You have too much faith, he thought. There are things that are not worth it. He pulled the dress down over her shoulders and took off his shirt. It was cold and he shivered, but his skin was hot to the touch and in his heart he felt anguish at her trusting devotion to follow him wherever. That was exactly why she was in danger. He did not have himself under control enough for this responsibility lately, if ever, and that knowledge tormented him and it hurt his pride. He leaned his weight on her now with one arm and with the other he got himself free of his trousers and tried to understand the flash of anger in his stomach, tried to understand whom it was directed at.
"Don't say that," he told her, "there are things I am not worth. That's no figure of self-deprecation. Don't—" he didn't know anymore what he wanted to say. Don't trust me? That was not it. He very much wanted her trust, but he did not even trust himself.
The blood-stained dress joined his jacket on the floor and he felt her arch up and press against him and he held her hips tightly and bore down on her with the pressure of his body. When he pushed himself inside of her, finishing his sentence ceased to take up space in his mind. Finally, finally. He made a noise and he felt like he was strangling; the rushing of his blood was too loud, it threatened to drown out everything else. The ache in him was not sated, it only grew. He had not given her any time to accommodate him, and a part of him worried about putting too much on her after what she went through tonight, and a part of him did not worry and that part wanted to eat her alive.
Her skin at her ear and jaw tasted salty and maybe her tears had found their way here too. He did not move at first; for a moment, he just felt the heat rise, felt them cease to be separated. "Don't follow me blindly." he warned her and he searched for her eyes and it was almost like he was pleading with her to spare him his fate. But all the same, the time for words and warnings was running out. In a second, they would break out of their stillness and find out where this would take them. He could only wonder at how different it was already to their last night together; how changed they were.

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   Themis Lyra

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She meant her words, had chosen them with care. She had expected him to disagree with her, that would be like him, but she hadn’t expected his vehemence. So she listened and she watched. It was how she handled the world, through careful observation. Even as her blood boiled and her body begged for release, she would hear him. She would also defy him. “Do not tell me what to say. I decide who and what is worth my efforts.” She scolded, refusing to hear him berate himself when he occupied so much of her heart.

She was prepared to argue, even as her body resisted his pressure, her hips fighting his hold as her mind begged for something else. She met his eyes, ready for this battle, when his weight shifted, pressing her hard into the mattress. Her eyes dared him to test her, but the threat was minimal with the growing heat in her veins and the horrible feeling that she just might implode.

It was the strangest standoff, him above her with his hands locked tight on her hips. She held his gaze, was ready to assert her point, but the scenario felt surreal. He rid her of her bloody gown and, instead of falling into the sleep she desperately needed, she was craving him, fighting the urge to scream. God, her blood burned; everything burned. She was determined to ignore his warning, could almost dismiss it until he demanded her gaze and, Merlin help her, he was inside her.

She came apart at the seams.

She groaned, the sound debauched in her own ears. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t decide where she ended, and he began. The sinful noise he made in her ear only made her shudder, had her shivering around him. This was too much. This was not enough. She whimpered, there was no other word for her plea. “Sam,” It was a prayer, a devotion as he held her captive beneath him. Some part of her acknowledged exhaustion, begged for rest, but that part of her seemed far removed. There was no rest now, nothing beyond trying to sate the lust in her blood. She needed him, her hips rolling in encouragement.

She had felt the need for him before and knew what it was to want him. It didn’t explain her need to mark him, to claim him as her own. Nothing justified her overwhelming desire to sink her teeth into his shoulder, to stake a claim she had no right to. It didn’t stop her from wanting.

She couldn’t be passive, couldn’t lay back and ignore his presence, she had no desire to. As he sank into her, her hands tightened on his torso, her hands clenching against him. Whether it was her decision or the remainder of the magic between them, she dug her nails into his shoulders, pressing pain into his beautiful skin as he demanded pleasure from her. This was what it meant to be whole, the tears forming in her eyes as he held himself above her and forced her to experience him. He had not been gentle, there was no soft seduction between them. He claimed her and she surrendered, the act primal and simple. She was no higher being now; she was simply his. The thought calmed something ringing in her brain, answered some question she didn’t know she asked. She was fine, until he refused to move, waiting for her eyes. She whined, begged, almost struggled as she implored him to take her. There was no sanity beyond Samuel, nothing she could reconcile past the striving in her blood to be closer to him.

