[She manages to utter a strangled sob, which she unsuccessfully tries to disguise as a laugh, finding bitter humor at her own foolishness, so desperate to believe that there could be anything other than physical temptation in his intentions.
Hurt her? Never did she think he would hurt her, never did she fear the blow of his fists or the power of his rages incited by alcohol, otherwise, she would not have come. Surely, he must know that? He must know, even now, that she does not detest him? He has hardly tricked her, not when she was so willingly fooled, and her despairing regret is only because she should have realized sooner. Her vague first impression had been correct, after all, but she had dismissed it as only her imagination running wild, a perversion brought about by devilish elixir. If she had known that she was wanted, but only for the services of her flesh, would she have come along so willingly?
Maybe she would have.
Because, presently, she can't bear to see the hurt flitting across his expression, making the soft angles of his handsome face look oddly vulnerable. She hears the anguish in his voice, the boyish confusion, and feels just as guilty for wounding him, in a sense. She cannot stifle the pangs of sympathy for him, any more than she can stop the delirious attraction which draws her inescapably towards him.
She can feel him frame her face with such delicate care, far more purer than the heated press of his hands from before, and she can imagine how simply she could surrender to him. The way he looks at her, how he treats her like a fragile glass which could shatter, is the very opposite of his feverish lust which had lured her in. It is a very convincing imitation of love—daresay, indistinguishable from the real thing.]
Did you mean it?
[When he said he could love her, that is. Even the smallest of chances is more merciful than absolute deception. It is a shallow comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. It seems like they were under opposite impressions before, but ultimately—what they both want is intimacy of a sort. Love, attraction, infatuation, lust—what-ever it may be, it has undoubtedly possessed the both of them, and she takes a tense step closer, her hands still folded over her heart.]
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Hurt her? Never did she think he would hurt her, never did she fear the blow of his fists or the power of his rages incited by alcohol, otherwise, she would not have come. Surely, he must know that? He must know, even now, that she does not detest him? He has hardly tricked her, not when she was so willingly fooled, and her despairing regret is only because she should have realized sooner. Her vague first impression had been correct, after all, but she had dismissed it as only her imagination running wild, a perversion brought about by devilish elixir. If she had known that she was wanted, but only for the services of her flesh, would she have come along so willingly?
Maybe she would have.
Because, presently, she can't bear to see the hurt flitting across his expression, making the soft angles of his handsome face look oddly vulnerable. She hears the anguish in his voice, the boyish confusion, and feels just as guilty for wounding him, in a sense. She cannot stifle the pangs of sympathy for him, any more than she can stop the delirious attraction which draws her inescapably towards him.
She can feel him frame her face with such delicate care, far more purer than the heated press of his hands from before, and she can imagine how simply she could surrender to him. The way he looks at her, how he treats her like a fragile glass which could shatter, is the very opposite of his feverish lust which had lured her in. It is a very convincing imitation of love—daresay, indistinguishable from the real thing.]
Did you mean it?
[When he said he could love her, that is. Even the smallest of chances is more merciful than absolute deception. It is a shallow comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. It seems like they were under opposite impressions before, but ultimately—what they both want is intimacy of a sort. Love, attraction, infatuation, lust—what-ever it may be, it has undoubtedly possessed the both of them, and she takes a tense step closer, her hands still folded over her heart.]