He could feel the torment awaken again and again on his face, waves of screaming synapses holding their orchestra of tumult over the front of his skull. But where he could lick the wounds subsided. Hie eyes stayed clean and untouched by blood. A mask of saccharine, then, laid across his face but unable to reach the violet orbs that were his birthright. He went on to feed her inner the limb that had opened her up, and introduced her to womanhood.<br/><br/>What a lovely theater she hosted on her features. An animal's viciousness first, like the furious are triumphant in finding blood, but then she understood that blood was empty without his own attachment to it. He swallowed deeply at his own villainy when she found fear again. There she was, his own Lyra. He growled darkly from the center of his chest, rattling his throat in something that might have been a beast's purr, when she was treating him to such a hot hold for his cock, and such a pretty sign of loss on her expression.<br/><br/>His lips gasped in surprise at the sudden delight she held up, her hands dropping. Have me, she was asking, and if possible he delivered harder touches to the end of her inner. Lyra was beautiful, but she was not a giant. He squeezed her tighter, as though restricted airways was her reward for her submission. The girl with the rapier had left them, and here was this new woman, christened and made by him. He was hurrying toward the lucid line, but shook her when her mind tried to escape, to keep her in the moment when she became his in a way she'd never even owned herself.<br/><br/>A whistling intake of air marked when he spilled into her. It was a rough and heedless pleasure that spread in him. He breathed like it was gratitude toward the ceiling, tribute, and then dropped his head to hang above hers, hair falling to obscure him and stick to the gashes his tongue had not touched. A pretty monster, a carved statue with time's abuse on its face, with copped leaks from underneath. He stroked her cheek and laid on top of her, sharing the lift and sink of his chest against her soft orbs. In that moment, they were the picture of something exhausted, intimate and fated.<br/><br/>"Aren't we a pair, Lyra?" he asked with some sincerity. "You never thought you'd come to kill me, to end up my bride." he whispered to cement his claim over her. He kissed her temple and stroked her cheek to keep her close to his face. He was sharing the blood she'd drawn. Then he lifted himself with his hands on the tile, to pull out the weapon in all its bloody length. He wound was still open, and producing a puddle of his signature and her own life underneath.<br/><br/>"I told you I'd stab you to death. " And part of her had died, hadn't it?