InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Redux: Metempsychosis ❯ Desperation ( Chapter 52 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

"Are you sure that this is what you need to do?  I mean, a visit?  Okay, I can understand that.  A bit of time away might well do you both some good.  But—"

Letting out a deep breath to cut him off as she packed her pitiful number of belongings into her black leather bag that she’d had when she came to Ashur, Jessa spared a moment to cast Devlin a quelling glance.  "We've been over this, Dev," she said, her tone, determined, almost brusque.  "It's the only thing I can do—and really, it's . . . It’s for the best."

He snorted indelicately.  "No, it's what you think is the only thing you can do, when, in fact, you could be very, very wrong—and probably are."

"I'm no’," she growled, her tone completely at odds with the way she carefully packed the clothing that Myrna had paid for in the beginning.  The look he shot her said otherwise, and she sighed.  "All right, if you're so smart.  Why don't you tell me what you really think?"

"You sure you want to hear it?"

"Not really, but go on," she grumbled, gesturing for him to continue as she pulled a few more things out of a drawer.

Crossing his arms over his chest as he scowled at her and slowly shook his head, he leveled a no-nonsense look at her for a long moment, as though to emphasize his point, before he started to speak.  "What I think is that you're being perfectly pig-headed for no good reason," he countered, arching an eyebrow when she shot him another darkened look.  "I think that you've come up with something in that beautiful brain of yours that's nothing but fiction, that you're running off without even trying to talk to him—to see what he has to say—which is entirely ludicrous, given that you've done nothing, but make assumptions, based on what you want to see and not on what might really be there."

"Don't spare my feelings, Dev," she muttered, cheeks pinking as she slipped the rest of her clothing into the bag.

He grunted.  "If I stood here, telling you things in a nice and pretty way, you're just going to ignore me—which you're probably doing anyway, aren't you?"

Pressing her palm against her forehead, Jessa heaved a sigh and wandered over to the French doors.  "It's not like that," she told him, her voice dropping to nearly a whisper.  "You didn't . . . didn't hear the things he said—awful things—vile things," she admitted.  "He . . . He didn't know I was there, didn't know I heard him."  Swallowing hard, trying to forget those terrible, hurtful things, she gave the tiniest shrug before stepping over to open the doors, to close her eyes as she dragged in a few lungfuls of the clean air.  "The things he said; they were his true feelings, Dev . . . He had no reason to lie."

"I might not know him as well as I know you or as well as you think you know him, but you have to know him well enough to realize that Ashur isn't the kind to say hurtful things—not without a reason, Irish."

"Which is why he never said those things to me," she countered quietly.  "Anyway, it's better this way.  Besides . . . Even if he . . . I can't even be trusted with Kells, not really.  I . . . I let him go off by himself, I . . . I couldn’t . . . I couldn't protect him . . ."

Devlin sighed quietly, more of an expulsion of breath than anything more.  A moment later, he wrapped his arms around her from behind, drawing her back against his chest, and there was nothing at all in it—nothing but the desire to comfort a friend.  "You know, don't you?  It won't matter where you go or what you do or . . . or how long it is before I see you again, you're . . . you're the little sister I never had, and . . . and I love you, Irish."

Hands reaching up, wrapping over his forearms, as though it was the only thing she could do, Jessa turned her head, far enough to rest her cheek against his chest as she blinked back a wash of tears.  "Thank you."

He grunted.  "I'm going to talk to him—tell him what he's doing to you—see if it matters to him because I think it will—"

"You won't," she insisted, eyes opening, burning with the fire of conviction that added a fierce brightness to her crimson gaze as she stepped away from him.  "You promise me you won't."

"I'm not promising that!  I—"

"—Have no say in it!" she cut in.  "Devlin, please . . . I just . . ."  She grimaced.  "I just want to put all of this behind me, and if you say anything, he'd ask me to stay, not because he wants me to stay, but because he'll feel bad.  That's how he is, and . . . and I don't want that."

