4

Sebastian glances back to Kathryn and compares the girl he sees now with the image of her etched in his brain.

Kathryn Merteuil, the Sanctified Whore: always impeccably dressed according latest fashion, never a single hair out of place , nails perfectly shaped, perfectly chipped, perfectly painted. With a perfect make up for every attire. Flawless perfection on the outside to disguise the disquieting desolation on the inside… a candy glittery wrapping which conceals a reality deceptive like a carnivore plant hidden in a greenhouse of orchids.

About the emotional massacres they detachedly organized, Sebastian enjoyed the challenge- Kathryn enjoyed the outcome. In a way, he admired her single-mindedness, her resilience in taking out on the entire universe any and every original sin had caused her inner distaste for life, the all-encompassing misery she would never admit she felt.

While he takes in her ruffled brown hair, clean face and oversized clothing, Sebastian thinks the underlying substance isn't very different.

In the most darkly possessive and obsessive way possible, he loves her, just like she loves him.

Sebastian as he's today is a Kathryn's creation every bit as she's his; from the day they have met they have started moulding each other, making their way to who they are today, placing themselves- together- above anybody and anything . So above the rest than weakness wasn't their thing, so above than the delirium of omnipotence was addictive.

Pain?

It was a familiar distraction- they could overcome it. Even better, they could deliver it.

Love?

They no longer needed or desired it. They laughed of the mirage it represented . Fuck, they laughed even harder when they could ridicule others throughout it.

Rules?

They created them, they bend them, they nullified them, they found the most elaborated ways around them. Where their fervid imagination failed, dollars succeeded.

Money?

Never a problem, always a valid mean.

Power?

They had a lot of it, and sought for more. 'Enough' was a word invented for inept ones, it was been taught to them far too soon.

Their bond feeds on suffering and joy alike –it could devour them as well if it would serve its survival, almost like if it owns an independent life.

" Come on, Deadboy, drive me somewhere … luxurious. I want a proper shower "

…And just when he is starting to wax philosophical, the Kathryn's imperious command breaks ungraciously his reverie.

His stepsister climbs in his car, looking up to his still stance with eyebrows raised in obvious annoyance.

If some things are meant to be constants, even in the face of adverse circumstances, the Merteuil trademark Me-Queen,You-Brute attitude is among those.

He eventually takes his place and ignites the motors, speeding up right way and smirking at the undignified sound escaping her mouth as she bends forward.

Kathryn straightens and leans comfortably back against the leather seat and while wind hits her face and the countryside rushes by them, she should probably feel defeated, betrayed, or angry.

But leaving everything behind makes her to feel like a fucking Goddess. Perhaps it's the adrenaline from their previous confrontation, draining her and yet breathing life back into her over-sensitized limbs .

Wiping rebel russet locks away from her indecorously clean face, she ends up casually to glance at her travelling companion.

His profile has a cutting beauty as he smirks.

Stupid arrogant bastard. She would show him! She would find a way, a way to do to him what he has done to her . A way to make him to think that never again he will be able to breath without her at his side.

END