Disturbed

Disturbed

\"The moon in the sky was twisted and mangled.\"--Nick Cave, Do you love me?

He slams her against the wall, his body hard against hers.

She curses him even as she rakes her nails down his back. He is wearing a cloak, but her nails are long and razor-sharp. She has more weapons at her command than just a wand.

“I hate you,” she breathes as he bites her neck.

“I hate you, too,” he growls in her ear, his hands ripping her clothes.

She had no choice when she was given to him, and when he took her on the altar she felt degraded and used and she loved it. While a circle of masked men surrounded her, he forced her onto the rough stone of the ancient slab; intent on violating her for her precious virgin’s blood. She had screamed and arched against him, and came as he hissed in her ear that he defiled her as he had been ordered to do, and that they had all seen, had all watched. She knew—she had not closed her eyes, she liked seeing them surrounding the altar in their black cloaks and their sinister white masks.

It hadn’t stopped since that night. She had proven her worth and taken the Mark, but he remained her addiction—the imperious curse paled in comparison to his allure. She needed no such compunction to capitulate; wherever he wanted her she willingly followed. He took her in the dark alleyways behind houses and under the wide sky where the Dark Mark burned, surrounded by death and terror. The Aurors never found them and the danger made it more exciting, more thrilling, and infinitely more terrible.

He pushes her head back, roughly grabbing her dark hair. She fights against him, but her legs wrap around his waist and she cants her hips against him, seeking. He has bitten her so hard there is a warm flow of blood on her neck and she glories in it when he bloodies her. It reminds her of the first time, for all the danger and the darkness of their subsequent encounters never quite equals the night he first took her, the night she gave her soul to the darkness that had lain in wait to claim her.

His body thrusts into hers, and he laughs mockingly at her, his hands bruising her skin. “Wet for me already, Bella? My little whore,” he purrs, and she slams herself against him.

He rarely undresses her, merely rips at her clothing so he can enter her, so he can show her all he wants is not her in her naked glory but the sacred elemental part of her that he dominates with his fierce possession. She does not care. She pulls his shirt open only for something to scratch at—he is a primal thrusting force for her, he is feral and wild and that is what she wants. She does not want his body or his mind, not yet; she wants his hatred and his violence, his lust and his ambition. They match hers, and for once she feels a kinship with another human being—here in a dirty stone room with him moving furiously inside her, she belongs.

The wall behind her scratches her back, leaves marks rough and abrasive on her pristine skin. It is what he does, what she wants him to do—to mark her as the Dark Lord has, in his own way.

She screams when she comes, but it is not his name.

For a moment they lean against each other, weak with spent passion and collapsed against the wall. He reaches a hand up and draws it down her face, and says in rough voice, “Bella.” It is the gentlest of touches he has ever bestowed upon her, and part of her likes it and feels betrayed all at once.

She bites his hand, and he moans softly. Their eyes clash, obsidian and dark, windows to the souls that lie beneath.

They turn from their hurried encounter to face those they have come to kill, tied up on the floor and watching them with terrified eyes. She smiles and tosses her hair, loose around her, her body covered in sweat and blood. She pulls her wand out, and she thinks she hears him laugh behind her.

He likes it when she kills, after they are finished. It makes him proud.