He heaved a sigh, still looking anything, but happy about it.  He didn't promise, but then, Jessa knew he would honor her wishes, too.


"So, that's two who have come after you," Cain Zelig remarked as he sat back in his chair and reached into the breast pocket of his nondescript black knit shirt and dragged a cigarette out of the rumpled pack.  "I was afraid of that . . ."

"They're not an issue anymore," Ashur replied.

"I would think not," Cain allowed.  "Jessa fought the second one?"

Ashur grunted, still not entirely pleased with the idea that he'd almost been too late, that she'd felt the need to fight, at all . . . "Yeah, she did.  I mean, I don't think she did badly, especially since she’s just started learning how to even control her youki when she came to live with me—I didn't see the whole thing, but by the time I got there, he looked like she'd gotten him fairly well, given that she has zero training in offensive fighting, but . . ." He grimaced, shook his head.  "She was pretty dazed.  Mormount punched her in the eye—at least, that's what it looked like . . ."

Cain grunted, lighting the cigarette and expelling a thick cloud of smoke before replying. "You did kill the bastard, right?"

"Yeah . . . Yeah, I did."

"Good.  Is she okay?"

He sighed since that was really the million-dollar question, as far as he was concerned.  "Physically?  Yes, she's fine.  Mentally?  She blames herself because she let Kells go out to play by himself.  I let him go out to play alone, too—the first time I did, she asked me if I was sure that it was okay to do that, for that matter . . . I told her it wasn't her fault, but she . . ." Trailing off with a grimace, he gave a rather helpless kind of shrug.  "She doesn't believe me.  Anyway, she's going to visit Myrna for a couple weeks, so I'm hoping that she'll be able to deal with it all—maybe have some time to put everything in perspective."

"Sometimes a little space is necessary," Cain agreed.  "Anyway, back on the subject of those guys . . .?  Anyone else, hiding in the woodwork that you know of?"

Pulling Kells into his lap when the toddler shuffled into the office, rubbing a balled-up fist over his eyes, Ashur kissed the boy's downy head and let out a deep breath.  "There might be, but I don't have any names.  Mormount mentioned, 'they' a few times when he called to trick me into leaving, but he didn't name names, unfortunately."

"I'll see if there's anyone around who can check into this some, too.  The more ears out, the better, and I'd prefer it if you were able to get a jump on the next one, if it should come to that . . ."

"Thanks."

"I'll make a few calls."


"Sure . . . One last question."

"Oh, okay, shoot . . ."

Ashur frowned.   "Do you know anything about a Devlin Broughton?"

"Uh, Broughton . . . I met him at your birthday party, right?" Cain remarked thoughtfully.  "Should I look into him?"

Ashur sighed, rubbing his temple as he considered that.  "Yeah, he was there, but no . . . I just thought maybe you might have heard something about him . . ."

"Should I have?"

"I . . . don't know."

Cain sighed.  "That sounds rather cryptic.  What's going on?"

"Nothing that I know of.  Just . . . He's one of Jessa's friends here, and he owns the property down the road . . . He was here when I got home.  He'd somehow managed to cure Kells' venom . . ."

"Oh . . . Then, that's good, right?"

"Well, yes . . . I just . . . I wonder how he was able to do that . . ."

Cain sat back, considering Ashur's question for a moment.  "I . . . don't know . . . I mean, there aren't many types of youkai that could do such a thing . . . I take it, you mean that he literally cured him?  Did Jessa mention anything?"

"No, but, uh . . . He cured me, too—I think.  I mean, I was pretty out of it.  Mormount pumped me full of venom, too, so . . . Anyway, I . . . I remember that he was leaning over me, but he . . . He didn't look . . . right . . ."

"What do you mean?"

"Youkai can't change their appearance with a concealment, can they?  It just hides their attributes . . ."

