All the Pretty Little Horses.
"Shh, just wait for your knight," Vincent whispers, tucking her hair behind her ear, almost gently. Pushing his hand away takes too much energy, and all she manages is to make Vincent smile a little bit more, his eyes even softer.
"Shall I sing you a lullaby, milady?" Vincent wonders. Sharon opens her eyes to try and glare, to push him away but her strength is wanning. She focuses on breathing as slowly as she can, on trying to remain calm. Panicking won't do any good. "Hush-a-bye, don't you cry, go to sleepy little lady--"
Sharon tries not to listen. She finds his voice irritating, grating, pushing inside everything she is until she can't remember anything else but Vincent Nightlay's voice, softly whispering lullabies. "When you wake, you shall have, all the pretty little horses--"
She doesn't want to listen. Vincent hums, his hand touches her hair. Sharon is shivering already, and it's as if her body couldn't choose between feeling cold and hot, pins and needles running down every inch of her skin.
She can't breath.
Are they alright? Back there, in the dark? She has been witnesses to the nightmares of three of them, and she remembers the way Xerxes came out the first time, injured and broken, the way he screamed.
Is he okay? Oh god, if only it didn't hurt...
"Way down yonder, down in the meadow, there's a poor wee little lamby--"
Vincent keeps on caressing her hair, the way one touches a favorite pet, rubbing her hand, pressing kisses against her temple. He's warm, small fancy, and she hates his touch, the way she can feel the warm line of his body pressed to her her side, all the way through her clothes. When her eyes open she doesn't look at him but towards Echo, where she's also trying not to move, half shivering and half sweating, in the same kind of pain she's in.
Vincent's hand touches her face, turning it from Echo towards him. His eyes are empty and terrifying, even when his touch is so careful, or perhaps because of that. He sings to her, soft and ever so certain, his smile unmovable, cruel like knife against her throat, and Sharon almost feels herself bleeding by its sharp edges.
"If you..." she starts, gasping for air. Vincent's hand closes around her neck but he doesn't squeeze, as if he was just reminding her that he could, if he wanted to, just kill her, reminding her how she can't do a thing about him at all.
"Good night, princess," Vincent murmurs as if he was just tucking her in; his mouth is still bitter with poison when he closes his lips over hers, but then he's standing up, walking to the door, humming as he walks away:
"The bees and the butterflies pickin' at its eyes, and the poor white knight cried for his mammy..."