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)
She doesn’t ignore the Fear—doesn’t pretend it doesn’t exist—and he is pleased by that. She was smart, his newest pet, and that pleased him. He could not stand when they pretended it did not exist, as if their insides were not melting against their bones, their cells snapping like rubber bands. Still, she also did not let it cripple her; she just respected it, blossomed beneath it. What a good little flower. Good little pet.
He purred with pleasure at her responses, wrapping himself around her more, pulling her deeper into the shadows of himself. “You weren’t looking hard enough,” he whispered, his voice barely audible as it connected the bridges between them. “I was always here.” His mouth traced the whorls of her hair and the slope of her forehead, moving her forelock to the side so that he could see the brilliance of her eyes.
“I saw you,” he lied, although it was believable in the smoke of his voice. “I always saw you.”
Perhaps he did. Perhaps he has been waiting for her, dreaming of her eyes.
Perhaps she was going to be his greatest conquest yet.
“You didn’t know to look for me,” he pressed it into her neck, her throat, new truths that he formed in the limited space between them. “That’s okay. I won’t be terribly hurt by it.” She didn’t know to follow the edges of her fear, the yellow brick road that he laid out for her—the crumbs in the forest. She didn’t know to hunt down the beast underneath her bed at night. So he came and found her. He uncovered her.
“And yes—I am special.”
An arrogant smile curled his handsome lips, ghosted across his cruel features. His pianist fingers played along the threads of the Fear again, finding the edges of it and skimming them lightly. He didn’t want her to feel terror—but dread. That would be delicious. What if he could make her feel Fear when he wasn’t at her side? He hadn’t toyed with that idea before, but he did now, stepping away into the darkness and then pulling the Fear more deftly. Could he make her ache with absence? Tremble at the thought of it?
He skirted around behind her, the shadows clinging to his slender frame, draping over his shoulders like a cape. He eased up on the Fear, let it go completely as he came up her side again with alien grace and ease. He appraised her wings but did not fear them, giving her enough space as he turned to face her, close enough that he could smell her, feel her breath. She was sweet—untouched, youthful, beautiful. His.
“I named myself,” he said coyly, pleased she had asked, pleased that she wanted to know. “When I was young, I met someone who helped nurse me.” She was beautiful too. Naive, innocent. He shivered at the memory. “I bit too hard,” an understatement, his shark smile widening. “An error of youth.” He took another step closer, breathing her in, tempting her closer with the flicker of his dark, unreadable eyes.
“She said I bruised her and then…” he laughed under his breath but didn’t finish the sentence.
“She had your eyes.”
He wanted to trace the edges of her face, but he also wanted her to choose it. It was important that she choose this—that she be as committed to the art as he. Of course, if she didn’t, he would have a back-up plan, but for now…he wanted her to make the choice. So he breathed gently, finding her gaze and holding it with his own, his darkness lapping against the back of them. “Why ‘Exist’?”
