been at least eight years, and you still won’t let her finish a sentence, she thinks.

“I can’t spend my life worrying about you. It’s easier if you come.”

“It’s easier?”

She shrugs and looks at you, and then at her hands. You two stay in silence for a minute. “We can have a nice life there.”

You really look at her. There’s something in her demeanor, or her voice, that indicates she’s not the same. She’s been imprisoned, persecuted, hunted down. You weren’t there; you couldn’t. They wouldn’t let you; she would never let you. Eva is not the most powerful person in the world now, she’s on the run and, deep down, she’s hopeful. Hopeful that the mission will work, that the beetles will arrive, that you’ll accept her request, that she won’t bear the weight of the world on her shoulders in a few years, and that she will be able to just be. And she has no choice but to be hopeful.

Besides that, she’s still her. Still Eva. She made peace with it all, past and present.

You don’t dare to ask how things were in prison, how the trials happened, how she feels now. “They never let me testify.”

“I know.” She tells you quietly with a gentle smile, gentler than you have seen before. You can’t help but blame yourself for the way things turned out, even though it was inevitable. There’s a type of resentment beneath your voice, and it refuses to let you look her in the eyes: resentment towards yourself for not fighting for her, and towards her for not letting you beat yourself up for that.

You two sit in silence for a while. The sun is not as shy now, but it is still partially hidden by the thick mist. She seems to enjoy the peaceful view outside your windows, and you wonder how many days she has spent without having the choice of appreciating the rising sun or the awakening of the animals. “I missed you.” You murmur in the quietest voice you can muster, trying not to bother her.

She looks back at you, breaking a small smile as she touches your hand. It’s the first touch you've felt for a long time. Eva murmurs something similar to ‘I know’.

You take her hand, hesitant to entwine your fingers together, but you do it anyway. Her hands were always cold and clammy, ‘You feel like a frog, ’ you laughed about it one day, and she grinned, shaking her head. It feels the same now as you tug it for her to come closer, but you don’t joke about it this time. You would take her hand even if it were made of ammonia.

She does come closer to you. Not a lot, just enough so you can feel the warmth radiating off her, so you can understand she’s really there. “Where do we stand, Eva?” You start, quietly, one hand still in hers and the other supporting your head over the couch’s back.

“That’s not the time to ask this.”

“You ask me to move with you—”

“I break out of prison, and I come looking for you. Isn’t it enough?” She says as a matter of fact, a small frown is present, not from anger, but from feeling misunderstood. You always needed her words, the steadiness, the land. To Eva, the facts were enough, so was shooting in the dark, and the fluctuation of waves.

“I need more.” You mirror her frown, reaching for her face, brushing away a strand of hair. There she is.

“I can’t give you more.”

“Why?”

She answers with a reluctant smile and a deep breath. “There’s no future.” And you don’t know if she’s talking about you two, her, or Earth. You bring her hand to your lips, kissing it softly for a moment. She looks at you, “But I would enjoy spending my present and my freedom on you.”

“Eva.” You whisper, closing your eyes for a moment.

You have the same feeling you had when you agreed to work for her, or when you chose which university to attend, when you fell in love for the first time, when you woke up for the last day of middle school. It’s a never-be-the-same feeling, the softest punch in the gut, the perception of life happening and never slowing down. You were never easily convinced by anyone, which was mainly why Eva first gravitated towards you. She, however, is one of those moments personified. After she came into your life, you’re in a constant state of change. It’s uncomfortable.

‘What is love if not changing yourself?’, Ilyukhina said once, when you were both tipsy, and you decided to open up to your friend about your very, very secret relationship. Eva wasn’t happy about it, for numerous reasons. You always wanted to declare your love by shouting from rooftops. You guessed this had to change, too. It was only when Eva first took your hand in hers during a casual hangout with other people that you noticed she, too, had changed.

You nod only once. She won’t beg for more. You can’t physically offer more.

Eva knows it’s a lot to ask, and it’s borderline egotistical to ask you to leave your life and follow her. She already did it once, but to save humanity. This time, it’s purely to herself. For once, she’s doing it for herself.

You two exchange a look; there’s much more to do than that, but you pause to look at each other. You notice that’s your fucked up version of a romantic proposal. The woman you once had an undefined relationship with breaks out of jail, appears on your doorstep, asks you to run away with her, and live in the middle of the ocean for god knows how long. You might die there, you might not. ‘Til death do us part, in a way. Very The Notebook, if you may ask. You chuckle at the thought.

“Are you laughing at me?” She seems amused that’s your reaction to accepting her terrible, almost catastrophic deal.

“No.” She takes your hand again, and it’s her turn to tug you closer. You scoot with your knees, nearing the proximity of those older days. “I’m repeating myself here, but where do we stand, Eva?”

“That’s your question? Not when we are leaving, or if there are rooms on the boat?”

“Logistics were always your thing.”

“Okay.” A deep breath again. When she exhales, it faintly touches your face. How good it feels to be affected by her presence again. “You— I stand where we left off. About us, that is.”

“Well, I left off being dragged away from your room, so I hope it doesn’t happen again.”

“If it comes to this, it will. If that’s what it takes to keep you away from the consequences I earned.”

“I am, also, a consequence you earned.”

There’s a silence, and she looks at your hands resting on your lap, then back at you. “The best of them.”

“I would hope so.” She blows air out of her nose as a laugh, and there’s silence again.

She engulfs every detail of you; how your hair looks now compared to then, how you seem more tired, how your fingernails have no nail polish even though you loved to paint them. She takes in the soft skin of your neck and your arms, and how your lips still look so soft, even though the climate is colder and drier than it was eight years ago.

“What are you looking at?” You ask. If it were anyone else, you would squirm under that intense gaze. When it comes to her, you want her to stare, and you notice yourself desiring her gaze even more than you did back then, when you were younger and more insecure.

“You. Can you blame me?”

And there is a shift in the atmosphere. “You still want me?”

“I thought it was implied.”

“I don’t work with hints, you know this.”

She gives you a low chuckle.

“Come here, dear.”

And so you do. Scooting over to close the last remaining centimeters of distance between you, you begin to wonder if eight years were enough to make it awkward. Funnily enough, you don’t get the same feeling of utter jitteriness you did when you first kissed her. You do, however, get a feeling of coming home after a long, annoying trip, and, at the same time, peacefully drowning.

You don’t kiss instantly, instead taking some time to breathe each other in. She holds each side of your face, and you hold her forearms. So close, you can see the darker spots of blue near her pupil and the stray eyebrow hairs. It’s, surprisingly, Eva who falters first, slightly tilting her head to touch your lips, uncharacteristically hesitant.

You close the distance for her. A small peck, two, three, and then you notice how much softer and pliant she seems on your hand than she did back then. On the fourth, she reaches for your neck, one hand buried in your hair.

