Her ready words tasted good when he interrupted them with the quick, oppressive kiss. He'd admired those lips, and thought they were art on their own, but now he didn't see them with much affection, even if he still desired them. How quickly a heart can turn. Perhaps he'd been dead already, inside, for the affront of what he'd done, and was now somewhere between places. Sorrow for pleasure is a strange conflict. It gave him satisfaction to hurt her sweet mouth, and his soul that objected his behavior gave him pleasurable tingles, too.<br/><br/>He groaned, like a beast does when the prey struggles, when her hands curled in his shirt. What a pretty way to object, and how useless toward its own purpose. No man would want her less for that. Her eyes too, when there was distance, infinitesimal, between them again. He'd put that pleading in her blues, but still had her adoration somehow. It made him feel accepted, like a mother's love, and like a robber at the same time. Why couldn't any part of her be repulsive so he had something to anchor his upset to?<br/><br/>That expression on her faltered into something further delicious when his leg disrupted them. It was lovely to get to verbally lash her,and she gave good reactions. When he pulled away and she had wilted, he felt like the worst bully, but that kind of character was also true to who he was. It seemed embracing his worse sides had value, too, and he was exploring it now in the wake of her miracle. Perhaps it was because he'd not wanted to forgive himself, the way a rational man had to, partially, when his murder resurrected.<br/><br/>The way she stepped off the bed, keeping the shreds of her clothes together like he'd offended her body in worse ways than killing it, made him stare. It was more like a dragon at treasure, than a concerned friend. Roan felt his heart pump, poisoning its stream by thinking all manner of delightful things he wanted to do with her, now that everything could be a wash, as soon as he wanted. The title had significance to her, Fallen, not angel, and the feeling in her tone woke him from his selfish pit. He stood with her, and followed to the door.<br/><br/>Roan slammed the thin wooden barrier before she could get out. He looked her up and down. There was little to justify this other than that he was now following the impulses of his own malice. But Iris would let him, wouldn't she? He stroked her arm and then nodded upwards, which pointed his chin at her. "Take it off." There were still the injustice of her silence for all the time they'd known each other, and his own badness for letting passion claim her. The affronts weren't equal. "I want to see what a Fallen looks like when she's trying to win favor." he said.<br/><br/>It was an interesting thing, to see what earthly things he could have Iris do. It also painted him as the words kind of marauder. It should have been enough, many times, to simply have killed her. Now he wanted more, because it seemed she could give of herself forever. Perhaps that was why humans were not granted access to immortality, because then their atrocities would be worse. He secretly wanted her to protest, because then he would wave his backhand outward, so the knuckle-side of the open palm would collide with her cheekbone. If she'd been lovely standing up, holding her clothes, she would be glorious, falling down from his contact.