He'd seen her visit something pleasant in her mind. They had been tender on occasions too, hadn't they? How surprised she'd been when he'd forbidden her from the door. Perhaps that was her own fault, for being naïve. He was drawn by the way her hand secured her torn clothes closer around her, as though she was a deer, shifting. Her breath at his command was also enticing, but then she tried to go where he'd stopped her, anyway. It urged him to visit her pretty cheek, and he had to admit to himself that it was a delightful, exclusive feeling, like breaking fine porcelain, or putting your shoeprint in new snow.<br/><br/>He gasped when her head was tossed to the side, all the pretty hair alive like some purposeful storm. She fell from the quick vengeance, and he watched her slide down. The surprise that took over her face made him feel powerful and contaminated at the same time. The hand exploring the damage was classical and flawless in its tribute to his violence. All of Iris was a monument to him, made in finer material than he could ever hope to be. Her question wasn't defiant, but rather desperate, like she would love an answer, so she could start pleasing him again. He felt loved, and thought he'd found a perfect way to extract emotion. Trauma is a catalyst.<br/><br/>He meant to tell her, or say something. He liked being cruel so he could be kind, especially to something as beautiful and dear to him as her. But then she told him with her body what should happen next. Her eyes shifted to his legs as though they were autonomous, and had ill intent. Her own, bared thighs crawled her back toward the door. The implication was insulting, but also inspiring. He needed to justify that kind of thing first. That was part of it, to pair the violence with some kind of motivation. It's what she would rather, too, so her worship wouldn't be tarnished. Human men are adept at excuses for their vileness and desires.<br/><br/>"Don't you understand?" he asked, looming over her, a wildness in his gait. His first kick was quick, and it sunk into her stomach. Iris had never proven to have angel reflexes, and he didn't expect her to stop it. How utterly blissful it felt, burying his toes onto her belly hard, and then pulling back. He was sure she'd give a good show, falling tighter to the floor, or landing against the door, harder. "I told you to undress." he hissed and slammed his palms to the wood above her, and kicked her in the ribs next.<br/><br/>He could feel himself slip. The world had given him the most beautiful woman, and enclosed her in solitude with him, and paid for the rent. She was forever dying, which meant she would never truly leave him, nomatter what he did. They had given a man a toy that looked like a woman, and told him she was something much better than human. That kind of gift corrupts, and he wasn't some choirboy to begin. "I want to see your body, angel." he hissed, bent over her, thirsty for her misery, locked with her other emotions for him. "Or is your skin a liar as well?" It was true, that sentiment, and how he needed to see more of her. Perhaps he could grasp the situation better. He'd not only be be a murderer, but a liar too if he thought it wasn't for his baser satisfaction as well.