There’s no fifth; you part your mouth, and she slides her tongue. Eva hums, releasing a soft sigh into the kiss, she furrows her eyebrows. You both slow down, savoring the taste of each other’s lips, languid strokes, and careful pauses just to bring the other impossibly closer. Your pulse is hard beneath your skin, thundering in your ears as she stops the kiss only to glide her hand to your legs, a string of saliva connecting both of your lips, broken only by a hitch of your breath when her grip turns featherlike on your naked leg, she fiddles with the hem of the cotton nightgown you wear, which was so easily hiked up by your movements.

You move to place one of your legs across her lap, knocking down the mug you set earlier on the coffee table. You murmur a soft “fuck” and feel a grin stretching open on her lips before she tilts her head and kisses you bruisingly, her hands slipping to hold your waist. You melt when you feel her shift her body to cage yours, driving you to recline on the couch, your legs on each side of her body.

She gasps when you suck her tongue and nibble on her bottom lip with your teeth, “Are we leaving today?”

“A little kissing made you excited to exile yourself with me?” Eva nudges your jawline with her nose, lazily leaving open-mouthed kisses on the skin there. Her body weight provides just enough pressure and not enough friction for you to feel your core pulsing.

“Yeah. Can I have you all over me every day?” You rasp as you reach between your bodies to slide your hand on her abdomen, nails raking and leaving a red path. “Don’t know how I spent all these years away from you.”

She kisses the corner of your mouth, her hips moving as you lower your hand, back arching on you. It’s unconscious, but you spread your legs wider to accommodate her. “I still have to work.”

You undo the buttons of her denim pants. “I don’t care. There’s a lot of shit I learned during all these years, and I have to try them out with you.”

Eva never expected you to stay celibate after she went to prison. ‘I want you to find someone and marry them’ is something she would never say, but she knew you should do it. She wouldn’t blame you. “Someone has been riding your pretty face?” She teases, half seriously and with the calmest tone, grasping your face with her free hand while the other bunches up your nightgown around your waist.

“Wanna ride it too?” You sit up slightly to take off her black turtleneck, brushing her smooth skin with your lips before kissing it. You look up to see her eyes closed, eyebrows knitted together, and mouth parted, so inviting, warm, and erotic that you can’t help but breathlessly trail kisses and licks on her sternum, pushing her bra out of the way, and mutter, “kiss me, please.”

She does, looking down to properly see you and pulling you into a devouring kiss, pressing herself against you, and moving her legs to straddle your lap. You hold her hair out of the way, just in case. Eva is hungry for it, for you, and you reciprocate every groan, whine, and pant. Even the smallest ‘humph’ she let seep into the kiss is so mouthwatering to you, it causes muscle memory to kick in and your hips to grind up on hers.

Eva doesn’t pause to breathe, indulging as she rarely does on the mess of a kiss, and it’s all urgent whimpers, saliva, and teeth clashing. She grinds down on you, too, grabbing a fistful of your hair to command you to keep the rhythm up. You feel lightheaded, so needy and desperate, and clinging to you, not only physically. You feel her movements and touch on your heart; her presence floods your lungs and sends shivers down your spine. For a moment, it’s all her, and she’s everywhere, as if it has continuously been.

“Take this shit off.” You clumsily tug down her pants, your breath ghosting over her swollen lips.

“I missed you.” She confesses so quietly you almost can’t hear, and you wonder if you’re supposed to hear it or if she hasn’t noticed she said it out loud. You brush your lips against her neck as you lay her down to discard her pants and your nightgown, and as soon as they’re both gone, she pulls your head back to the kiss, her other hand alternating between massaging your breasts and pinching your nipples.

She’s half reclined, her head on the armrest of the couch, and you find the opportunity to fit one leg in between her legs when she instinctively opens them to welcome you. “Did you ever think of me?” You exhale, creating marks on her collarbones, each one darker than the previous as her grip on your legs tightens. “I thought of you all the time. Thought about you fucking me dumb whenever I wanted to cum.”

She grinds on your leg, her underwear with an obvious wet patch, just as obvious as yours, and you notice it when she forces your hips down to grind on her thigh. “Mhm. Look at you. All wet on my thigh.” Eva’s words ghost on your lips as she keeps your face mere centimeters away from hers, blue eyes unfocused and half-lidded.

You two move at the pace she establishes, her hand guiding your hips at the same rhythm her hips roll. She flexes her thigh under you and taps you softly so you do the same. Tilting your head, you wordlessly ask for another kiss, needing more of her touch desperately. You press your chests together and curse her bra for creating a barrier between you.

She keeps one hand planted firmly on your hip and the other on your cheek, her nails graze the skin, creating a path, a faint sting reminding you of her burning touch. You brace yourself over her with one arm, the other takes off the annoying piece of undergarment from her, before you press yourself flush to her again, recommitting to her speed.

You exhale directly on her mouth, both of your breathing uneven as moans bubble up your throats. She quickens the pace, rutting her hips harshly on your thigh whenever she feels your legs trying to close, whimpers fall off your lips, and she drinks them, drowning them with her choked-up groans.

The friction between your bodies feels delicious on your sensitive nipples, heightening your need for her, so you try to kiss her, and she harshly tugs your hair, “I need to see you when you cum.” Eva whispers, a pained, whiny voice betraying her restrained order.

“Ride my face.” You plead, fluttering eyelashes begging for her and diving, contrary to her orders, to kiss her jawline. She pulls a fistful of your hair only to feel the faltering of your hips on her soaked thigh, “Please, ride my face, baby.” You suck her skin more fervently, murmuring against it, “Please, please. I want you to ride it.”

“Do you want me to soak your pretty face?” She says in a shaky exhale, “Look at me. You’re so close, dear.”

You look at her glazed eyes and glistening lips, her pupils blown wide and her staggering breath denounces she’s also so, so close. You flex your thigh, feeling the soft material of her panties and the sloppy sliding sound of both of your slick. She arches her back, hand gripping strongly on your hair, and knees going weak as your hand grips the flesh of her hip to guide you as feverishly as she did.  

She feels it coming at almost the same time you do, and as much as you want to close your eyes, you simply can’t. Eva tightens the grip on your hair as she cums, wavering moans breaking the panting sounds, and the sting on your scalp feels so good accompanied by her furrowed brows, open lips letting escape the prettiest sounds you’ve ever heard, blue eyes trying so hard not to roll back. Her eyes don’t shy away from yours as your orgasm comes, your nails dig deep into her flesh, and high-pitched cries echo from your lips.

It’s the most beautiful sight to see her fall apart and her body go limp as you ride out your orgasms. You notice it’s morning now when her hands travel down to your breasts, caressing them before helping you out of your panties. “We have the whole day ahead.” She mutters against your shoulder, pressing soft kisses.

“That’s a first.”