She almost fainted when his lips found her throat, her body jerking against him. It was difficult to force herself from the fog, to find a way to hear his warning. But he looked for her eyes and, unable to deny him, Themis met his gaze. “Never blindly, but with my whole heart.” She couldn’t hold his eyes for long, her own vulnerability frightening her.

And even joined as they were, she couldn’t silence the demands in her own mind, couldn’t make sense of the impulses that had her turning her head for him, exposing her throat and welcoming the drag of his stubble on her neck. Her words came without her thought or permission, impulse demanding that she beg, “I want you to mark me. Samuel, please.” Even as she braced, expected his teeth, she knew it wouldn’t be enough.

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   Samuel Griffith

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Lou made magic!

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She promised something, not able to withstand his eyes for long, and he knew that she did not want to hear his warning. She wanted everything but caution. How could he deny her? He loved her. However little it looked like it right now, going by appearances, her power over him grew ever stronger. His biggest failing had always been to give those he loved what they wanted, instead of what was right, sensible, and safe. Please. She pleaded. Her hands caressed his back, then dug into it, he felt the sharp of her nails and he braced against it, still holding her hips, pressing his hands painfully down on her hipbone. Her touch on his scars made him flinch, the circles seemed to want to jump out of him. She strained against him, trying to move, trying to get him to move. When he finally did, it was excruciatingly slow. He had been holding his breath, it seemed. She offered him her neck and he denied her, his breath on her skin, a hint of his lips, but nothing more, just his weight. He put it on her in full now, did not mind anymore that she gasped and fought under him. His hands released her hips, finally. He grasped her neck and face instead, felt her teeth at his fingers, lost his sense of what he was doing. The moment of restraint was over, they struggled against each other.

He wanted her to give him things she never permitted another man to take from her. They were being impossible. It could not be enough, it would never sate them. Mark me, she demanded. Don't make me, he wanted to say. I will give in. "You don't know what you're asking for. What you're really asking for." A bruise would only be a stand-in, the first step of their descent. He felt that they had never before clicked like this with each other; he understood now that all the violence others had sought from him for their degradation would serve to exalt her: his teeth on her skin barely scratched the surface of what she really wanted. He needed to find a way to stop this, to break her hold over him — when the morning came to freeze him out of this bout of madness. Not now.

He got into her in whichever way he could; he was in pursuit of her, had his demands ready, as she had hers; there would be a point where he was going to surrender, it was only the question of when and of what she then would dare to ask for. That knowledge was terrifying. He felt powerless to stop it. Just this, he thought: It would not be tonight. He could not allow that.

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   Themis Lyra

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Themis did not get her way, but what a wonderful way to be denied. He teased her, seemed to enjoy drawing every little noise from her as he brushed kisses against her throat. He took his time and dictated the pace of their joining. When he decided her squirming would cease, he pinned her with his weight, forcing the air from her lungs. The hands that clamped her hips came free, one caressing her face as if she were precious, the second tightened around her throat. It shouldn’t have been so exhilarating. She didn't think before pressing her teeth into the finger closest to her mouth; following the bite with kisses seemed natural to balance pain and pleasure. It seemed to trigger something in him, his tightly managed control snapping.

He was going to break her. She welcomed it.

Themis could only give. It was the starkest difference between her devotion to Samuel and the 'duty' she owed her now-dead husband. She'd learned quickly that the only power she had was the power to disassociate, to be nothing more than a body. Whatever joy her late husband celebrated when he burdened her, Themis did her best to ruin. Turning off, going away inside, was the only defense she had. For Samuel, she burned bright. There was no remaining decorum, no dignity she had that stood up to this moment. She was need, and craving, and pleasure; all his, all shattered.

Samuel's rebuke in her ear, his insistence that she couldn't understand what she needed rankled, but he wasn't wrong. Never in her life had she thought to ask for such a thing as a lover's bite. She'd never considered taking a lover; everything was out of sorts, but the answer remained the same. He may be the source of chaos, but he was also the source of joy, of adoration she refused to give its proper name. "I still want it." It was almost a whine as her fingers ran along his spine. He silenced her protests with a snap of his hips; all arguments were lost as he demanded her attention, Samuel crowding her senses. She would be embarrassed about her enthusiasm and would have felt shame at her behavior, but there was little conscious thought. She lacked the context and words for their actions and had never anticipated Samuel. Now, with the drugged pull of magic in her veins, she had little sense of control.

