It had been winter the first time.

She hadn't struck him as anything but an ordinary girl; average height, brown hair, what he figured had to be a slim body hidden behind that ankle length coat, dark cinnamon eyes. Nothing special. Not someone he'd look twice at, really, but it was back then and years
ago and she'd been young. Very young, though she smelled experienced, like she'd been through a lot. Seen a lot. Knew a lot more than girls her age usually did.

Or so he'd thought. But it was back then and a long time ago.

The first time he'd laid eyes on her, he hadn't felt anything in particular. There'd been things to take care of. Tasks to fulfill. People to answer to, but only when and if he felt like it. And he had back then.

Winter had never bothered him; the ice and frost and snow and the vastness of the landscape were some of the few things he cared about. He hadn't thought about something being beautiful before, but if anything was – that had been it, and it still was. Cold and silent like the grave. Harsh and demanding. Empty. Lifeless. Everything he knew from before and could relate to.

The darkest of souls. A body without a heart. Once, he'd taught himself not to feel or give in no matter what pain it brought. Pain had only hardened his being.

And then …

It had been close to impossible to remember he used to be someone else, that there was a `before' and an `after'. But it had been back then. It had been long before she'd touched him, long before they'd met; a thing he'd been totally unprepared for even though he'd known about that lethal snow white skin of hers.

Close to a decade after he'd first spotted her, their paths had crossed again. Things had changed; he hadn't really given her any thought over the years, only paused briefly at her memory once in a while. A girl. A body. Someone he could've taken back then and used in every way, before he got bored, only to throw her away. Possibly kill her. And then she'd been out of his system for good.

Or so he'd thought.

He could've claimed her all those years ago, and hadn't, and then ... there she was again. The hatred he'd felt; cold rage, scorching, burning with desire to hurt her and everyone else, himself included, for that moment of hesitation. For not doing what he did best, the only thing he knew. To wipe away that image of her, to tear her apart so he could be sure of one thing: that she would remain silent. Dead. Gone. And nothing more than a faded memory in the back of his mind.

Some things were better left unsaid. Undone. Some things were better to forsake.

But he hadn't killed her, and he hadn't hurt her either. Only when no one was watching did he punish himself for being a coward – she couldn't rule him, no one could. He mustn't let her. No one was allowed to discover that she'd made him weak back then, and still held some of that power.

She'd lusted after him. When they'd met by chance again, his senses told him she wanted him, wanted to know what his body could do, what he felt like. Wanted him to take her. Mark her. Fuck her. And he had; he'd tasted every part of her body and then some of her mind; a place so foreign to the infernal darkness that was his own, he couldn't comprehend what it was he felt as she gave him permission to do what he wanted with her.

Something about her had angered him, made him hate her, made him want to hurt her. His hands always trembled with the need as he thought of her – it was an overwhelming feeling, close to orgasmic, the very thought of freeing himself from her. Because she hadn't feared him back then, not the way he'd expected her to and she still seemed oblivious about it when they'd met again. Sure, there'd been a spark of fear in her, but she'd never been truly afraid of him. Never that.

A kiss of death, a touch of red. Of fire and torment. Biting. Scratching. Clawing. Slicing. Weakening. It had been a weakening power rush unlike any other. It surpassed, in a way, what he felt as he watched someone die, and what went through the maze of his mind as the
blade cut deeper into his flesh. It was pain beyond belief, and it sucked the very life force out of him and into her.

He'd seen the widening of cinnamon eyes, seen the rise and fall of her chest, her lips part as she'd truly touched him and he'd let her see some of what he was and had been. But not all of it. Not the unspeakable things time had almost managed to erase for him.

That had been the first time she'd tasted his darkness, and he'd fed on that rush, like it was a sweet drug; her fear and shock at what he was. Only then had she momentarily given up the power she had over him before he'd become weak again.

The second time he'd almost forced himself on her, wanting her to say no, push him away, get angry. Scared. Wanted her to hate and loathe him because it would've made it so much easier to break free.

Please, she had said, whispered almost.

His hands were knotted painfully hard in her hair. She was scared, but she didn't fear him.

And again: please.

You don't know who I am, he'd told her. He hated what she did to him.

Please let me do it.

You have no idea what you're asking of me.

Let me touch you. Please. I want to. I need to. Please.

She'd begged and pleaded, pressed up against his body. And she hadn't even trembled under his touch, out of the pain he knew he caused her.

It will destroy you, suck you in. Make you insane, you hear me? Do you want to know what hell feels like? What eternal darkness really taste like? Do you? No, you don't.

She just stared at him, boneless, serene, in his cold embrace but the question was still there, in her eyes.

Please let me touch you … It was a breath of air against his face, those words.

And then she'd dropped her shields, cradled his cheeks between her hands, while he rushed through her like a tidal wave.

Everything had happened so fast, images, thoughts, emotions, words – it crashed over her, slammed her into the ground. Tried to cut her heart out, steal her breath, make her numb, make her bleed for what she experienced when he let her in.

… useless, freak, pain, torture, unwanted, unloved, worthless, chains and blades and nails and fists, abused, longing, need, want, desire, suppressed, beaten and taunted, you're a piece of shit, worm, an animal, a dog, filthy, ugly. You are nothing. Nothing. You are evil,
mean, fit for nothing but murder, slaughter, torment. You are nothing and nobody. Nothing …

He'd wanted to beat her, kill her with his bare hands – there was only one thing he hated more than not being feared.

I don't need your pity woman, he'd told her, his hands shaking, pulling at her hair.

She hadn't said anything, just gazed at him.

Don't fuckin' pity me, he'd yelled at her, then pushed her away from him. Turned his back to keep her from noticing the way his face had begun to crumple. He couldn't allow her to taste the salt either. Never.

I'm sorry, was all she'd said. Soft voice, warm hand – a gentle touch – and it was more than he could handle, after everything he'd done to her she was still there. Touching him.

She'd seen a part of him he'd almost forgotten about. She knew he wanted her in ways he couldn't put into words because he'd never been taught what they were, what they felt like. And after that second touch he'd made the only sacrifice he ever would.

He let her go.

Forsaken but hungered for.

He'd let her go because he'd seen what happened to her when that other man was around. He'd smelt their desire, their feelings, the need and longing between them. All he could do was watch her slip away and take that last flame with her, because he knew she wanted that other dark haired and cigar smoking man he'd tried to kill so many times before.

He'd turned his back and left them behind. Left behind a faded memory of someone and something that would haunt him for the rest of his life. But it had been his choice, and he'd made it for her.