“Don’t get used to it.” You’re bare now, and end up discarding hers too. You dive into a slow kiss, lazy tongue movements against hers.

You’re lying sideways next to her now on the cramped couch, the memories of a rushed time, where simply kissing and being at each other’s mercy would never be possible, come like waves. She takes her time, reexploring your body with soft fingertips, discovering new freckles and reminding herself of the velvety touch of you against her. You stroke her cheek with your thumb as the lingering kiss extends itself for what seems both a lifetime and never enough, cleaning any fugitive spit from your lips.

Her hand guides yours to her torso, hers traveling to your lower abdomen, spiraling downwards. “How things worked around here before I came back, mhm?” A sly question comes laced in with her tender tone.

“I have two hands. And a few toys.” You joke, and she gives you a disbelieving look. “I’m not telling you about other women when I have my hand on your breast, Eva.”

“I’m asking you to.”

You lower your face to toy with her nipple with your tongue, sucking it and releasing with a pop from you and a hiss from her. You scrape your teeth down the skin before sucking a mark while looking at her, and then taking it into your hand. You press a quick kiss into her parted mouth, “I tried a few things. Never long-term, though. I tried a lot of people, some from the town.”

She hums in acknowledgment, hand parting your thighs and tracing your slit with her middle finger. She wants to ask you if you have fallen in love. She won’t. You hitch your breath at her teasing strokes. “They won’t be happy when I whisk you away from here.”

“It’s for a greater good.” Your eyes flutter closed, hands searching for her face.

She chuckles, lips closed. She never had laughter easily falling from her lips, nor was she one to effortlessly smile, but it was never easier to breathe than when she was with you. In prison, she remembered how you would turn her, even for a fraction of a moment, carefree. How much easier it was to feel the breeze in your presence, or to notice the ground beneath her feet. Eva notices the sun shining and the shimmering on the curtains, the sounds of nothing outside of you two. “Which would be?”

“Having you sit on my face, every morning, forever.”

She closes her eyes to conceal her amusement, hiding it in an expression of neutrality. It doesn’t work; you know her too well. “Unless you wake up at 5am, then it won’t happen in the morning.”

“I can sacrifice an hour or two of sleep.” The last word goes away with a sound almost like a purr when she enters you with a finger.

“Feels good?” She asks, a mocking lilt in her voice, but with a serious expression.

You nod, rocking your hips on her hand as she inserts another finger, her palm brushing against your clit. “Go on.” She brushes a strand of hair away from your face with her other hand, reaching over to place a kiss on your lips.

You adjust your position so it’s easier for you to ride her hand. You hide your face in the crook of her neck, and this time she doesn’t complain about not looking at you, merely because you’re sending out the sweetest noises straight into her ear and your lips are glued to her neck.

You breathe in the scent of her skin and swear it makes you dizzy as she presses more of her palm to your clit. Your skin glistens with sweat as she watches your up and down movements, and she swears she could eat you up. You look delicious like this, and she feels ravenous feeling your head dipping further into the safety of her.

“Will you ride my face, baby?” You ask again. She would, and she could so easily, tease you more and more about it, drawing out your begging, but you sound so pretty, so titillating. “Will you let me eat you out? Please? Will you use my face?”

“Sure”, she murmurs into your hair, so nonchalant you can almost think she’s bored. Eva is not. She would do anything you asked her to in this state, sounding so much like a personal pornstar for her, but especially this. Especially riding your face, the thing that many days, alone in the cell, she had caught herself daydreaming about.

It’s almost as if you’re just waiting for her confirmation to cum. And so you do, cumming with a high-pitched, drawn-out moan, squeezing your eyes shut and brushing your core on her palm, your legs shaking, and no other thought on your head other than the overwhelming pleasure and need to kiss her. “There you go. You want more of this?” She indulges you, taking her fingers off of you and circling them on your oversensitive clit.

You hiss, dropping your head on her chest as you stifle whimpers caused by the overstimulation. “Enough, enough.” You murmur into her skin.

She retreats her hand and unhurriedly caresses your scalp, “Will you clean me up, dear?”

You nod fervently, pressing a searing kiss to her lips and whispering ‘thank you’s. She gets on her knees, waiting for you to adjust your position and lie down comfortably, before lowering herself into your face.

You grip her thighs, nodding, mouth open and tongue out, waiting for her. Her hand soothes your hair as she starts rocking her hips to your tongue. She looks at you the whole time, and oh, she looks gorgeous.

The sun hits her skin and her eyes in such a unique way, her slightly messy hair cascades, and Eva looks so soft, so vulnerable, and it’s all for you, and just for you. As she moans and grinds on your mouth, you’re so grateful to be spending possibly the rest of your days locked up on a boat with her. You realize you sound insane, but again, Ilyukhina, in her immense wisdom, once said ‘whatever rocks your boat’, and refused to be corrected.

Your hands hold her waist, cradling the soft skin and begging for this moment to never end. Your unremitting tongue makes her exhale, and you flatten it, suckle on her clit, lick her folds, and do whatever you did eight years ago that was enough to make her come back to you today. “That’s it,” she says hoarsely, a tainted and weepy sound coming from her, and you feel her trembling. “That’s it,” Eva repeats over and over breathlessly, restraining herself, looking up and tangling her fingers deeper into your strands.

Eva looks at you, and you notice she’s coming. That’s all she has to do. She bites her lip and indulges in a long whimper, her thighs closing around your head, feeling your hot cheeks and panting your name, your surname, anything she has ever called you. She’s too sensitive, she’s always been, so you stop and wait for her to lie back down.

She kisses you first, your face glistening with her slick, and your eyes shining with adoration. She always thought she could handle love and compliments, but she never thought she would be the target of the amount you offer her. So she doesn’t handle the utter devotion, choosing to close her eyes and kiss you deeply. You taste like her, and you smell like her. She smells like you and tastes like a religion.

When she lies back down, you bury your head in the crook of her neck again, sleepily kissing the marks you left. Then, there’s silence, and you hear the birds outside, the leaves on the ground being crunched by the steps of the dogs, and a few water sounds, possibly the cow drinking water. You know you can’t dream, your life won’t allow you to, but if you could give yourself the luxury of choosing how to live, you would choose this.

You wouldn’t choose the dinner parties, teaching, or smoking on the balcony. You would keep the coffee and Eva. And this, the quiet, the sun. She doesn’t ask you what you’re thinking about; she doesn’t need to, she’s seen the same look in your face over and over the years, had nightmares about it, and the sweetest dreams, too. She knows this is the same expression she saw when she changed your life, in one way or another. How ridiculous it is to ask for someone to blindly follow you, your ideals, and your hopes. How absurd it is for you to agree, even without a single word from her, without a future and all the things you deserve. She’s fully aware of it, but she kept you safe, she redeemed herself, and, when the whole Hail Mary mission is over, she will redeem herself again. And only then will you two have a life like this moment again.

