AN: Written for the prompt Silk handkerchiefs.

She stands at the edge of the room, watching him, silent. He's stretched across his bed, eyes closed, sheet slung low across his waist, the flickering candlelight throwing his bruises into stark relief. He knows she's there, but he makes no movement of acknowledgement, doesn't even open his eyes. Waiting, she supposes, to see what she will do. And that's the question keeping her motionless. She can do anything to him. She is no longer a creature of darkness, but she's not quite the creature of light she once was. She could, should maybe, destroy him for all the things he's done to her. But he never did a single thing she didn't want, a single thing she didn't ask for; not a single thing she doesn't want to pounce on him and beg for all over again. She wants to grab him. Sink in teeth and claws and hold on. She wants to tear him apart. Hit him until he starts to fight back. She wants to kiss him and kill him and everything in between. She wants him on top of her, drowning her in fire, behind her, spewing filth. She wants him under her; powerless and trembling as her name falls from his lips like a prayer.

And more than anything she wants to feel him loving her. Because one of them has to.

She should leave. Turn around and walk outside right now. While she can still blame this whole mess on thinking she was wrong. Before she has to admit that she still aches for him in ways that can absolutely not be healthy. Her fingers worry the scarf around her neck. She put it on this morning, a desperate attempt to blot all memories of vampires. As if hiding her scars would make her stop feeling him. As if, by avoiding looking at bites from a lifetime ago, she could forget about the bites that he's left in far more intimate places, with far blunter teeth.

She should leave. Stop the wheel while it's still her spin. She has the perfect excuse. Good girls, human girls, don't sneak around fucking monsters. Good girls don't play trust games with handcuffs and vampires. Good girls don't roll around in the dirt. And she's a good girl now, absolved of all her sins. So she'll go. Dig out her crosses and string up her garlic, and make it stick this time. Leave him in the dark, where he belongs.

She moves forward. Sheds her clothes as she goes, until all that's left is the scrap of silk balled in her fist. He finally sits up and his eyes track her progress across the room, initial wariness giving way to desire the closer she gets. She kneels on the bed, loops the scarf behind his neck, and pulls him to her.

They need to talk. She needs to tell him what Tara discovered, needs to tell him that he's been wrong about her all along. But, oh, the noise he makes when she runs her tongue along the bruises on his face, and he's lifting her up and slipping inside, and pulling the scarf from her hands.

They don't talk. Instead, they spend the afternoon exploring the subtle differences between silk and shackles.