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Under The Cool Shade Of Virtue	By : LauraGlauce Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Lucius/Hermione Views: 4350 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the canon characters and situations, all credit goes to JK Rowling. I'm not making any profit from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 6
- 7
"Wickedness is a myth invented by good people to account for the curious attractiveness of others." Oscar Wilde

The First Night of Our Discontent

The silence was perfect and so was the darkness. Night at the Peverell manor was absolute when there was no moon to break its dominion. Her eyes were wide opened and if there had been the thinnest string of light she should have seen the high ceiling but no matter how long she waited for her eyes to adjust ,the darkness was unmoved and almost tangible. This perfect stillness used to lull her into a deep, restful slumber once, but now she realised that she had no idea how long had she been laying there trying to silence her mind and fall into the arms of Morpheus. Every move, every deep breath seemed to energise her and stimulate her mind with renewed force.

After Ron had his drink he levitated the still unconscious Malfoy to the room they prepared for him on the first floor and then they went to sleep. Despite the efforts Ron made to convince her that he was alright she was still worried because she knew that he wasn't young and what happened to him there looked extremely intense and painful. She really didn't want her hands stained with blood, innocent or not.

The idea taking form in her mind was insane but it wouldn't leave her alone. She feared that he might die and no matter how deep her hate was and no matter how hard she suppressed her natural compassion her overactive mind had the best of her, forcing her to act according to her morals. She wanted to make sure he was still alive but in truth, the real, shuddering reason was curiosity. She was aware of how wrong and absurd this inquisitiveness was but it wouldn't leave her. It was like having a strange and fantastic creature that despite its dangerous nature she wanted to see and study. That bedroom on the first floor did not hold a man but a chimera, an impossible but yet oddly interesting creature.

She listened to Ron's steady breathing and once more tried fighting her traitorous mind.

She had an odd habit. Every time she couldn't make a decision, every time she was torn between her numerous ideas she would wait for a sign, a sound, a word from someone or even a gust of wind. It was such a silly thing, completely against her rational mindset but that very calculating manner in which she lived her life drove her to indecision at times. The more she analysed option and consequence the more difficult it became to make a decision. The irony was that her overbearing intellect was what made her dither so.

She held her breath waiting for a sign; she decided that the first creak the old house would make will be her trigger. She felt silly doing this but at the same time consoled by the fact that no one would know. It didn't matter what her mind would concoct as long as no one knew.

The house seemed to be her only accomplice, the only one that approved of her insanity as the faintest of creaks in the old woodwork confirmed. Barely there and hardly distinguishable Hermione sighed in nervous relief at hearing the sound.

It wasn't difficult to slip out of the room unheard, Ron was a very heavy sleeper and despite her heart hammering unreasonably in her chest she smiled thankfully as she closed the door letting herself be engulfed by the darkness of the hallway.

The first thing is light; the first and most striking impact on his perception is its bluish hue. He has been aware of his own breathing and consciousness for a while, wondering if to feel relieved or disappointed by this proof that he is still alive.

The next is a voice saying something hard to distinguish. A movement, a shuffle, the soft clinking of glass - bottles perhaps - the light flickering and then the flittering of touches on his shoulder. The voice still speaks but in such a small whisper that it makes him wonder whether whoever it is really wants to wake him. He suspects it's his wife, he is painfully unaware of the reality of his last few years. His mind returns to distant times, the years before prison when his reality was something he could identify with, even if it wasn't safe or comfortable it was his reality, his life – it was him – in that distant life that is now gone for him, his wife was the only one allowed to care for him when he was injured or sick. Sometimes when the circumstances asked for it Severus would have done it but now, despite his agony and confusion, he can clearly distinguish a soft, pleasant feminine voice whispering to herself or maybe chanting. Definitely not Severus. It can only be his wife.

Something happened, something bad must have happened that brought him in this situation. He tries to remember but his thoughts and consciousness are flickering and are confusing him. The voice is now gone and he fears it was only an illusion, or maybe he is dead and this new state of existence is something that he needs to adjust too. Death frightens him only when he is faced with the possibility of non existence or obliviousness.

He is a sceptic. He always questions theories and thoughts and he can't embrace any belief completely. He knows only one thing, the possibility that after death might be nothing and that he might be reduced to nothing terrifies him. There is nothing more frightening than the likelihood that him, his own self, his identity and personality with everything that he struggled and worked a whole life to achieve will be severed, erased, sent into nonexistence. Whoever is up there, whoever made him can't be that cruel as to destroy his own creations.

When he was a boy he used to draw and if the drawing was subpar by his childish standards he used to tear it into small pieces and throw it away. Divinity is considered to be a pure, inviolable and objective force. Wouldn't it be natural for such an unbreakable being to destroy its rejects? By the standards of all religious beliefs he is a reject, he is unredeemable. Will he be ripped into small pieces and tossed into the bin?

No, he can't be dead, he just physically felt his wife touching him. His material body responded to a very much material stimuli. Can there be some sort of spiritual memory that by habit tends to simulate physical reactions? Or maybe his disembodied mind tries to reproduce physical reactions that he can relate to in order to cope with the unfamiliar state he is in? That's wild thinking and he needs to stop or who knows what absurdities he will come up with next.

There is that sound again – glass, bottles or cups being moved around and clinked together. Someone walks around quickly; he can hear footsteps and the floor creaking. Liquid is being poured into a container and then something is placed noisily on a wooden surface. Someone inhales deeply and moves around again. He urges his eyes to open further but every time he tries the bluish light blinds him and sends a sharp pain across his forehead. The glow seems to be coming from his right and it is unbearably close.