“That’s an awfully quiet place.” She says, enamoured by the beautiful sky seen through the window and the sight of the sun hitting the wooden floors.

“I have to sell the cow.”

Eva looks at you. You do have to sell the cow.

“I won’t take the shit-smelling cow to the boat.”

You pout to yourself. Your house feels like paradise now that she’s here. You’ll miss your life, the quiet and undetectable life, but you had given up on it once; you could do it a second time, now that you know she’ll be there. You wonder if this is how it feels to have a soulmate, like an eternal post-sex pre-coffee morning.

“Are you too different from who you were?”

“What do you think?” She asks you with nothing but curiosity.

“I think I’ll have to find out.”

She nods. She doesn’t think she’s profoundly changed by anything that happened to her over the past years. There’s shared guilt, isolation, and paranoia, so much of it. She always knew it was coming her way, but she hoped the people she had abandoned, sacrificed, or hid forgave her, or at least understood her now.

“When are we leaving?”

“Whenever you want.”

“It’s up to me?” You sound surprised. She shrugs.

“Partially.” It always is, she thinks. When it comes to both of you, she always hopes she has some say, but it is always up to you, even when she takes control. To her, it’s up to your safety, your needs, and then your wants. This time, the first two are granted for now. “But I am on the most wanted list. So they would probably swarm the whole place before you even hear them coming.” She deadpans.

You look at her, and she looks back. “I have to sell the cow.”

“Are you aware it’s an animal surrounded by food?”

“She won’t be loved, though.”

She stifles a laugh with a scoffed ‘oh my god’. You don’t stifle yours, getting up from the couch. “Where are you going?” Eva speaks up, feeling the chill breeze when you crack the window open.

“Getting you some coffee.” You warn her as you enter the kitchen.

You should probably shower, but you just can’t muster the energy. Instead you wrap yourself in Perpetua’s bathrobe, before crawling into bed and hugging his pillow to your chest. It has a faintly musky smell, just enough to make tears prick at your eyes. You fall into a doze, which at least dulls the aches even if it can’t erase them.

“Honey?” It takes a moment for you to fully wake up and realize that voice was real, and then you hear the familiar footsteps, the creak of the floorboard as he pauses in the doorway. “You okay?”

Your voice will give you away, you know. “Just really tired. How was practice?”

Perpetua sits on the bed, smooths a hand over your shoulder and swears under his breath. “You’re shaking, what’s wrong?”

You tighten your arms around the pillow, and that just makes you tremble more. “It’s nothing, really, I don’t know why… I don’t know why I’m like this.”

The words come out more desperate than you want them to. It’s not just this evening you’re talking about. Somehow Perpetua knows—he always does. He pets your head, always so gentle. “Mind if I join you?”

“You don’t have to.”

“That’s not what I asked.” His voice is so soft it almost hurts.

“…sure.”

He strips down and snuggles up to your back, sneaking his hands beneath the robe so he can touch your skin. His hands are warm, and you almost imagine you can feel the energy of the rehearsal pulsing in them.

For a while it’s quiet. Perpetua presses little kisses to your skin wherever he can reach, like he can’t get enough of you, but there’s no urgency to it. He nestles one hand against your chest so he can feel your heart.

“Do you know why I said ‘starlight’ in Peacefield?” he asks a few minutes later.

“Huh?”

“It’s because of you.” He squeezes you that little bit tighter. “The obvious thing would be moonlight, right? But you’re not like the moon, you’re like the stars. Maybe not everyone notices them, but the light is always there. Sometimes you have to look really hard for it, when there’s a bunch of shit at ground level drowning it out, but when you make the effort to really see it, it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.”

“Perpetua…” You roll over to face him, catching just a glimpse of the warmth in his eyes before your vision blurs.

“Hi, precious.” He kisses your cheeks where the tears fall.

“Why are you so sweet?” The ‘to me’ is silent, but he hears it anyway.

“You’re my honey.” He says it like it’s an immutable fact, like ‘the sky is blue.’ “I can’t not be sweet to you.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you weren’t.”

“Ah-ah.” He boops your nose. “Not how it works. C’mere.”

Perpetua gathers you in as close as he can, and you bury your face in his chest. He’s still so warm, the last remnants of his cologne blending with his own natural scent to form something that makes you lightheaded. You take deep breaths—maybe you can breathe him in enough to replace everything that feels wrong inside.

“That’s it, good sweetheart,” he says, rubbing your back. “You know I love you so much, don’t you?”

“I…I do.”

“All the way to the stars and back, yeah? The moon’s not far enough.”

When you’re a little more revived he’ll get up, pour drinks and bring them to you in bed, pull you into his lap and tell funny band stories to make you smile. But for as long as you need, he’ll hold you just like this.

I watched his hands, large and rough, as they slowly sloughed off the dead cells along the patient's arm. It was a precise and meticulous procedure, nobody dared to breathe as the doctor worked—we were never to interrupt. For such a large and imposing man, his movements were always so careful and deliberate—a tenderness tended to linger, even as his pulled back layers of skin and tissue. Every one of us wore gloves, face masks and scrubs that had once been white but were stained pink and grey no matter how thoroughly they were cleaned. At most he wore a lab coat, but his hands were always bare, the only thing on his face was that strange visor—for his damaged sight, the lead researcher, Doctor Richardson, had said. His mouth, split and cracked was always in a thin line as he concentrated, taking skin and blood samples back to the lab to study before he returned to his private office up on the third floor.

Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Centre was not the place to work if you were faint of heart. A sanatorium posing as a long-term care facility for those with physical injuries and psychological disorders—I knew it was posing. Nobody ever seemed to improve, I'd been here six months and not a single person had been discharged yet people had disappeared. The Head Nurse had shrugged, saying the Director had them relocated. I'd been sent here as a trainee nurse as part of my placement, shadowing the Head Nurse in daily tasks until one day she'd told me to take over for the surgical assistant—she was ill, she said.

That assistant never came back.

I'd been given clearance to access Security Level 1 areas, mostly so I could access patient files. I had to help prep for surgery, I'd been told, and had to assist the surgeon while he worked. For what type of surgery? I didn't ask. I didn't want to know. The things I had already seen had made my stomach twist with unease but nothing had prepared me for Doctor Victor Gideon.

At first I had recoiled, glad that my expression had been partially covered by the mask over my face when he had come in with the Lead Researcher, towering over the other man and his hulking frame barely fitting through the operating room door. My breath had hitched and his head had turned toward me ever so slightly before he had held a large hand out, requesting a scalpel. I had been repulsed then, as his large fingers slid through tissue, the blood leaving traces on the rings he wore before the other hand was using the sharp blade to slice deeper and remove whatever sample he had wanted. I'd watch him wash the blood off his hands after, as if it were merely dirt and not the bodily fluids of another human but I wasn't even sure if I could call Victor Gideon human.