He pushed her over the edge of her restraint more than once, had her gasping and pouring a litany of encouragement in his ear. If he'd ever experienced doubt, she would do her best to banish it from his mind. Because how could she explain what she felt? How could she find words to justify the ache in her chest when he was gone? She began to think, to spin out into the 'what ifs,' but his body tensed, pressed into hers and she could only cling to him as they both shook against the weight of their actions. This had been different if only she knew why.

Reluctant to release him and suddenly terrified of the cooling room around him, she buried her face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in. She held tightly to him, intent on keeping them together as long as physically possible. The concept of facing the world beyond Samuel's touch left her hollow. Savoring the last shivers of pleasure that rocked her, all she could do was look into his brilliant eyes and smile, the gesture bittersweet. He'd cautioned her in her devotion, but that wouldn't stop her from offering him her truth. "There is nothing I would deny you. I would give you the world, if I could."

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   Samuel Griffith

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Lou made magic!

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Samuel dreamed he was running, running through a place he always knew but could not recall. He was blinded by the light and by the dark and he bumped against sharp edges and shapes that cut up his hands and arms and face. He was fleeing and seeking and the time was running out. There was a room ahead of him. Broken glass glittered on the floor, sharp points standing straight up. He was reminded of a voice, though he heard none: the voice was created by the sound of water, which rushed along and overflowed in cruel and gleaming streams, and by the bright glass which reared itself against it. He felt an answer in his own body, a fugitive pull towards the sharp. And at the same time, in his dream, he was weighed down by the certainty that he had forgotten some secret duty.

He reached the room. He swept across the floor with his bleeding hands, trying to clear his way. And then he knew he was upon him. He fell to his knees and he dared not to turn. Where was Themis?

He woke. It took him a second to understand where he was. Her arms were loosely draped around his body. She slept and her pale face in the dark told him of her total exhaustion. With a sigh of relief, he closed his eyes again.

When he woke again, every breath carried a crushing weight. He looked around the abandoned room and did not feel like it was real. Everything was wrong. Themis beside him was asleep. That was wrong too. She should not be here. He reached over the edge of the bed towards his jacket and pulled the watch out of the pocket. Half past four, Monday. Monday.

"Themis," he shook her awake. They could not stay here. People were expecting them. Her at the school, in a few hours. Time had run out.

He got to his knees, tense and pale. Naked, but there was nothing sensual about his bareness anymore. The air felt brittle. The bed was a mess. The red mark on her arm glared angrily at him.

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The sleep that claimed her didn't feel natural. It came fast and hard, pulling her under as she tried to resist long enough to enjoy the moments he held her. Between the ritual of magic, the effects of the blood potion, and their liaison, Themis was outmatched by her body's need to recuperate. She didn't wake gently.

Samuel was calling her. She didn't know how long he had tried to pull her from sleep, but she came to in fits and starts, a groggy fog lingering in her brain. She had no idea where she was; the room was foreign and cold, but here was Samuel. Instead of soothing her, his face telegraphed a panic, scaring her into wakefulness. Struggling to sit up, limbs feeling like weighted anchors, Themis held the blanket tight to her chest as she tried to assess the situation.

Samuel stopped shaking her, but he looked as if he'd encountered a rather unfriendly ghost, his face ashen and pale in the early morning gloom. As she meant to brush her hair back out of her face, she got her first glimpse of the scar on her wrist. It was still red, angry and loud against her pale skin. She did her best to ignore it, a stab of panic and a flicker of magic accompanying her observation. This wasn't a normal scar, and she would find a way to make peace with that, but not now. Not when Samuel needed her.