Cain grunted, scratching his forehead as he considered Ashur's question. "Normally, no, but the stronger youkai can do it.  I seem to recall Sesshoumaru going through a phase where he altered the length of his hair with his, so it's possible, but, like I said, it'd have to be a fairly strong concealment . . . Why?"

Ashur slowly shook his head.  "I could have been delusional.  They tell me I was running a pretty high fever, but . . . But I swear that he had different hair and eye color at the time . . ."

"What . . . sort of coloring?"

"Normally, he's got brown hair and blue eyes—short hair, actually . . . What I thought I saw . . . He had white hair and really light green eyes—kind of ringed with darker green toward the outside, but the inside by the pupil was this really hazy, barely green-green . . ."

"You mean, hair like Gins?  Or Sesshoumaru's?"

"No, I mean white . . ."

"White, huh?"

"Yeah . . ."

Cain sighed.  "I . . . I can't think of any that would fit that description.  You don't know what kind of youkai Broughton is?"

"No . . . I mean, it just never really occurred to me.  He's an overall nice guy—no weird vibes or anything, but . . ." Ashur sighed.  "I . . . I don't know . . . I mean, if he did what I think he did, then just who the hell is he . . .?"

Cain nodded slowly.  "As far as the venom removal, if that's what it was, the only thing I've ever heard, and it was a long time ago, was the mention of a certain variant of youkai, but as far as I know, they don't exist anymore and haven't for . . . hundreds of years.  I overheard Sesshoumaru talking to Kagura once.  He said that the last known one had been found dead—left the body behind, maybe because of the way he was killed . . . "

Ashur slowly shook his head.  "Yeah, well, I plan on talking to him, seeing what he'll tell me."

Cain seemed thoughtful, but his gaze settled on Kells, who had snuggled against Ashur's chest and had immediately fallen asleep, and he smiled just a little.  "All right, keep me informed.  We'll talk when you're down in the city for the dinner and gala."

Ashur grimaced since he'd managed to forget about that whole thing entirely.  Still, he really didn't have a choice as to whether or not he attended, given that Gin was going so far out of her way to hold a dinner on his behalf.  "Not a problem," he assured the tai-youkai.

"Okay.  Let me know if anything else comes up . . . For now, you may want to consider taking measures to secure your estate—put up a wall, hire some security—at least, until the threat passes."  Cain chuckled, but it was a little wry.  "You've got a lot to protect out there, don't you?"

Ashur nodded, his gaze slipping down to the boy, sleeping against him.  "Yeah, I do."

The video connection ended, and Ashur sighed, rubbing his forehead at the trace weariness that had set in much faster than he'd anticipated.

Kells sighed and snuggled closer in his sleep, and Ashur smiled slightly, rubbing his small back, tousling his hair . . . He couldn't really remember the last time that Kells was this quiet, this cuddly, for this long.  Even though he hated the reason for it, he had to admit that he rather enjoyed this little bit of nostalgia, too, despite the unwelcome feeling that it came with a price . . . The truth of it was that, with every passing day, Kells grew a little less and less, 'Ashur's' and a little more of his own, and, while the understanding left him feeling as though he was doing something right, he would be lying if he tried to say that he didn't miss those early days, either . . .

Jessa had said that Ashur had spent four days, sleeping off the poison, but she'd also admitted that Kells had suffered a larger dose, at least, in comparison to overall body size.  She'd said that he'd been sleeping for the most part, the whole time, too, just like Ashur, and he must have gotten upset, waking up alone, which was why he'd come downstairs, had crawled into his father's lap . . .

Shifting the boy so that he could stand up without losing his grip on Kells, Ashur levered himself out of the chair, ignoring the pile of reports on his desk.  True, he really needed to catch up.  There were, however, things that were far more important, and Kells was one of those things . . .