Immune, Doctor Richardson had told me that first day in the operating room when Doctor Gideon had left and I had given the researcher a questioning look. There had been an understanding that I did not talk about what happened. I kept quiet and did as I was told. But I wondered, immune to what exactly?

My horrified fascination led me to always watch Doctor Gideon's hands when he performed any surgery or even while he worked in the Blood Lab. I wondered if he was responsible for his own scars—had he tested on himself? No, I thought. He was skilled but the extent of the incision that ran from his neck down his torso was certainly too large to have been done himself, surely. I wondered what it was, it reminded me of an autopsy incision. I tried to never look at him too long but I couldn't help myself. It was a strange fixation that manifested over time. I couldn't help watching him or listening to his quiet words as he carefully sliced open the cranium of some poor patient.

Occasionally there would be other students that would come to the centre. To learn. To study. Doctor Gideon would shadow us sometimes, from afar. I now had access to Security Level 2 and had seen far more gruesome experiments than I could dream of. I was a permanent hire now and I guided them through the facility, showing them the patient wards and theatre rooms. I always felt Doctor Gideon watching as I led them through the charade of medical care we were trying to perpetuate. The students rarely noticed the looming shadow but I did. I could always feel the weight of his presence, the vibration of his footsteps as he lingered somewhere nearby—perhaps watching through the one-way mirror in the large operating room, or otherwise lingering in a dark corner. If anyone noticed him, there was always that audible gasp, the quick suck of air through their nose and a stuttering sound. I did not blame them, he was terrifying. Grey skin, grey hair and the lenses on his visor glowing red as they homed in on you, assessing and cataloguing each movement and breath from his great height.

They would huddle together then, like sheep. Thinking that were safe in numbers.

They were not.They needed to be smart, to not balk at the task at hand—they needed to not ask questions they didn't want an answer to. You didn't last in the sanatorium if you asked too many questions. If they did, Doctor Richardson would have me take them into the Isolation Ward. Like a Judas goat I would lead them through and I would be the only one to come back out. Their endless bleating used to carry over into my dreams, I would see them with their red eyes and pleading, bleeding mouths. I barely dream now.

When I would come out of Isolation, he would be standing there. The red light of the ward flashing and glinting off him as he stood, large and imposing with his hands behind his back. He wouldn't say anything, just nod approvingly and I would follow, hating how that sliver of approval would make me smile. I clung to it, this tiny scrap of acknowledgement from a monster. I was as foolish as the frog, hoping the scorpion wouldn't sting me but he was already upon me—under my skin, ready and poised to deliver a fatal drop of poison. So I kept going, letting myself want his trust and his approval, hungering for it.

I was as sick as any of the patients I tended to, I thought. But it was my way of surviving. In those early weeks I had thought of never returning but something kept bringing me back, this terrifying siren call of horror and fascination. And there was something about Victor Gideon, something that told me I would be found if I didn't come back of my own free will.

Perhaps my days would have continued to the same if I hadn't been for my morbid curiosity and the way he made my skin crawl with a sort of horrified arousal. I felt attuned to him whenever he was nearby but during an operation I could never tear myself away from him.

It was a rainy day in November when something changed. That morning I had prepped the operating room for an operation on one of the hysterical patients. When he walked into the brightly lit theatre, I tried to contain my grotesque excitement. Fingers parted skin, gliding through tissue and I watched, avidly, as he did so. It was macabre, yet I stood there, silent and obedient, passing across surgical instruments without being prompted all the while watching his fingers. My feet shifted as I felt my body cramp and felt the wetness of my monthly suffering, earlier than anticipated. I bit my lip and shifted again, trying to ignore it. The doctor paused then and turned, passing me a bloodied scalpel though his many eyes fixed on me. I could hear the slight hum of the visor as it zoomed in and I looked down at the tray I held in my hands a moment, feeling my heart begin to pick up as my cunt throbbed with another cramp but also something else that I tried to ignore. I looked back up as he plucked the hemostat from my tray, his gaze still watching me. I swallowed, feeling stuck to the cold floor of the room, the lights feeling far too bright. His tongue flicked out, the forked muscle tasting the air quickly before it was gone and he was turning back to the patient tied and sedated on the operating table. I made myself breathe, and I squeezed my thighs together before I focused back on the doctor, watching and wondering what those fingers would feel like between my legs, parting my folds and slipping into my bloodied heat.

I tried to not let me thoughts stray any further, part of me feared that he could hear them, the other part—the part that did not dream and cherished any bit of praise—hoped that he could.

Squeezing my thighs again, I busied myself with cleaning the dirty instruments, knowing that I wouldn't be needed for a while. He would be done soon and then I would have to clean the rest of the room and monitor the patient until he was stable enough to move back down into the Rehabilitation Ward. Perhaps I let myself think these perverse thoughts as a distraction to what it was we were doing. I did not question the strange behaviour of the patients, nor that they disappeared frequently; staff too, like the nurse I had replaced. I let this fascination with Victor Gideon fester, constantly scratching at it so it would never heal. I was always watching him whenever I saw him within the main part of the centre. I would busy myself nearby, listening to the sound of his voice as he spoke in that careful tone of his to someone else. I would make myself useful if he came into the Blood Lab to request another document and I would offer to take reports to him if the Lead Researcher was busy—delivering them to his office with the reverence of an apostle surrendering some slaughtered creature to the altar of the Gods.

It became an obsession.

Doctor Richardson was pleased with my work, recommending that I move over to their Research Labs. I was dedicated and thorough, and not squeamish. I had never considered research before, it had sounded dull and I had wanted to help people. Ha. Those idealistic values I once had were gone, I didn't care about anyone else but myself. And him.

I'd been working more in the labs than with the patients for the last several weeks. I saw Doctor Gideon more often, watching him out of the corner of my eye as I noted down blood tests results from the patients in the Rehabilitation Ward while in the lab. The back of my neck would prickle but I would keep on working, trying to focus on what I was doing. Sometimes I could feel him approach and then see the glint of his visor in the shiny metal of the microscope I was working at. He always stood so close, looming over me. I would squeeze my thighs together under the desk and try to focus on my work.

Today was no different. Surgery had been hours ago and my shift was nearly over. There were no windows in the Blood Lab but I could tell the time by the ache in my feet and shoulders. And I was desperate to get home and shower. I had done my best earlier to clean myself in the bathroom, trying to wash away the menstrual blood and hastily shove a pad onto my spare pair of knickers. I felt irritable and my entire body ached but I would continue on.

I didn't want to disappoint Doctor Gideon.

