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Jane half-expects Margaret's skin to ripple at her touch, or refract to cool glass. Divinity should come with a glow, shouldn't it? A light pure enough to sear the blood and crisp the bones, a heat so incredible that even God couldn't beat it.
But instead Margaret's warm as any human, just a little bit softer than Daniel. She shivers as Jane's fingers trail over her face, down the hollow of her throat, across the swell of her breasts. Jane's palm brushes her nipple and Margaret arches up into the touch with a grasp, pressing tightly against Jane's scarred skin.
"Oh," she whispers, and then, "the knife was sharper, but the cross hurt more, didn't it?"
"Yes." Jane's hand shakes as she lifts it up, offering her palm to Margaret's lips. "Please, wouldn't you--couldn't you--"
Margaret understands, of course, her sharp little teeth sinking into Jane's marked flesh. It hurts more than the knife did, more than the cross did, and it's good. Jane moans unabashedly, grinding her hips against the bed until she feels her blood spurt.
There's red glittering on Margaret's lips when she finally pulls away, and Jane understands: here is her own divinity, awakened by Margaret's glow. She leans forward to taste herself on Margaret's lips, savoring the pitch-perfect sweetness. This is what pure light tastes like, and it doesn’t burn at all.
"Thank you," she whispers, unspeakably grateful for so many things. Margaret's fingers curl through her hair like a halo, holding her tight.