Carefully stepping out of the office and heading for the stairs, Ashur figured that taking a break in the middle of the afternoon so that Kells could rest, safe in the knowledge that his father was near, was as good a reason as any.  After all, in a year, in two years, in ten?  Wasn't the base understanding that Ashur could and would drop everything, just to see to his needs a far more rewarding thing than making sure that he met a few deadlines along the way . . .?


'I . . . I don't know if this is a good idea or not, Jessa . . .'

Belting the white satin robe closed as she bit her lip and fussed with her hair in the mirror over the dresser, she quickly pinched her cheeks to bring some color to the surface before drawing a deep breath and pressing a hand against her stomach to quell the rising rush of butterflies.  She had no real idea, just why she felt so unsettled, so nervous.  She'd taken a long shower, spending extra time, washing and conditioning her hair, brushed her teeth meticulously . . . She'd even filed the tips off her claws, took the time to slather on the moisturizer—everything she normally ignored, but for some reason, tonight . . .

Common sense told her that she didn't really need to be worried that he would reject her.  After all, he liked her body well enough, didn't he . . .?  Even so . . .

Glancing at the clock on her nightstand, she let out a deep breath—shockingly loudly in the silence.  Nearly three in the morning, and if she waited any longer, it would be too late, but she hadn't dared go to him earlier, either, not if she wanted everything to go the way she'd planned . . .

Before that, however, there was just one last thing . . . one more thing she needed to do . . .

"Da?  What is it?"

Chuckling softly as Niall O'Shea leaned down, scooped three-year-old Jessa up off the floor, breathing in the smell of the antique ivory lace, hearing the rustle of the ribbons and the bows and the slightly papery crinkle of the crinoline that held the skirt of the birthday dress out wide, he snuggled her in the crook of his arm and dangled the pendant before her.  Her eyes lit up, glowing so softly, so brightly, reflecting the lazily undulating fire contained in the crystal vial.  Like a million little fires, the ancient embodiment of a million artists' renditions, all locked together and given life, glowing gently from the tiny talisman . . . "This, lamb, is your da's fire—my flames," he told her gently, kissing her cheek, savoring the feel of her dewy skin.

Orlaith adjusted her skirts, kneeling down before the two of them, her smile bright as she reached out, ran her fingertips along Jessa's face.  "When you have this, then you know that your da is never very far away, and should you need him—really need him—all you have to do is break it, Jessa, and your da will come to you."

"No matter where I am?" Jessa asked, turning her body to peer up at her father's face, her fathomless eyes, wide, shining.

He smiled.  "Absolutely, no matter where you are . . ."

She took the pendant in her hands.  Shaped like a small heart, no more than an inch tall, no more than an inch wide, the glow of the bubbled heart cast vague yet warm light in her hands.  Orlaith rose on her knees, leaned forward to take the pendant, to fasten the fine but sturdy silver chain around her daughter's neck.  "Da, why's it got water in there?" Jessa asked, holding onto the pendant, face screwing up in a thoughtful pout as she stared at it.

"That's no' water, lass.  It's oil from the moonblossoms—the night-blooming cereus.  It's what keeps the flame burnin’," he told her.  "The ault ones—they gather the flowers by the light of the moon—beautiful white blooms, doomed to ne'er see the light o' day, and they bloom for but a single night . . . Then, they harvest those flowers, and they press 'em between rock and stone for years, waitin' ever patient, for the oil to come out . . . They say it takes nigh a hunnert blossoms to make one drop o' the oil . . ."

The memory faded, and Jessa sighed.  That flame had died, too, within an hour of her father's passing, and the pain, the melancholy, the absolute desperation, that had followed . . . She winced.

Letting out a deep breath, Jessa lifted the small crystal orb she'd bought yesterday, carefully pulling the tiny cork, setting it aside as she glanced at the candle beside her on the dresser, willing it to light.  She'd had to order the night-blooming cereus oil from a website and had paid extra to ensure that it was delivered in time . . . Using the tiny glass funnel that came with it, she poured the oil carefully before setting it aside.  Then she closed her eyes, wrapping the orb in her hands as she willed her youki to fill it, willed the youki to ignite.