I heard a hum from him as he picked up a report next to me, the only sound the whirring of the hematology analyser and the flick of pages being turned carefully. I only faltered a moment before I continued typing on the computer, trying to focus on the data. My body cramped and I shifted in my chair, trying to will it away. When he was so close to me it was hard to concentrate, he carried with him a heavy scent of patchouli but it didn't quite mask the strange metallic, chemical scent he seemed to exude.

"Hmm." Another flick of the page before he settled it back down on the counter next to me. "Come bring this to my office when you are done."

"Yes, Doctor."

The heavy footsteps signalled his departure and I strained to hear them until there was nothing but silence as the analyser finished processing. It beeped at me and I flinched.

Had I done something wrong? I hadn't been able to tell whether he was satisfied with my report or not. I didn't want to rush but I also didn't want to keep him waiting too long, there was hardly anyone else except the overnight shift in the clinic now. I had no idea what hours Doctor Gideon kept and was not brave enough to ask anyone. The thought of him staying back and waiting for me had me working as quickly as I could.

I ran the machine again on another sample from the same patient, wanting to check it across the data it had just spat out at me. Cross-examining it and meticulously typing it out, my eyes blurred as I stared at the screen. Usually, I would leave it for Doctor Richardson to check over before it was given to Doctor Gideon but I couldn't do that now, not when he had requested it. I didn't want to waste anymore time, I could feel my heart starting to race with a restless anxious energy as my foot tapped against the floor, waiting for it to print out. If it was wrong, I would do it again until he was happy with it, I told myself, as I took the warm pages out of the printer and carefully stapled them together.

Carefully placed in a manila folder, I turned the hematology analyser off along with the lab lights and locked the door with my security pass. I made my way towards the West Wing, ignoring the sound of Selena Corey singing as I passed the bar lounge and headed for the third floor. Someone else could take her back to her room, I had more important things to do. Besides, I wasn't a regular nurse anymore. I was a research assistant. I'd bought myself a nice new pencil skirt and a matching jacket, trying to affect an air of professionalism. I was irritated that I'd had to throw my bloodied stockings in the bathroom bin and the skirt chaffed against my thighs as I walked. When I reached the third floor, I briefly paused outside the door, checking my reflection in the mirror to make sure I looked presentable and that my jacket was straight before heading inside.

There was usually a table in the lounge area of the Director's office where I would leave reports, this is what I had been instructed to do by my team lead so I had never ventured very far into the room before. The main office was always shut and the one window that peered inside usually had the blinds partially closed so I could only catch hints of the doctor while he sat at his desk. The blinds were completely drawn today however the door was partially open. My heels clicked loudly against the tiled floor and I paused at the door to his office before gently knocking. Unlike the rest of the care centre, the Director's office was lit with lamps that emitted only gentle orange light.

"Come in."

He was still working, writing something in what looked like a diary as I entered. The desk he sat at was massive, made of dark wood panelling that matched the walls and shelves of the rest of the office. It had to have been custom built, I thought, to accommodate for his size, along with the chair he sat in. He didn't even glance at me as I entered and I was grateful, he was not wearing his usual visor and some of his grey hair fallen forward across his scarred face as he worked.

"Shut the door."

I did as I was told, the gentle click of the door closing very loud in the office. There was an old gramophone in the corner and it was lightly playing some classical music, and there was also the smell of cigarettes—the butt of one gently smoking on a glass tray that was filled with ash. I moved deeper into the room, my footsteps silenced against a thick rug. I placed the report on the desk, in what I hoped was not a meek manner, trying to retain a semblance of formality—as if I had done it a hundred times before. Nervously I smoothed down the front of my skirt.

"Please," he said, still not looking up at me but gesturing to one of the chairs in front of his large desk. "Take a seat."

I sat, ankles crossed and my eyes flicked around the room taking in the green leather couch, many books that lined the shelves and the medical illustrations on the walls. It was warm in here and I itched to take my jacket off but the doctor was still wearing his usual snakeskin coat, clearly unbothered by the warm room. So I didn't move. It felt like an age that I sat there in that dim room, waiting for him with my stomach twisting in to knots. When he clicked the pen he was using and looked up at me I swallowed. The corner of his lips quirked at he closed his journal and dragged the file I'd brought toward him and opened it, flicking through it.

"Hmm."

My anxiety spiked again as he read through the document. Though I could see his face I couldn't discern his expression. He didn't spend much time on it before dropping it back on the desk.I kept my hands in my lap, trying not to fidget. I felt like a rabbit, paralysed in front of his gaze and not wanting to make a sudden movement lest he strike at me. I'd never seen his eyes before, they glittered in the low light. It was hypnotic.

"You've shown great promise."

Soft words. I let them wash over my skin and revelled in the pleasure they gave, some of the apprehension sliding away at his praise.

"Thank you, Doctor."

"Victor."

I hesitated a moment but then managed to reply, "Victor."

Victor.

I savoured the name like it was the finest wine. It tasted like victory an the feeling spread though me immediately. It made me feel special, better than the rest. He could trust me and I would be worthy of his trust. My heart raced and I couldn't help the flush that bloomed across my cheeks and that my lips quirked into a smile. I tried to not let it affect me, to stay objective and sensible. But I was a silly little rabbit.

He smiled back at me, his large hands clasped together on the desk as he leant forward. The lamplight caught on the gold of his teeth—I'd never been able to study his face so openly before and only now noted the additional incisors. I shivered.

"You are very observant," he said. "I've not had an assistant nurse last this long, nor one be recommended for promotion so swiftly." He smiled again, though it wasn't a particularly reassuring expression, it was a lot to have the full intensity of his attention on me and I subconsciously shifted in my seat. His tongue darted out then, so briefly sliding across his lips before disappearing. "You seem to anticipate my every need."

"Thank you," I said and added, "Victor." My breath shuddered out of me as I went on, "It's a pleasure to work with you."

"A pleasure?" The tongue flicked out again. "It is, isn't it."He stood then, the chair sliding back against the rug. Moving with deliberate slowness he came toward me. I didn't dare move, swallowing my nervousness and ignoring the ache deep within me. How I despised that my body was making me suffer when I was alone with him. But I wouldn't be rude, I would not say anything. The satisfaction I felt from his praise was enough to ignore my clenching cunt and the way my lower back ached. I didn't need an opioid injector, I just needed him to tell me again that I had done a good job.

I clasped my hands tighter as he came to stand behind my chair and I felt him place both large hands on the top of it, his knuckles barely brushing the back of my shoulders.

"The thing about being very observant," he said, his words floating down to me and sliding down my spine, "is that you need to be subtle. You are not the only one who is watching."

I heard him take a deep and slow breath as one of his hands gently came to rest on my shoulder. It engulfed it completely. His thumb touched the side of my neck. It was cool as it slid slowly against my skin, my pulse thundering under it like a raging fire. I licked my lips, they were dry and I bit at my bottom lip in an effort to rein myself in. Had I fallen asleep in the lab? I must have. Or the drugs I had taken earlier had not been inflammatory relief but some hallucinatory substance.

