Chapter Seven

Willow wasn’t asleep. As soon as he left the bed, she woke up, but she lay without moving, hearing the muffled sound of voices. The candles had been extinguished, probably after she fell asleep, held against William’s chest, his hand gently stroking her back.

She wanted to get out of the bed, and she desperately wanted a bath. The house had hot and cold running water, water closets, and two baths on the second floor. One was a part of the master bedroom suite that Darla and Angelus would share. The other bathroom was between her room and Drusilla’s, with access from either bedroom.

William had warned her against leaving the bed earlier, and she wasn’t sure if that injunction still held. He could be forgetful about things like that. When he said she walked a fine line, the sarcastic voice in her head responded with an unladylike snort. She was sore and sticky and the room reeked of sex, and sweat, making her nose wrinkle. She was also hungry and thirsty. Painfully so. The ache in the pit of her stomach was competing with the ache between her legs.

She hoped her stomach would win. The ache between her legs reminded her of what they had done. Not that it was anything new, or different, or worse than anything else, it was just . . . she’d been alone for awhile. Scared alone, and lonely alone, and no sex alone. Not even masturbation, though she had been tempted more than once to give herself an orgasm, especially on those nights that she couldn’t sleep, and she knew that an orgasm would allow her to relax enough to sleep.

There was a little game William used to play with her. It had been a while since they had done it. Basically, he would talk her through an orgasm. It always started the same way. He’d say in a teasing, tempting tone of voice, ‘touch your lips’ and after the first few times, it always made her wet. She frowned in the dark, bringing her fingers to her dry lips, trying to remember it.

There are always happier things to remember . . .

Touch your lips, her lips formed the words silently.

‘Lick your fingertips,’ her tongue was like cotton wool.

She smoothed her fingers over the pillowcase, playing with the starchy Battenburg lace. She thought if she pulled her knees up the ache in her stomach might subside a little. She tried it, and gasped.

The muscles in her thighs were still mushy. The weakness was connected to the way they had fucked . . .

She had been on her knees, trying to keep her shoulders off the bed because she had no leverage without them, and he was barely moving at all, except to run his hands over her skin and play with her clit until she was on the verge of an orgasm, and then he’d stop, which had only made her try harder, to make herself come, or to make him let her come, or to make him stop fucking her like it was a contest.

She’d used her body. Fucking him as hard as she could, tightening her abdominal muscles to squeeze his cock. She had begged. She had vocalized every sensation until she was hoarse and lightheaded from lack of breath. She had even cried towards the end when she felt herself tiring on that precipice of arousal and need that he kept pushing her towards and then backing off from. She was starting to wonder if she could have an orgasm at that point. She was just so tired.

Then, finally, he had pushed her head down into the mattress, holding her there with his hand on the back of her neck, fucking her hard, his finger’s pinching and twisting her clit until she came, soundlessly, tears rolling down her face.

Then he had been tender and gentle, kissing her tears away, whispering in her ear how he had missed her, how well she had done, how proud he was of her, and how beautiful she was, until she fell asleep.

The bedroom door opened and stayed that way for a moment before he closed it. She heard him moving around in the room, but she kept her eyes closed. Something landed on the bed with a thump near her back, followed by his voice.

“I know that you are awake. Don’t pretend.”

He sounded edgy, he was pacing. She could hear him. “How long have you been awake?” he asked.

She didn’t dare lie. She opened her eyes. “Since you got up.”

He sat on the bed beside her, his fingers drumming on something metal, and hollow, near her back. She gingerly rolled over, rubbing her stomach.

“Were you listening to us?” he asked. “You don’t lie very well, so don’t even think about it, just answer me.”

She was confused and more than a little frightened. “No,” she said. “Is anyone still—“ her throat refused to cooperate, clamping shut.

He grabbed her shoulders, yanking her upright, shaking her. “Tell me the truth Willow before I get angry and I do something that I’ll regret later.”

“I was just lying here, thinking, and I wasn’t eavesdropping on you,” she got out.

“Thinking about what?”