She gasped softly as she opened her eyes, as she slowly uncurled her fingers.  Half-surprised to see the flames, dancing inside the tiny vessel, she watched it, just for a moment, before slipping the cork back into the hole.  Then she dipped the cork's end into the melted candle's wax before slipping the silver chain through the tiny silver loop, embedded in the cork.  Despite the dancing flames, the crystal remained cool to the touch, and she sighed, then smiled—a trembling, weak thing—and she blinked fast to thwart the tears that tried to cloud her vision . . .

She stared at the pendant for a long moment, lifting it to her lips, kissing it gently, before setting it down on the dresser and slipping out of her room and down the hallway.  She paused at Kells' room, carefully opened the door.  The boy was sleeping—she'd half expected him to be in Ashur's room, which would have effectively put an abrupt end to her plan—or at least, it would have made her rethink her strategy.

'Jessa . . . He didn't come to us, you know?  He didn't even pause outside our door . . .'

Ignoring the words of her youkai-voice, she closed Kells' door and padded down the hallway.

Staring at the closed door, she bit her lip, wildly snatching at her waning bravado, wondering if she weren't ultimately making the biggest mistake so far, but before she could talk herself out of it—before she could tell herself just how selfish she truly was being—she grasped the handle, gave it a good turn, and stepped into Ashur's room.

He wasn't there.
Jessa frowned.  She'd heard him come upstairs hours ago, but maybe he'd slipped back down, maybe he'd opted to get some more work done or something since he'd laid down at some point during the afternoon with Kells, and he was sleeping when she'd gone to find him at dinner time.

She started to turn, but the bathroom door opened.  He stepped out and stopped short, hand stilling on the towel that he was using to scrub as his dampened hair, and he sighed.  "Jessa . . ."

It was a lot harder to do than she'd thought, wasn't it?  A lot harder to get her voice to say any of the things she'd rehearsed for the last few days . . . Not one of those things sounded right to her now . . .

"I thought you'd be sleeping," he remarked, tossing the hair towel on the floor in front of the bathroom, draping his hands on his towel, clad hips.  "I . . . I didn't want to wake you up."

For some reason, his words . . . They sounded just like an excuse to her, and she tried to smile, the, but the expression felt all wrong.  It felt like her face was made of stone . . . or of glass . . .

"Excited?" he asked, smashing his hand against his still slightly discolored shoulder, rotating the shoulder slowly.  "You probably are . . . I guess it isn't very exciting here, is it?  You should have Myrna take you to see the Statue of Liberty—all of that touristy-stuff that I didn't get around to showing you."

Hand reaching up, grasping the tiny cross pendant that hung around her throat, Jessa drew a deep breath, willing for her courage to stick, to stay.  "Ashur, I . . ." Forcing her feet to carry her forward, she couldn't help the slight fogginess that entered her line of vision.

He stopped, turned to look at her—really look at her—his vague little smile, fading as he stepped toward her, as he drew her into his arms.  "Hey . . . Why are you crying?"

She shook her head stubbornly.  "I'm not," she managed, refusing to look at him.  If she met his gaze, if she saw that frown . . . "I just wanted . . ."

He sighed, as though he understood, what she was trying to say.  "Come on," he said, tugging her toward the bed, "let's just lie down, okay?  We're both tired, right?  There's no rush . . ."

Pulling away from him, she couldn't help the scowl that surfaced on her features.  "No, Ashur," she insisted.  "I—"

"I've just . . . I've got a lot on my mind," he told her.  "Too much, really, and—"

"It's because I let Kells get hurt," she blurted before she could stop herself.  She hadn't actually meant to say any such thing, and yet . . .

"No," he said, his tone, leaving no room for argument.  "You didn't let anything happen to him," he told her.  "You know that."

