A/N: I own nothing. A little Bamon itch that needed scratching. And yes, I'm still hard at work on 'Becoming Epic'.

I have a need. Well, an obsession, truth be told. I've fought it. Oh, how I've fought! But despite all the wrong, murder and mayhem he's caused, I still crave contact with him, like an addict in search of the next fix. I'm hopeless and helpless to this need.

I know who I am. I know who he is. Yet I still want, God help me.

I just need a taste. I'm very much like the mythical Pandora, who just has to know. Like Eve, who needs to know what that forbidden fruit tastes like, I need to know the sounds, smells, texture and taste of his skin, his fluids.

I am consumed by my need. When, not if I approach him, I just may be rebuffed. But I'm past the point of caring. It would be a small mercy if he did send me packing like the good little girl I'm reputed to be. Then, at least I could gather the shreds of my sanity and right-living back together and not be so riveted by him.

It's a bitter pill to swallow, that I've become one of the lemmings in the long line of females he's tagged. I thought I could overcome; I thought I was better than this base carnal need. I can't believe how wrong I was. Now I suffer nightly, lack of sleep messing with my ability to concentrate on the everyday chores in life. Metaphysically, I'm spent, leaving a trail of blood everywhere anytime I perform spells. Passing out for lack of the rest and renewal my body needs.

The day we took the werewolf (I can't bring myself to call him by his proper name, I was just as complicit in his death and I'll have to deal with that later), he looked at me even more oddly than he usually does. I know he must've smelled it on me. Which is why I've put a cloaking spell on him. No more pesky uncomfortable moments for me when we in the midst of fighting evil. He can't smell me now, and I always remember to keep extra underwear and wipes in my bag.

It's not love, there's no caring. There is just the need.