Coda

She was lax and lovely in his arms. All soft alabaster and swirling auburn angst. She sighed and nestled against the crook of his neck, still asleep. She was at her most beautiful like this.

Dead.

No. Never. Not that.

Charlotte was safe (so was he). They were together (the tentative markings of the illusive "we"). Charlotte—oh Charlotte—darling, dearest

Dead.

He sounded out her name. Bitter and metallic like the staccato dripping of acid on blade. She sighed in her sleep and subconsciously reached for his cheek. Her fingers burned like the guttural wrenching of a brutal birth.

Instantly, he flashed awake.

Breathe out. Once, slow and steady. Good. She didn't stir.

He gently wrestled her arms free, disentangled her long, forever unfolding limbs from his. She didn't protest (couldn't have anyway). He encircled her wrists. Delicate, fragile little things—bound to break, destined to diminish and fade, fade, faint down quiet now.

He kissed her.

She murmured, squirming (naughty child) against his hold, his grip. The tightening, seizing of moments and opportune openings.

He parted her lips.

Four sharp teeth, ivory incisors, and an accidental tongue. He tasted the crimson delight of heaven, forbidden. This was paradise. A city captured in lights, engorged on the romantic prologues promised eons before. This was heaven for the damned.

He slipped.

Fuck. He didn't mean it. It just happened, beyond his control. He was at her throat.

She screamed (must be in pain, he wouldn't know). She fought, struggling for life (admirable, that was brave). Charlotte was strong, but he was stronger. And now, she was gone—he was wrong.

He killed her.

But she destroyed him.