"I killed 'er," he murmured, staring down at his blood-encrusted fingernails. "I killed 'er with me own two 'ands." He shuddered, rocking back on his heels. Stared up at the black, starless sky.
He closed his eyes and her slight form was there. . .the cocky grin. The bright, green eyes. He remembered the fight so clearly. Circling in that alley like two territorial wolves. She'd thrown so many punches. . .struggled against his grip when he'd grabbed her and shoved her against the wall. And then they'd tumbled to the ground like street punks--rolling and kicking and biting. Oh, her blood had been so sweet. . .every drop that had touched his lips had been like ambrosia.
Her blond hair had wound around his fingers when he'd jerked her head back. "Slayer," he'd whispered as he heard her ribs crack under his fist. "Slayer, die for me."
She'd struggled. Swore at him. Tiny fists beating at his chest. "No. No, Spike. . .I'm not going to die."
But she had. He'd heard the glorious snap of her neck as he brushed her mouth with the lightest, most romantic of kisses. He'd inhaled the scent of her hair and skin, rocking her limp body long after it had cooled.
He'd laughed. Full of joy. Full of victory. He'd finally bagged the Slayer. For Drusilla. And Dru's eyes had lit up. She'd cooed and fawned over the corpse he brought home and laid in their bed. They'd made wild love right next to those sightless eyes. Forgiving each other all trespasses. . .bathing in blood . . . reveling in the beauty of their evil.
"I snuffed 'er out like a candle flame. . . ripped the life right out of 'er." And for what? For glory? To brag to other vamps over a pint of blood?
Spike shuddered, covering his face with one hand as his shoulders heaved. Not with sobs but with roars of mad laughter. "I got 'er. I got 'er good. Proved myself. I'm a Master. I'm the baddest arse in the undead world."
He lay back in the grass of the park. . .listening to the swings on the swing set sway in the breeze. He could still remember the feel of hot blood spurting into his mouth. Her youth. Her desire to live. Her very essence invading his system. And he'd thrown back his head and howled to the moon. And he wanted to do it all again. He would.
"Because I'm a murderer. That's who I am. I can't change for anybody."
"It's okay," she whispered then. . .breaking the silence she'd kept as the words had tumbled from his lips. Her hand stroked through his hair. Without judgment. Without violence. "It's okay. I understand that."
He stared up into her green eyes. Saw the truth in them. "How do you know I won't ax you like I did the last one, Pet? I've killed two."
"How do you know I won't stake you?" Buffy wondered, shrugging. The smile that graced her lovely face spoke of sadness for the story he'd told. And a thing much stronger. "We're both killers, Spike. But we're killers in love."
He scooted up, placing the back of his head square in her lap. . . and then reached up to pull her head down. He met her halfway, kissed her with a voracity that shocked them both. . . tongue attacking the insides of her mouth. . .fangs nicking her lip. "Die for me?" he murmured hotly.
"Yes. . .yes, Spike. . .every single night."
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