But the heavy scent of patchouli mixed with cigarettes and that peculiar underlying scent of his was more than enough for me to know it was real. It filled my nose and I tried to breathe, it was cloying but I wanted to breathe in more of it. I wanted to cling to the smell and memorise it.

"You seemed a little tense today," he said and though I could not see his face I hear the lilt behind his words that made me know that he was smirking at me. His thumb brushed behind my ear and touched a sensitive spot that made me shiver with pleasure and I subconsciously squeezed my thighs together, my own fingers clasping my hands tighter. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

Yes.

"No," I said. "Thank you for your concern," I added with sincerity, "It's nothing. I will try not to let it interfere with the work."

His fingers had crawled across my shoulder and were on my neck, idly stroking my hair like I was some sort of pet. The music softly playing from the gramophone came to a stop and Victor's fingers paused before they slowly retreated from me and he was walking towards it and carefully flipping the vinyl over. The notes filled the room again and I reminded myself to breathe. I hadn't been dismissed, I knew this, so I stayed seated with the anticipatory feeling in my chest while I stared at his back. It was so broad and the top of his head was only a foot away from the ceiling. I had often wondered what the rest of him looked like, his hands were large—I was certain one would have easily been able to wrap around my neck. My eyes briefly flicked to his leather pants when he turned before I looked away, mortified with myself. It was one thing to think about his cock in the privacy of my own apartment but another to do so right in front of him.

I had daydreamed about holding his full attention but now that I had it I didn't know what to do with it. I felt too small in his presence, scared I would say or do the wrong thing and I would be the lamb led to the Isolation Ward, never to be seen again. I recognised there was something twisted within me, that I didn't just want his approval but all of him. But he still scared me.

Victor moved back to me then and I briefly caught the smile on his cracked lips. He didn't seem angry—I had only ever witnessed his displeasure once, at a junior researcher that had contaminated a blood sample. It had been an icy sort of rage and I had never wanted to hear it again.

He was holding something out to me, it was a wine glass filled with a dark red liquid. I took it, my fingers briefly touching his. Still cool despite how warm the room was. I sniffed it, it was a very rich wine. I was no sommelier but there was something about it that reminded me of Victor and I glanced at him.

"I found that in a little village in Eastern Europe," said Victor pleasantly, coming to stand behind me again. "It will help you relax."I sipped at it, it sat heavy on my tongue but I would drink it all anyway. At least it gave me something to do and a reason to not speak, I did not trust myself and was worried I would say something stupid. I sipped at the wine again, it made my head swim a little though I hadn't had much of it. My muscles cramped again and I grimaced, covering the action by mindlessly taking another sip of the wine.

Sweat was starting to bead on my forehead and I wiped at it without thinking. My arm felt heavy and it dropped with an ungracious thump at my side.I blinked sluggishly. Was I that tired that half a glass of wine but causing me to feel like I'd drunk half a bottle instead? Surely not. My grip slackened on the wine, the glass slipping from my hands but it didn't fall. The doctor was catching it and placing it on his desk. I went to move forward but I felt the world around me spin with the movement and leant back, a gasp leaving my lips in my confusion.

"Shh, shh, shh…" I heard him say.

All of a sudden his hands were under my arms and pulling me up to stand with such ease it took my breath away. I felt like a child's doll and I swayed on my feet. All my thoughts were feeling slow.

"This room is quite warm, I do apologise."

He didn't sound apologetic at all. His fingers undid the two buttons holding my jacket closed and was pushing it off me, leaving it forgotten on the ground. It was a slight relief to have it gone but I still felt overly warm in the room, I knew he'd put something in that wine he'd given me. I wasn't stupid. It must have been some kind of sedative. I felt like a puppet with half of its strings cut so my movements were clumsy and awkward. Those larges hands of his were on my blouse then and I couldn't look away as he undid them, fingers brushing against my skin as he did so. They felt rough and still so cool, it felt delicious against my own heated flesh. My heart was fluttering like a mad bird in my chest as he parted the fabric with the same ease and precision he did to a patient's chest cavity. I madly wondered if he'd rip out my heart and eat it, and if I would mind.

The shirt hung loosely on my shoulders, exposing my bra clad breasts to him, his hands ghosted over the skin and my nipples hardened in response. It was such a feather light touch, and I couldn't help but moan when his hand delved into one of cups and caressed one breast, thumb running over my nipple to make me moan again. I felt dizzy with the sedative but also with want, feeling wetness flood my knickers in response. I heard his slow hiss of breath before he picked me up again, walking over to his side of the desk to sit me on it and push me back.

I fell back slowly as if in a dream as I felt him push my skirt up my legs so it bunched around my waist.My head lolled to the side and through half lidded eyes I watched his large hands wrap around my thighs and slowly open them. I tried to shy away, not because I was repulsed—I should have been—but because I was embarrassed that I was bleeding.

"Victor…" I tried to speak but he shushed me again, squeezing my thighs before sliding up them to my knickers.

His hands rested there a moment and my gaze flicked to his, I felt pinned by it and it alone. He sat in his chair and drew close, leaning over me and pressing his face against my clothed cunt. I both heard and felt the deep breath he took alongside the flick of what could only have been his tongue as it pressed against me. I shuddered at the contact unable to help the way my hips bucked in response.

"I can smell it," he murmured against me, once of his hands releasing their grip to grab something I couldn't see. I felt something cold against the skin of my hip. It was a blade. I tensed but all he did was slide it underneath the fabric of my underwear. He leant back slightly so I could see his face, his strange tongue darting out again as the blade slid under the other side of my knickers until the became loose. A clink as the blade was discarded and he was pulling my ruined underwear away and shoving it into a coat pocket. I instinctively went to close my legs but he held me open, studying me like something under a microscope. He breathed in again and smiled at me. "I can also smell you when watch me work." He sucked at his terrifying teeth in a mocking but amused fashion as he looked at me. "Naughty."

I flushed at his words. Of course he had noticed, how stupid I had been to think he wouldn't have. But he had smelt me? I was mortified at the thought but not much, my deranged obsession made swell with pleasure for it had clearly pleased him.

"I've wondered what you taste like…"

The grip on my thighs tightened, not that it needed to. I could barely move with the sedative in my veins, and even then, I wouldn't have wanted to—not when his mouth was upon my cunt. The slide of his tongue had me keening and my clumsy arms knocked something off the desk—I think it was my wine—but he didn't care. His mouth was too busy devouring me, the wet sound of his tongue sliding through my bloody folds, lapping at it like a starved beast. There would be imprints from his fingers on my skin, bruises left like lingering kisses. I didn't care, there was no room for it—just like there was no room for my disgust. I should have been appalled at the way he supped greedily from my cunt, not missing any of my shed blood. It felt too overwhelming good, my entire body shuddering and sweating, my back was drenched and the fabric of my blouse clung to both me and the desk. He groaned against me, his diabolical tongue slipping into me, searching for more and I pushed my hips up against his face so his nose was pressing against my clit making me moan.

