Sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night and hates himself.

He doesn't know what rouses him, but he sits bolt upright in bed. His breathing is shallow. Moonlight streams through the windows into their suffocatingly hot room. The sheets, stiff with stale sweat, are kicked to the bottom of the bed. He turns to look at her, and he hates himself.

She lies exposed in the sweltering heat, skin shining in the cold light of the moon and he can see what he has done. When she gets his blood pumping so that it is singing in his ears and pounding towards his groin, he feels riled up and possessive and dark, so he bites and sucks and scratches. Her ragged breaths, her low moans ignite something primal in his gut and he wants to mark her, to claim her, to leave himself on her skin.

But sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night and gazes at the marred surface of her skin, sprinkled with light bruises and blood blisters and scarlet lines, and feels his stomach turn over, acid threatening at his esophagus. If only she had partnered with someone who wasn't so sharp, so harsh, if only she had fallen in love with someone who wasn't so dark, so twisted, so mad, she wouldn't look like this. She never protests the sharp pricks of his razor teeth, the tightness of his grip, but still he feels his insides squirm as he stares at her.

She is his angel, the one thing that keeps him sane, and he mauls her every chance he gets. He takes her unblemished skin and ruins it, all to please the thrumming in his veins as he watches her writhe below him. He sullies the purest thing he has ever seen. She trusts him, and he stains her.

If he were to ask, she would smile and gently touch his cheeks and tell him how silly he sounds and how she loves all of him, all the rough edges and the twisted smirks and even the darkness that lingers in his heart. She would tell him she was not scared of him and that she loved him loving her however he knew how. She would say this if he asked, but he will never ask, so he stays sick in the silence.

Sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night and gazes at her porcelain skin that he has spoiled with his touch, scarred with his desire, melting the snow of her skin into grassy bruises like a too harsh sun on a winter's day, and he clenches his fist as he lies back down and he bites down on his taut fingers as hard as he can to muffle the sounds of his sobs.