“Lots of things, like . . . being alone, and then not, and us, and,” she knew wasn’t making sense. “And, when you’d say, ‘touch your lips’ and—“

“What?” she was babbling, and strangely, since he could usually make out most of Dru’s rambles, Willow’s were harder to unravel.

She felt the color creeping up in her cheeks, and damned herself for being so easily flustered by him. “You used to do this thing,” she mumbled, “talking to me, telling me how to touch myself.”

He stared at her for a moment, trying to figure out what she was talking about, replaying her words in his head. A slow grin appeared. “Ohhhh. Touch your lips,” his hands relaxed on her shoulders. “That was a fun game.”

When he realized that she was awake, he had wondered how much she might have overheard. There was no telling how she would react to a family conference about turning her. She might expect it, but she sometimes had a hard time coming to terms with the harsher aspects of the reality of her existence, so he rather doubted it. He was afraid that it would set her back on the road of finding some way to kill herself, armed with a hell of a lot more useful knowledge about how to kill herself in ways that would make it impossible for her to be brought back.

He had kind of made a joke of it earlier, but the truth was that he had missed her desperately and spent most of his evenings getting pissed, and his long, dull days all too mindful of the huge space she occupied in his un-life. Without Willow to talk to and play with, he was stuck with Darla, Angelus and Dru. He had a childe-sire bond with Dru, but with Dru, Angelus came first and last, and he was wedged in on the margins.

He didn’t resent her for it. She could barely cope, and coddling him was never in the cards. Angelus was another story. He had resentments that had mated and spawned antipathy, bitterness, and bile where Angelus was concerned. Which had sod all to do with the fact that he’d follow him to hell and back. Angelus and Darla weren’t half bad, about half the time, but their spats tended to have a lot of spill over, and he had always been able to take himself off to shag his girl, or take her out for a few hours, just the two of them, to get away from it.

He missed her voice, and her warm, tight little body curled up next to him, and little things, like brushing her hair, or watching her take a bath. He had missed eavesdropping on her tea parties with Dru. He even missed Angelus doing his Pygmalion thing with her, talking about books—which was mostly Angelus telling her what she was supposed to think.

She just satisfied some unnamed craving in him, like nothing and no one else.

And he could have un-lived just fine without knowing that, thank you very much, Angelus. If it hadn’t been for that prick’s interference, he might not be sitting here right now worrying about the stupid things she could do to herself if he didn’t turn her before she realized that was on the schedule for Christmas, after the opening of presents and the wassail. Dru would, he knew, insist on the wassail. Maybe a plum pudding, too.

Christmas? It was nine months away. He couldn’t wait that long.

“Will?” her voice was so small and soft. “Are you still mad at me?”

There was a tremor in her voice that made him feel sad. “No, baby,” he sighed. “I hate sodding trains. All that noise, and then the quiet. Puts me on edge is all,” he scooted her closer, so he could hold her and kiss her.

Her lips were puffy and dry. He lifted his head. “You must be thirsty,” he said.

“And hungry,” she nodded, her cheek rubbing his chest. “And,” her nose wrinkled, “stinky.”

He laughed at that. “Want I should draw a bath for you? Find you some decent food and something to drink?”

“I can manage the bath part,” she said. “You don’t have to do things for me,” she said awkwardly. She knew he took a lot of crap from Angelus about spoiling her.

“I like doing things for you, Willow, my Willow,” he said, kissing her forehead. “Go on, make yourself smell like a bower for me, and I’ll find some food for you,” he picked up the box of chocolates. “Got some chocolate for you. Cadbury? You like those, right? Darla said--”

She turned in his arms, flinging hers around his neck and hugging him, hard. “My favorite,” she said tightly, passionately, sounding like she was going to start crying again.

“All right, then,” he was more moved than he’d admit under torture. “Anything for my girl,” he said, rubbing her back when she didn’t let go of him. “Sweetheart?” he could feel her trembling.

She pressed her lips against his throat, which given that her lips were kind of dry, actually felt kind of unpleasant, but he kept that to himself and hugged her back. She practically crawled up his body to get closer.