He gave me one last lick and leant back in the chair, though he still had his hands on my legs, keeping me there in place. I lifted my sweaty face to look at him, his mouth was covered in blood and I watched his tongue slide out and lick as much of it as he could.

"Divine." His voice had taken on a darker quality that sent a fresh wave of shudders down my spine and made the space between my legs throb. "Certainly the most enjoyable meal I've had in a long time."I didn't know what that meant and I didn't really want to know. But I could hazard a terrible guess. My body tensed at the thought but he was standing then, hands sliding up my legs and holding my waist where my skirt was bunched up around it. He towered over me and I was once more hypnotised by his reptilian gaze. One of his hands smoothed down across my chest and over my cunt, the heel of his large palm pushing against my clit. I keened at the contact.

"There you go, little rabbit," he said, voice as captivating as his gaze, "I won't hurt you."

It was foolish to latch onto those words but I did. I was greedy for survival but also his touch, I wanted more of it. And I received it, when a large finger flirted at the my entrance before sliding in, teasing and searching within me before another joined, stretching me open. My eyes closed at the feel of it and my hands reached out, gripping at the arm that still had its hand on my waist. My fingers dug into his coat sleeve as his fingers thrust into me; stretching and filling me as his thumb circled my clit, drawing out the threads of pleasure until it was knotting together deep in my gut. I writhed under it, my arms flinging to my sides and fingers digging into the wood of the desk with sluggish movements as I arched my back.

I could feel the pleasure about to burst, my walls clinging to his thick fingers before the knot was unravelling and threads snapping. I felt the gush of warm blood and my release, the slick sound of it filling the room as he kept thrusting his fingers within me. My body went lip, the rush of endorphins slicing through my body like lightening while I lay there, half-lidded eyes watching as Victor removed his fingers from me and licked them, fork tongue darting over his grey skin. I sighed, eyes closing as the gramophone continued to play. There was a clink and a rustling sound, something thudding lightly to the ground. I opened my eyes again and focused, trying to push myself up on my elbows but I was easily pushed back down by one large hand.

The doctor had removed his trousers and was grabbing my legs again, pulling me down the desk so my ass was nearly hanging off the edge of it. I'd caught a brief glimpse of his cock, monstrous in size and grey like the rest of him—though the surge of blood had it looking a pallid red. I tried to move back, there was no way that was going to fit inside of me.

He was hushing me again, like one would a frightened child scared of the monster under the bed—like I was being silly.

"You shouldn't be scared, don't be scared," he cooed at me and I could feel the large head against my cunt, wetting itself against my release and blood. "It'll only hurt if you're scared, little rabbit."

It did hurt. The monster wasn't under my bed, it was in it—in me. I couldn't help it, I tried to relax but the stretch burned me like I was being split open. His fingers were on my clit again, coaxing me open. The stretch of him had me opening my eyes in shock but I felt like I was going blind, that I was going to pass out. It was overwhelming. But then as quick as it had come the pain started to ease, probably due to whatever drug he'd given me and the pleasure was building again.

I was rising to meet him now and he leant over me, the smell of cigarettes and that strange metallic, chemical scent washing over me. It was not the sort of smell you'd find in a perfumery, but I breathed it in deeply as if it were the most intoxicating thing I'd ever smelt. And it was intoxicating, I couldn't explain it. I wanted more of it and I tried to wrap my legs around him to bring him closer but I struggled. I felt his soft laughter as his face loomed over mine before his mouth was on my neck, licking the sweat as his cock slid deeper into me. A mangled moan escaped me when I felt the sharp coldness of his golden teeth scraping against my skin and then I whimpered as I felt him bite at the soft skin.

Those teeth shouldn't have been able to pierce my skin without ripping me apart, I felt the sharp stab of them and I knew he'd drawn blood. It felt like the prick of two needles and something cool flooded my system. Still buried in me, he was then leaning back, the angle causing another moan to leave my lips and I saw his grin in the low light, watching the two fangs on either side of his additional incisors disappear back into the grey gums before his mouth was on me again. My head spun at the loss of blood and I felt like I was teetering on the edge of oblivion as he drank me in, fucking me harder as he did so, the desk protesting under the weight and force of his body colliding with mine.

I couldn't tell where the pain ended and the pleasure started, it was all blending together and making me feel like I was transcending anything my body had been built to feel. A flick of his tongue over the wound on my neck, the skin feeling tight and bruised before his mouth moved to claim my own. I could taste the blood as his tongue slid across my own, as well as the cigarettes. His mouth was the only warm part of him, his kiss burned me as it devoured. Teeth nipped at my bottom lip and his hips pounded erratically into me, I could feel he so close and my walls were clamping down on him at the thought.

"Good little rabbit," he whispered against my lips and the carnality of his tone had me shuddering beneath him as my vision teetered into blackness.

I felt the intensity of his seed spilling inside of me, his hands digging harshly into my hips as he leant back to furiously drive into me. My body felt shattered when he pulled himself from my shuddering cunt, I felt sated yet empty. Spasms still wrecked through my body as I twitched. I couldn't open my eyes, I felt like I'd been glued to the desk. A pitiful whimper escaped when I felt something sharp prick on the inside of my thigh.

A lifetime seemed to pass before my breathing started to even out and I managed to open my eyes, the blurry blackness slowly ebbing away from my vision. Victor was watching me carefully, his leather trousers back on. More life was flowing back into me and my head was starting to feel clearer. I managed to sit up on my elbows, awkwardly closing my legs—they ached, my entire body did. The doctor moved toward me again, fingers lightly pushing my hair out of my sweaty face.

"Very great promise," he said and pressed a cool hand against my forehead as I managed to sit up fully, my shirt hanging open and stained with blood. I saw he had an empty med injector in his hand, remnants of some unknown liquid still clinging inside it.

Awkwardly I nodded, sliding off the desk and teetering on my feet—one of my heels had fallen off. I felt like a newborn foal as I tried to walk but his hands were on me again, lifting me with ease as he placed me on a nearby leather couch.

"No, no, no," he said in that same sing-song voice that had me feeling like an errant puppy. "You can't leave just yet, we have to keep an eye on you."

An eye on me? I wondered what he meant but I didn't protest. I felt too tired. My entire body was exhausted and I felt an odd sort of hunger in my stomach. It niggled at me but ignored it for the moment, too focused on getting comfortable. I could feel him watching me carefully, not knowing that I would never leave the clinic again and the strange craving in my stomach was one that would irrevocably keep me at his side.

Because it was the sort of hunger that is never quite satiated.

Not even in death.