It was difficult to move, her body screaming at attempts to function. Everything burned, every muscle in her body convinced it had been abused the evening before. Her bones seemed to protest her need for structural integrity, and the act of holding her up felt monumental. Still, she moved through the pain, her focus on the stress she felt radiating from him. "It's alright. I'm awake. I'm here." She hesitated to touch him, an unfamiliar feeling. Touching him calmed something in her chest, but Samuel seemed too tightly wound that the wrong touch might shatter him. Instead, she moved to face him on her knees, mirroring his position and close enough to feel the heat from him, but she left her hands on her knees. "Samuel, breathe." She turned her palms up to him, ignoring the angry red line that seemed out of place on her. She extended them on her knees, an invitation to take her hand should he want it as much as an act of good faith: she was unarmed and unafraid as she sat with him. In minutes, she knew she would have to leave him to whatever fate he'd designed for himself. In an hour, he would be without her support or protection. It made her feel ill. "Come back to me, dear one."

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   Samuel Griffith

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Lou made magic!

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She woke slowly and with great exertion, but then she caught on to something he seemed to communicate without wanting to. Samuel felt like he got caught in a secret he did not want to be known. He noticed that his heart was racing so he forced himself to focus and slowed his breath, limited it to his nose and used it to tie himself down to reality. This passageway felt too narrow to sustain him, his body seemed to want to jump out of itself, but it worked. His pulse slowed. He shook it off and took her hand. "I'm alright," he said. "We fell asleep. It is Monday. The day at the castle starts in a few hours."

His first class would not begin until tomorrow, but her schedule was much busier, he knew that. She needed to go. He needed her to go so he could collect himself and return to a semblance of rationality. For a moment he could not even recall what day it was — it was December 7th. That left him three weeks to figure it out. It left 15 days until December 22nd, whatever that meant. Three weeks to get it done. Perhaps then this weight would lift from him and the debt accrued would be worth it.

He needed to go down to the basement and collect their abandoned creation from the circle it was born in. He needed to undo the mess of the bed and wash the blood out of his sleeves, that would stubbornly resist a common cleaning spell; sticky, dirty, chaotic magic. In the grey morning it lost it's shine. He had forgotten how much the chaos was exacerbated when someone else got involved in it. Someone whose access to his heart was scarcely restricted. He had long abandoned his most important safeguarding principle.

With dread, he remembered that he needed to take care of the issue with Don Juan, who would be holed up somewhere, suffering through withdrawals. Surely, Samuel would treat him terribly today.

A movement across the bed called him back to reality and to the knowledge that despite his need to be alone, parting from her would hurt. He kissed her and then he got up from the bed to get dressed.

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   Themis Lyra

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"Monday?!" Her confusion and panic apparent. She'd been smart enough to excuse herself from dinner, but she was sure she had fallen asleep early Sunday morning. She'd lost time completely. What had she done when she followed him into his old laboratory? Forcing herself to breathe and remember that she didn't have any responsibilities today until this afternoon. It didn't settle her nerves.

In his rude awakening, something had changed in Samuel. He was somewhere else entirely, his focus scattered and his body tense. Gone was her lover and her collaborator; gone was the man with his incubus-like power. She would almost call him frantic. She took his cue and demanded work from her limbs, demanded she crawl from his bed and look for her clothes. Every muscle screamed as she searched, bending feeling like a monumental task. Her wrist ached, the scar seeming to pulse, but she couldn't think of that now. She didn't dare. Her stomach twisted when she saw the gory mess that was her dress; the soft grey fabric now stained a deep red. She would have to floo to her home in Greenwich before traveling back to the castle. She couldn't be seen looking like this.

Dressing felt wrong; she wasn't sure if it was the act itself she resisted or if it was the bloody gown. Neither mattered, she had no choice now. Hands quickly working her hair into a braid, she tried not to be bothered that her hair was a mess, her braid uneven. Every way she felt wrong was assembling in the front of her mind. Her dress felt wrong, her hair was a mess, her wrist stung, she felt too heavy to move. Everything was wrong, and she was leaving him. She turned her back to him momentarily, needing a moment to blink back tears that formed without permission. This shouldn't hurt so bad.

Crossing the space between them, she drove a dagger into her own heart by kissing him soundly, needing her kiss to say what she could not. Hand to his chest, she debated only a moment before promising: "I will keep an eye on Eleanor while you're away." If it was all she could offer him, she would do it gladly. With a last brush of her lips, she turned for the fireplace and was gone.

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   Samuel Griffith

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Lou made magic!

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