“I didn’t mean it when I said that I hated you,” she whispered.

He slid his arms up between their bodies, forcing her to relax her death grip on him so he could meet her eyes. “You meant it when you said it. You always do, and,” he shrugged. “That’s all it is. No more tears and sadness tonight?” his eyebrows lifted questioningly. “Rather have you knee me in the balls than start with the crying again.”

She went from puzzled, to curious, to amused in a matter of seconds. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she told him.

He gave her neck a light squeeze. “You don’t leave this room without me. I’ll tell you when that changes.”

Her gaze drifted downward. “You’ll forget,” she predicted with a small smile.

She was probably right about that. “Go,” he shoo’d her, making her shriek when he thoughtlessly slapped her sore ass.

He winced inwardly. Oops. She scampered into what he assumed was a bathroom, and he got to up again to go look for food.

The unholy trinity was back at it with the boy who was getting what was, given the mess on the floor, a second or third buggering from Angelus. Poor Darla. Her boy would fuck anything moving, and sometimes not moving. He wouldn’t be surprised if the maid he left dead wasn’t violated some more before she woke. Angelus had some kink about wanting to fuck ‘em as they were awakening. Sick bastard.

He quietly slipped past the door and down the stairs, getting a look at the carnage. Someone had been a messy eater. The dining room looked like an abattoir. William mentally put a quid on Dru and started looking for a kitchen, getting the lay of the ground floor in the process. There was a nice, cozy library across the hall from the living room. He sniffed, processing the odors in the room. It was a given that Willow spent a good bit of time in here, but her scent was strongest around a red leather chair that looked very much like something Angelus would consider his throne, and at the far end of the room where there was nothing but shelves of books.

He sniffed again. Her scent was stronger . . . on the other side of the bookcase? How did that work? He walked out to the hall and tried the next door. Smallish room with a curving wall on the library side. Behind the curving wall, which didn’t quite meet the outer wall, there was a nice little bar and a humidor. His thoughtful darling had made sure he had a room to smoke in, maybe lounge in one of the comfortable looking armchairs, and . . .

He reentered the alcove and reconsidered its dimensions before tapping on the wainscoted wall to his left. Hollow as a drum. Interesting. He’d have to do some more exploring, he decided. Tomorrow. For the time being Willow was stuck in her room. It wouldn’t do to have her wandering around with a lot of hungry fledges around until they got the pecking order drilled into them.

He found the kitchen and started rummaging around for food, of which there was plenty. He loaded a plate with an apple, cheese, bread, and what looked like a custard tart with blackberries. He found two more bottles of the wine she had been drinking earlier in the icebox and took one. With these provisions, he headed up the back stairs where the buggering was still in progress judging from the pained grunts and groans he was hearing.

And, oh, my, it wasn’t just the footman getting buggered. Darla’s snooping had uncovered a marble dildo he had picked up in Vienna. It wasn’t particularly large or long. He’d gotten to use in Willow’s ass since she got so hot when he fingered her ass, but she’d never really adjusted to him fucking her there. It was just too painful for her. A little pain and domination got her hot, too much and the discomfort distracted her. Now it was getting christened in Mr. High and Mighty. William smirked to himself, in complete charity with Darla at the moment, despite her appropriation of his toys. Tucking the wine bottle under his arm, he quietly let himself in, making sure to lock the door before he took his finds into the bathroom.

He was a little disappointed to find that she had already washed her hair. Probably over the side of the tub before she let it fill. She had a white towel wrapped around her wet hair and was soaking, one arm on the lip of the tub, the other, the one he had nearly broken, soaking in the water. The glass was all smashed to hell from when he had dropped it and he had forgotten to uncork the wine. He swore softly under his breath, not wanting to disturb her.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“No cork screw and I broke the wine glass,” he told her. “S’not a problem. Just relax,” he said.

“Lucius—“ she stopped. “There is one on the mantel, I think,” she said, “And I can drink from a bottle.”