She digested that for a moment, gathering her hair over her shoulder, staring miserably at the floor as she twisted the locks around and around.  "Then you . . . You just . . . don't want . . . me?"

She didn't see the flinch that flickered over his face, didn't see the thoughtful frown as he stared at her.  When he didn't answer right away, though, she sighed, squaring her shoulders as she gathered the tattered remains of her dwindling bravado, as she forced herself to give the bow at her waist one good yank.

And she let the robe fall to the floor in a whisper of satin.

He sucked in a sharp breath, the blue of his gaze, darkening as her thrall spun around him, attesting to the silent battle of wills he was waging inside.  She winced inwardly.  Whatever there was or wasn't between them, he liked her body well enough, and that was what she was banking on . . . It all came down to this, didn't it?  One last night, one last time, and in the morning, she'd pick herself up, and she'd go on . . .

He didn't move, just stood there, as though he were transfixed, staring at her in a dazed sort of way as she stepped toward him, as she reached for the towel and tugged it loose, letting it drag from her fingertips to crumple to the floor.

Dropping to her knees, taking the thickness of him in her hands, she squeezed him, stroked him, leaned forward and drew one of his balls into her mouth.  He groaned roughly, caught himself on the tall post of the bed, head falling back as she lapped at him, as she slowly pumped him up and down.  He shivered, his legs shaking, and he moaned, the sound of his breathing, harsh and shallow in the silence of the room.  She let go of him, the gentle suction of her mouth giving way, and he gasped as she dragged her tongue up over him, up the length of him, using the very tip to trace around the head of his cock.  His legs buckled, and he sat down hard on the edge of the bed, falling back, knees spread, feet resting on the floor.

Jessa rose up on her knees, grabbed onto him again as she licked the first drops of moisture from him, closing her eyes as a fine sheen of tears rose to blind her.  Trying so desperately, not to think about it, not to give in to the realization that it was just this, just once, and that tomorrow, she'd have to force these moments—these memories—from her mind forever, because if she didn't . . .

He slid between her lips, her saliva coating him as she created rhythm and light, as a solitary tear slipped from the corner of her eye.  It was all right, wasn't it?  Moaning, groaning, his body thrashing almost wildly beneath her, he couldn't see it, wasn't focused upon it, and in the end, it wouldn't matter, either . . .

She felt him thicken, sighed softly as she increased the pressure in her hands, in her mouth.  Hands reaching down, fingers sinking deep in her hair, he groaned, raising his hips as he pulled her down on him, each time a little faster, a little deeper.  With one last gasp, one half-groan, half-breath, he yanked her down a little harder, body taut, rigid, as he jerked between her lips, as he filled her mouth.

Hands slipping away, only to fall heavily against the duvet, he struggled to breath, gasping, fighting as she swallowed his release, as she sucked him clean, as she let go of him long enough to pull a condom out of the nightstand.  Ripping it open to pull out the condom, she dropped empty packet beside the bed and smoothed the condom down on him, but when she lifted her gaze, it was to find him staring at her, eyes darkened to nearly black as his passion still burned bright.

He sat up slowly, reached for her, and yet, the absolute gentleness as he grasped her, as he pulled her onto the bed was completely at odds with the fierceness in his stare.  Laying her down, settling himself between her splayed knees, he leaned on his elbows, stroked her face, pushed her hair back as he kissed her eyes, her nose, her cheeks, and softly, so very tenderly, her lips . . .

It was the sweetest kiss she'd ever known, the whispering touch that brought another wash of tears to her eyes. Trapped behind her eyelids, she willed them back, focusing instead on the tender sensations, her hands slipping up his chest, around his neck, as she wished that this moment would linger forever . . .

Breathing in the scent of him, so vibrant, so welcome, so familiar, and yet, so overwhelming, too, she sighed, savoring the feel of his body, trying to commit every ridge, every hollow, every rise, and every fall to memory, but it was growing increasingly harder to do when every touch, every heartbeat sent another round of sparks through her, deep into her, right to that core of her that burned for him, that ached and throbbed and begged for him . . .

