I won't apologize for the Fire in my eyes. (Contagion)

[contagion]

Maybe it’s better, that she doesn’t remember, that he is such a miniscule blip on her radar. It’s better that his death – his slaughter – be a forgotten thing. He is reminded enough of it (in nightmares, or in errant thoughts, when his traitorous mind replays her names and faces and says oh, remember how you loved them).
He considers leaving. Considers letting the matter die as he did – unceremoniously.
But no, he stays, feet planted before her and that blue gaze that betrays nothing. And then, worse, he gives her his name.
“Contagion,” he says.

Contagion, like a sickness, and he feels sick now, sick and strange. He is not scared of her, not exactly – he is stronger now, solid bone and muscle, thicker skin, wings that could grant him escape. And he’s not in love with her, not now, not when he knows what those eyes look like when slit wolf-thin, knows how her smile can fester and curl and show too-sharp teeth.
But looking at her causes something, and oddness in the belly, a pulse sped up.

contagion

be careful making wishes in the dark