An Inn In Balmora

He pulled back enough to frown at her.

"If someone gets close enough, and is strong enough to kill me, then I probably can't stop them. So I put a magic on me to turn the desire to kill into the desire to mate."

"Are you insane?" His expression was unreadable again, but some emotion she couldn't place was all through his tone.

"I'm practical." She thought about adding more, but it probably wasn't a good idea.

He closed his eyes and spoke very slowly. "Why would you?" Then he stopped and shook his head. After a moment, he got up and paced over to where his clothing lay on the floor.

She sat up in the bed and wrapped her arms around her legs, watching him. There were trickles of blood along his back. She had apparently marked him quite a bit. He didn't seem to be aware of it.

He knelt and picked up his leggings. As he turned, she could see that he was partially erect. A small shiver of desire went through her, and she looked down at the bed.

He stood, pants in hand, crushing the fabric as he stared at her. She could feel his gaze as strongly as she would have felt summer sunlight. He made a sound that was half anger and half a growl that put her in mind of the way he'd sounded in bed.

"Breton." He said. "Outlander." His voice dropped an octave to the rippling purr of threat that she remembered from Seyda Neen. Her insides shivered with the desire for more of him.

He slowly walked closer to the bed. "I hate you."

The pants fell from his hand to land at his feet.

His right hand caressed her neck, sending shivers through her, and tilted her head up to face him again. His eyes seemed like coals about to burst into open flame. "I hate you."

The energy of his stare seemed to empty all the air out of the room. She felt like she couldn't breathe. She could feel her nipples getting tight just from him looking at her.

"Why would you do this to me, outlander?" It was a growl, more than a question. She felt like a trapper who has come back to a rabbit snare to find that the trap now held a live, angry bear. Trapped, but not helpless, not safe. "I hate you."

For a moment, she thought about saying that she didn't hate him. In the back of her mind she could hear what he would say in that low, dangerous voice. It would be "I don't care." Because he didn't, he couldn't, any more than a trapped animal would have any hesitation about killing the trapper when it finally could.

She didn't want to hear him say it. It would hurt her to hear him say it, and realizing it gave her the answer to the question he'd asked: why. Why would anyone cast such a spell, set such a trap in place?

He crawled slowly onto the bed, looming over her like he had once before. She could see nothing of his expression but the red coals of his eyes. "I hate you." He whispered again, and the feel of his breath on her cheek, and the sound of his voice sent shivers of desire through her.

"I know." She said, and felt a tear trickle down the side of her face.

He kissed her then, hard and demanding, as if he was going to devour her starting with her lips. He ran his hands roughly over her, rousing her desire with the harshness of his touch. He pinned her beneath him, claiming her with hands and mouth, and marking her with the intensity of his demanding kisses. "I hate you." The passion in his voice sent heat between her legs, and she gasped.

"I hate you." He said again, more urgently and he thrust himself into her as if to emphasize his words. His hands gripped her shoulders, pinning her underneath him, holding her in place as he increased the speed and the force of his thrusts. "I hate you." His hands were shivering; she wasn't sure if it was from his arousal or from his emotion.

She sort of felt she should say something, but all she could do was try and meet his movements with her own. He ran his teeth over the side of her neck, alternately kissing and biting her. The sensation made her breath catch faster, made her fingers clutch at him, made her whimper as he drove into her again and again.

"I hate you." It was a chant, it was a curse, it was a demand.

He pounded into her harder driving the breath out of her with every thrust. "I hate you." Closer and closer he pushed her to that edge of out of control pleasure. She could feel herself on the edge of it. The sound of his voice, the feel of him thrusting into her, grinding against her, holding her down, the feel of lips and tongue on her neck. She was shaking with need, so close, so close.

"Scream for me, Breton." And he closed his teeth and his lips on the delicate skin at the base of her neck and sucked.

Pleasure exploded, and she screamed, riding the pleasure as it slammed through her over and over, as he slammed into her, as his voice seduced her and his words cursed her, writhing, unable to hold still under him, she called out and had no idea what she was saying.

He answered her scream with an animal sound of his own; a roar of triumph or hatred or both. He rode her pleasure and his own, gasping his hatred as his body claimed her. He kept moving, drawing out the sensations until his arms were shaking too hard to hold him up.

He slowly let himself collapse against her, once again settling against the wall. She suspected that it was a tactical thing.

He turned toward her, and then stopped, regarding her with an intensity that suddenly was much less sexual. Gently he touched her cheek with the fingertips of his right hand. She tried to scoot a little away from him, and brushed at her wet face with her hands.

Trying for the same indifference he seemed to achieve so easily, she said. "I could still heal you." She had to sniff to clear the tears out of her throat, which probably ruined the impression she was giving.

After a moment, he said. "That won't be necessary." He touched her lightly on the side of the neck where he'd been so occupied recently.

She flinched a little. It was pretty tender. Probably already bruised. She was going to need to do some healing magic on herself.

He raised the hand to her hair then, barely touching her.

She wasn't sure what to say, or even if she should say anything. So she kept silent. She could feel that he was watching her, but the room was now so dark she could see nothing of him but his silhouette.

Then he slowly got up and gathered his clothing.

She pulled her knees up to her chin, wrapping her arms around her legs as she'd done before.

He dressed, slowly and carefully. There was a lot of buckling, and she heard the sounds of what were probably weapons of some kind being checked or adjusted. Then, still saying nothing, he opened the door.

Pale light illuminated him. He looked the same as always, dark, intense, dangerous. There was no sign of any change. Had she expected one? Maybe.

Footsteps sounded down the hall, and he glanced to his right, and then closed the door.

She gave him time enough to leave, and then settled down in bed again. She should probably get dressed. Or hang up her clothing so it didn't wrinkle. Or at least get up and lock the door.

Instead she cried herself to sleep.

It was only after she was breathing deeply; sound asleep, that he walked away from the other side of the door.