And yet, it felt like the most perfect and natural thing in the world, didn't it?  Slipping into her in one slow, maddening stroke, and her body stretched to accommodate him, yet held him firmly, his kisses creating a thorough accord, an intricate balance between lust and something far deeper, more intricate . . . Reaching down, grasping her hip, cradling her thigh in his arm, he held her tight, rocking his hips against hers, but the frenzy, the insanity, was somehow missing, and what replaced it . . .

She couldn't hold back the tear that escaped this time, couldn't control the whimper that slipped from her lips.  The tenderness that he showed her was blinding, brilliant, and somehow, more bitter, more rending, than anything else she'd ever known.  His body moved within hers, creating the same heat, the same friction that she knew, that she craved, and the tension that wound so tightly was exquisite, stripping away the careful façade she'd tried so hard to maintain, leaving her bared and naked . . . If she opened her eyes, he'd see it all—everything she was trying to hide, so she kept them closed, held on to that smallest bit of her heart, even as he took it from her with whispers and sighs and a cresting need . . .

"Look at me, Amaterasu," he said softly, his roughened voice slipping over her like a caress.

For the briefest of seconds, she sought to disobey him, a surge of panic cutting deep.  Even so, she couldn't ignore his quiet entreaty, opening her eyes, despite the sheen of tears that stood in them.

He gasped, giving his head a little shake, as though he didn't understand the expression on her face, but he didn't need to, not really.  She knew it, and she was selfish enough not to want to give that to him, too . . .

Another long, slow stroke made her moan—a keening sound that she couldn't contain.  Balancing on the cusp of beautiful madness, she felt her body constrict around him, and he grimaced as he dropped his forehead against hers.

Slowly deepening his thrusts, but careful not to speed up too much, he whispered in her ear, but she couldn’t make out his words.  Caught up too deeply in the tremors of her own body, in the rapid constrictions that she couldn’t control, she couldn't help it as she lifted her hips against his, drawing him ever-deeper as she increased the tempo, bracing her feet against the bed, meeting him with every stroke . . .

He twitched inside her, thickened precariously as she cried out, as she shook and trembled, rising up to meet him just one last time as his voice mingled with hers.  The fire shot upward—up and out, as the wave of her orgasm lifted her high, cosseting her gently in the wash of pleasure . . .

In those minutes, those blissful and quiet minutes, when the only sound to be heard was the stunted breathing, the rasping satiation, she didn't know how she managed to keep herself from falling completely apart.  Ashur collapsed on her, grunted as he rolled onto his back, dragging her against his side.  He slipped out of her as she winced, and she forced herself to sit up, to carefully remove the condom and toss it into the trashcan before she curled up against him once more.

Gradually, his breathing evened out, took on the light and rhythmic cadence of sleep, his arms still wrapped tightly around her, holding her against his heart, making her feel cherished, almost loved . . .

She closed her eyes, savored the feeling, even while she hated herself just a little more for being too weak to pull away when she knew, deep down, that it was all just an illusion.  All of those emotions that she wanted to be hers . . . They weren't . . .

Glancing at the clock on the nightstand, she sighed, closed her eyes, savored the feeling for one last, lingering moment, wondering, just how long it would take before she felt this way again—if she ever felt this way again.  Whether it was simple pity for the girl who had no one, no home, nobody . . . Whether she was just someone who was convenient, someone who'd wanted to belong so desperately that she'd take anything that he gave her . . . And in the end . . .

Carefully extricating herself from his arms, she paused long enough to kiss his cheek, to memorize the way his face looked so much younger when he slept, as his words spoke to her in her mind: the words he'd spoken that night under the stars . . .

"If you live long enough, everyone lets you down eventually."

No, he didn't let her down, did he?  How could he when he was never hers to begin with . . .?