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He’s going to kill her. Fucking rip her to pieces.

He presses her back against the icy glass, hand around her throat.

“You could have saved me,” he rasps, leaning in until they’re nose to blood-smeared nose. “But instead, you try to kill me. Kill every last one of us.” They hadn’t been saints, his vampire brothers and sisters. But they had been trying. They hadn’t deserved to be slaughtered like that. 

But even as he presses closer, pushing her into the glass, even as he hates, he knows that he still loves her. He must, because he could squeeze his hand closed, crush her windpipe and lap up her blood, feed the beast inside him, and it would be justice, just this once….but it’s not happening. He thinks of doing it, wants to do it, but his hand doesn’t follow his will. 

Even though most of him wants Lucy dead, the seconds slide by and she’s still living, breathing raggedly, shaking under his hand. 

Hate. Love. Which emotion is going to win out? Even Mitchell is curious to see. 

“Close your eyes,” he growls, and she does. 

He scrapes his fangs against her neck, just hard enough. If he does nothing else, she’ll be left with a parallel track of welts to remember him by, no more. But he doesn’t know how far this will go. She shudders and moans, and is it fear? Excitement? Both? Does he give a fuck? 

Not so much. 

Maybe, Mitchell thinks, she should find out just how and why he has no choice, why he can’t be anything other than what he is. Maybe he should just drag her into Hell with him. They’d just see how long her faith would hold up. 

“Mitchell,” she gasps. His name and nothing more, but it goads him. He drags his tongue up her neck, tasting salt, then scrapes his fangs against her again, marking her another time. He could do this all night, couldn’t he? Torture by degrees, and wouldn’t Herrick have been proud, had he been there to witness? 

Except, can he? It’s hate but it’s also love, and everything’s all mixed up, and he’s too fucking damn angry to try to sort it out. He’d sooner pick her apart, leaving a right bloody mess. 

But it doesn’t happen. He finds himself kissing her, and if the drying blood on his face and the fangs poking her in the lip are disgusting her, frightening her, that’s not the reaction he gets - her hands fist in his coat, pull him towards her. 

She’s as mixed up as he is, but it doesn’t make him want to forgive her. It makes him want to scare her even more. 

He tears at her shirt, cups his hand around her breast, squeezing, the sound of her blood pounding in his ears. He expects her to push him away, scream, protest, beg, whatever. It still doesn’t happen, not even when he tears her bra away and locks his mouth around her nipple, threatening to drive his fangs into her. More gasping, moaning, his name. Only that. 

He’s getting angrier by the minute. He came here to punish her. Judge, jury, and executioner, forced into that role by her, in payment for all those of his kind that she’d killed without mercy….and it’s not happening. She’s not supposed to be enjoying this. 

But he won’t spill her blood, he finally admits to himself. Well, then. Maybe he’ll take something else of hers, then. 

Her pants go next, shredded away, and he pretends not to notice it’s her hands unfastening his pants, he shoves his fingers inside her instead, biting back his own groan at just how wet she is. Sacrilegious, and maybe that’ll be enough. 

He’s inside her almost before he realizes what’s happening. His hand squeezes around her throat, threatening, her eyes are closed and her face is smeared with the blood from his cheeks, but he’s not hurting her. Quite the opposite. 

She’s enjoying this, he can see it in her face. It makes him faster, rougher, but anyone listening to the sounds they’re making would know it’s an act of love, not a slow murder. 

When his head clears, however, the bloodlust is still there. How can he love someone who’s done what she’s done? 

Maybe he’ll kill her after all. 

Then it happens…he’s not even sure what ‘it’ is, but it tears him away from Lucy and throws him to the floor, drives him back. It’s like everything’s turned upside down, his head full of screaming, except it’s not his screams. 

He scrambles and falls and retreats from the room, the screams fading out in his mind, Lucy ignored while he stumbles down hallways, trying to make the world right again, but without even knowing why it’s wrong. 

Sometime later, he’ll realize that he feels relieved that he didn’t kill Lucy. 

Maybe love does conquer all. Even 116-year-old mass murderers.