‘Lucius’ William mimicked in his head, going back to the bedroom and finding a piece of the broken wineglass when he stepped on it. He ignored the minor injury and located the corkscrew in a little metal frame on the mantel. He went back to the bathroom and uncorked the bottle.

“Room enough for me, in there?” he asked.

“I guess so,” she moved around until she was in the middle of the tub and he got in, sitting against the higher end of the tub. “Running hot and cold water?” he guessed. “Darla will be pleased. She carried on something fierce about Prague. The back of beyond, and so forth,” he elaborated as she sorted through a basket of soaps that had a home on a small ledge in the wall.

“This one is nice,” she said. “Sandalwood,” She held it out for him to smell.

His hand closed on her wrist to tug her back against his chest, and her lips clamped shut in a grimace before he realized the he was pulling on her sore wrist. He immediately dropped it.

She blinked a couple of times, taking a few quick breaths as she soaped a washcloth.

“Stop that,” he jerked his chin back in a ‘come here’ gesture. He opened his legs to make room for her, “lay back against me,” he said when she moved in a confused way trying to wash him. “I just want a nice coze, hmm? Got your wine, and there’s food behind me on the sink. Though, I don’t suppose I can reach it, can I? Well, bloody hell,” he cursed.

“I’m thirsty,” she reminded him, settling against him.

He wrapped one arm around her, and settled one of his legs so it was over her thigh, his foot braced on the bottom of the tub near hers to keep from putting his weight on her leg. He tilted the bottle for her, mindful of her sore wrist, and his arm slipped on the wet porcelain, making the bottle hit her front teeth, sloshing wine down her chin.

She started giggling, and then moaned. “Oooh, don’t make me laugh. It makes my tummy hurt,” she said, moving his arm and pressing his hand into her tender abdomen.

He massaged her sore abdomen, glad that she was amused. “That isn’t hunger,” he told her dryly. “That’s from you trying to squeeze my cock right off.”

“I think I can manage the bottle,” she said diplomatically, trying not to feel embarrassed, which was sort of like trying to ignore the elephant in the room. She drank from the bottle greedily, her parched mouth and throat soothed by the coolness of the wine.

“Gently. Slow down, love,” he counseled. It was never the same, the way she took things. Right now she was like a child, refusing to look or listen at something bad. Her voice was still a little high, a little edgy.

“Thirsty,” she paused to say, casting him a sideways look. “Did you like it?”

He smirked. “You have to ask? You’re a marvel. You blush like a virgin, and shag like a Goddess. I loved it.”

“But . . . not so much,” she said quietly. “Not enough to . . .”

“Come?” he prompted. “Is that what you are saying? I told you, love, I’ve been in a bit of a mood. Settle down, and drink your wine, and let me hold you,” he kissed the side of her head.

Lucius was still alive when William got up near noon the next day. Barely alive. The brown haired Englishman hardly spared him a glance as he strolled into his room, muttering to himself in English.

He stripped off the half buttoned breeches and unbuttoned shirt, unconcerned with his nakedness. Lucius couldn’t stir himself to protest. In a bizarre way, it made sense to him that there would be this one thing that he would share with his mistress. Her lover, and this man, this monster, was unmistakably, her lover, would rape him with the same organ that had made her cry out in supplication and pleasure.

He understood it.

But the Englishman was intent on nothing more than changing his clothes. The soiled clothing from the finished day was casually heaped on the ground. He donned a fresh blouse, stepped into a pair of long trousers, pulled on a pair of dark socks. He brushed his hair hastily, pulling on it without regard for anything but getting the worst of the disorder under control. When he was satisfied with this he turned away from the wardrobe, pausing when something caught his eye.

It was the pearl choker. He picked it up where it lay, forgotten on the floor, and he walked over to a chair, pulling it away from the wall, turning the back of the chair to Lucius and straddling it like a common day laborer at a pub. He let the choker slip through his fingers, rubbing the small, perfectly matched pearls bracketed at intervals by thin white gold bars that caught what little bit of light had filtered in to let Lucius know that it was now day.

