Author's website: http://neverpromise.badb.net/

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended or implied.

Author's Notes:

Story Notes: Warning: light BDSM

He trembles beneath my hands, his breath coming in quick gasps. He's beautiful like this, stripped bare and helpless. I could have tied him to the bed; he would have let me, but I chose not to. No, much better that he's unrestrained, lying on his stomach beneath me, only his hands clenched in the sheets tethering him to the bed. And his guilt.

His guilt, my anger, our desire-- it's a sweet pain beneath my ribs.

He sucks in a deep breath as I drip white candle wax across his shoulders. It runs across his skin and then quickly hardens. I drip random patterns across his back, criss-crossing, covering the skin with trails of white. He won't cry out, not yet. He's stubborn. No matter. I've got time.

I take an ice cube from the tray by the bed and sweep it over his wax-spattered skin. He gasps. The cold wetness quickly hardens and cracks the wax, making it easy to scrape off. Underneath, the skin is flushed to a dull, mottled red, so striking against the milk-paleness of his broad back. I trail my fingers gently over his back and shoulders, then dig in my nails and claw down the length of his spine. He stiffens and makes an unintelligible noise deep in his throat.

Tenderly, I whisper, "My love," and lean forward, dropping a kiss on one of the dark red scratches. I can see the very edge of his face, turned slightly to one side. His eyes are squeezed shut.

Beautiful.

Reaching to the side, I pick up an elegant little cat 'o-nine-tails that I found in a specialty shop earlier in the week. It's too small to do any serious damage, but the leather is knotted at the ends and will sting quite painfully. I draw it across my breasts, my nipples hardening even further under the stimulation. I trail it down his spine lightly, teasingly. His body is tense with anticipation.

Lifting my arm high, I bring the cat down diagonally across his back. He flinches at the first sting. I bring it down again and again-- varying the angle, the point of impact, until his back is bright red and he's begun to moan incoherently. His hands are still clenched in the sheets, white-knuckled, but his hips press rhythmically into the mattress.

Dropping the cat, I fold myself down on top of him, my hands tucked under his shoulders, the side of my face nestled against his. He's shaking and a few tears have leaked down onto his cheek. I lick the tears away, kiss his earlobe, nuzzle him. "Do you love me?"

"Yes," he whispers.

"Tell me." I nip his shoulder sharply, rebuking him.

"I love you." Another tear seeps out from beneath his dark eyelashes.

"Good," I say gently, kissing the nape of his neck. I roll off his back and kneel next to him. "Turn over."

Silently, he obeys my order. Lying with his arms outspread, his eyes closed, he's gorgeous. Such a beautiful man. Hair as black as coal, lips as red as roses, skin as pale as snow. He's like something out of a fairytale. The old versions of the fairytales, before the blood and pain and death were sanitized out of them. Which makes me-- what, the wicked witch? Perhaps.

I trail a finger from the very base of his neck, down his smooth chest, his vulnerable belly. Watching his face, I stroke him, feeling him jerk against my palm. His eyebrows draw together and he licks his bottom lip.

"Look at me," I order.

His eyes flick open, focus on me, and I could drown in the depths of emotion in his dark blue eyes. Fear, desire, pain, love-- it's intoxicating. I kiss him lightly on the lips, then bite sharply into his lower lip. I taste the iron tang of blood. "I love you," I whisper.

"Victoria." His gaze is steady on mine. Brave, honorable, steadfast-- all the things that kept us alive in Fortitude Pass, made me fall in love with him... then made him send me to prison. Ten years of my life, loving him, hating him, feeling my youth slip away from me. I was barely twenty when I almost died in that frozen hell. I was thirty before I felt freedom again. And I'm not yet free, not truly. I'm never free from him.

He lifts a hand and cups the side of my face. I wonder what he sees in my eyes. Closing my eyes, I hold his hand to my face, curling my fingers around his. "Victoria," he whispers again. I rub my cheek against his palm, feeling tears trickling down, his thumb gently wiping them away.

A strangled sob escapes me before I can control it. He murmurs soothingly and draws me down into his arms.

We're lying on our sides, face to face, like we were in the Pass. He takes my right hand and holds my fingers in his mouth. His eyes are closed, his expression one of painful bliss.

"I hate you," I whisper.

"I know," he murmurs, drawing my fingers from his mouth and kissing them, almost worshipfully.

I grip the sides of his face as hard as I can, digging my fingers into his flesh, forcing him to look at me. "How can you-- you know I hate you-- how can you-- how can you--"

"I love you." Completely honest, completely open. He's the bravest person I've ever known. I hate him so.

"How could you do it? How could you do that to me?" I'm crying, shaking with it, and he's cradling me in his arms, murmuring to me, kissing the tears from my cheeks, saying my name over and over.

I love him so.

Soon, when we're even, when I've destroyed his life the way he destroyed mine, I'll ask him to come with me and he won't say no. He'll be mine, forever. And I'll never be cold again.

End Rose Red by Alex SisterWolf: alex@badb.net

Author and story notes above.