For hours now, he had waited for that door to open. He wanted to see her face. He wanted to know what all of this meant to her. He was past wanting to hurt her, or wanting to ask her. He just wanted to see her face, see the meaning of it in her sad and lovely eyes.

The Englishman cocked his head to one side. He couldn’t read minds, but he could read faces and the direction eyes drifted in. “It will never happen,” he told him, speaking German now. “She thinks that what she imagines is so much worse than what it actually is, but . . . that isn’t true. So, she’ll stay behind that door until I say otherwise. And all of this,” he gestured around him, “Will be put to rights. It’s easier for her,” his gaze drifted down to the soiled carpet. “And, that’s one thing I can give her.”

He held up the pearl chocker, admiring the way the light played on this. “I killed an eighteen year old girl for this because I thought it might suit her. The things that I would do to you, if you ever fail me or mine, will pale in comparison to what you understand about suffering. That includes her. Especially her. If you remember nothing else, remember that,” he said.

Lucius wasn’t sure why he was telling him these things unless he meant him to live. There was one thing he had to know, because it might explain everything.

“Is she,” his voice was thin, raspy, and speaking hurt. His throat was raw. He tried again, “Is she what you are?”

His smile was almost indulgent. “Vampire, is what I am, and no, she’s as mortal as you are.”

Knowing it hurt more than he could ever have imagined. For him, this was one night, for her, nights beyond counting.

William watched the tears form and fall. More weeping. What? Did he have some kind of sign hanging around his neck inviting people to weep down his shirtfront? At least Lucius was neat about it. They were neat, manly tears. No sobbing. William decided to let it go for now, and leaned back, turning his head until he heard the satisfying crack of vertebrae realigning.

“Well, now, we do have a spot of business,” he told him. “You’d be the man in charge of seeing to things around here, right? What’s she been taking for breakfast?” he asked.

Lucius frowned at him, watching him play with the choker and wait with what appeared to be growing impatience.

“Were you following along? Because I won’t stand for her being neglected because you can’t get her breakfast tray. What do I bring her?”

Lucius gave himself a mental shake. “Dry toast, fruit, and tea,” he said hoarsely.

He gestured for Lucius to continue. “Luncheon, supper, go on, man. She’s going to go on eating after breakfast.”

He found himself reciting her routine after a few more sharp questions, providing details about her preferences and needs. It wasn’t an exhaustive recitation. She was fairly undemanding, but he found that he wanted her to have this. To have someone who at least knew that a sprig of fresh basil with her supper chased away her headaches from reading, and that she loved cut flowers, but wasn’t picky about the kind of flowers. Violets and forget-me-nots, and heather pleased her as much as roses and orchids, that she liked her tea, very sweet, lukewarm, and to steep a clove with the tealeaves, because she liked the scent.

“I’m impressed,” William told him when he was finished. “You noticed all these things. I’ve had her for eight years, and . . .” he sighed. “I suppose it’s a matter of paying attention. She likes chocolate,” he told him. “You missed that. It’s probably her favorite thing after a good book, and—“ he grinned boyishly, “other things,” he said with unmistakable meaning.

He rose, holding up the pearls. “What do you think? I know they’d look lovely on her. She has such a pretty throat. Do you think they suit? Do you think she’ll like them?”

“Y-yes, Both,” he managed to say.

William pocketed the pearls, walking over to where the strong cord securing Lucius’ wrists was tied. He unknotted it and let the line play out slowly. He had been standing on his toes so long that Lucius didn’t realize how much the ropes had been supporting him and he collapsed in the floor, too exhausted to care what he was lying in.

William did care, and gave him a hard kick to get him to crawl a few feet away. “Just changed clothes, so, I’ll be neat about it,” he said, shoving Lucius head to one side. His fangs bit deep and hard and he drew the last of this life out of him in hungry draughts. Dying, his heart shuddering, Lucius watched as William tore open his wrist.

“This makes you mine,” he said. “Like her, only considerably less important to me,” he said as his blood dribbled over Lucius’s lips.

The taste in his dry mouth was indescribable. His tongue weakly lapped at his bloodied mouth. It was the last thing he remembered.