A few things happen in rapid succession. The soft voice whispers "Aguamenti", water is being poured again, a short yelp is followed by the distinctive sound of glass smashing and finally the soft voice concludes: "Shit!"

He is now certain of two things, he is not dead and whoever tries to heal him is most certainly not his wife.

"Oh, for god's sake, calm down!" mutters the voice.

The light becomes dimmer as the footsteps walk away from him. A door is opened and then closed. He listens to the sound of footsteps until they disappear and he is sunk back into the void of absolute silence and darkness.

Maybe some stranger found him unconscious somewhere and they sent him to St. Mungo's where this incompetent bint was appointed to nurse him back to health. Too much bureaucracy, control and power placed in the wrong hands. No one does anything right in this country…

A nightjar starts its repetitive call somewhere in the distance. The mechanical churring of the bird is loud in the absolute stillness of the night but yet its monotony is calming.

He starts to be aware of the emptiness and draughtiness of the room and in the same time of his very physical existence in the space surrounding him. The irritating light is gone and he can now open his eyes. Opening them doesn't change the situation, the place is pitch black. He searches around with his eyes for the smallest ray of light but no shapes or shadows are distinguishable. Even in his state his mind returns to the earlier annoyances regarding the health system. They could have at least provided the wards with candles.

He needs to move, he needs to drink something, he needs to do anything to prove himself that he isn't a corpse. He gropes around himself and finds the edge of the bed. His fingers clench the covers and he sits up slowly, afraid that any sudden movement might cause him an aneurysm. There is a strange feeling of timelessness and confusion. He can't place his own existence into time and space and the more he tries to remember the angrier his head ache becomes. There is a feeling of disaster, of doom in the back of his mind. It's as if he has an intrinsic knowledge of something loathsome that has happened without being able to identify it.

Finally managing to put his feet on the floor and sit on the bed properly he looks into the darkness and tries to get a grip on his consciousness. All he needs to do now is sit up and find the bathroom, a door, a window or even a bottle of arsenic. A deep breath and a motivational thought later he stands up wobbling slightly. His dizziness is incredible; if he were twenty years younger he might have enjoyed the sensation.

The woman placed something on what seemed to be a bedside table that was near him. He fumbles around and finds the hard wooden edge of the object he was looking for. He grabs onto it and tries to walk only to step into what feels like wet eggshells. A sharp pain in his foot makes him loose his balance, he tries to make another step but he slips on the strange slime covering the floor and he falls carrying the bedside table down with him. The damned thing makes an infernal crashing noise and whatever was in it sounds as if it has been broken into a million pieces.

The stupid bint smashed those phials or bottles or whatever the hell they were and forgot to clean the mess. Something warm and wet trickles on the sole of his foot; it seems that those glass shards did their job. He groans and lies on the floor thinking of a way to get back up and miss stepping into glass again.

He hears light footsteps coming from outside of the chamber. The bint finally managed to find her way back to her patient. Maybe this time she will do her job properly. That odd feeling of knowing something he can't place returns - he seems to associate it with this woman.

The door creaks and the bluish light blinds him again. The woman seems to hesitate in the doorway for a while before she silently steps in, closing the door behind her. A short gasp announces that she saw him sprawled on the floor. She runs towards him, the light that he can now see coming from the tip of her wand dancing before his eyes.

"Oh, great! How did you do that, may I ask?" she speaks and her voice finally answers all his earlier questions, his awareness striking him like lightning. Like waking up from a strange dream, reality oddly enough doesn't surprise him. There was that thought in the back of his mind that something terrible happened, now he understands where it came from. He reaches for his neck and with a gasp of horror touches the collar.

"Don't worry, I'm not as cruel as you might be in this situation, I will help you." She says condescendingly. "Such a mess you made here… Reparo!" she whispers pointing her luminous wand to the crumpled bedside table. The object obediently reassembles itself and she places a small stub of a candle on it. She neatly arranges a small leather case and a set of phials and small bottles next to the candle. After a bit of fumbling with the objects she nods in satisfaction and turns to look down at him. Her hair is wild and the light from her wand casts grotesque shadows on her face making her look like Medusa. He sneers and turns his face away from her, hating his feeble state.

He can now see the edge of his bed just to his right; he grabs it and tries to get himself off the floor only to be struck by dizziness again. He masks his helplessness by carefully sitting back down, still looking away from her. Despite everything he tries to keep his chin up and look as dignified as he can, considering he is sitting like a cripple at the mudblood's feet. Oh how he would throttle her right now…

"Scorgio." She whispers and all the glass and spilled potion surrounding him disappear. "There, it's gone, no need to worry. Now, if you can't get up just say so and I'll help. Believe me, this is no pleasure for me either but I won't let you lie here on the floor."

"Such virtue, Miss Granger…You've made an enemy of your own dutifulness…" he hears himself whisper.

"I know it is difficult for you to admit that you are a wreck but still you could at least cooperate, all things considering…" She says in a surprisingly amused tone. The girl has some nerve and unfortunately she has the luxury to have all the nerve and daring she wants. He is the loser here, after all.

"Maybe I don't want to satisfy your silly heroic whims." He says, still looking away and concentrating on the intricate embroidery of the bed spread.

"It's just a spell, it's not like I'm going to touch you…" she says with disgust in her voice.

"I can get up, don't fret…" he reaches for the bed again and sinks his fingers into the mattress trying to fight his vertigo and get himself off the floor. She stands watching him silently as he finally manages to crawl his way along the edge of the mattress and kneel in front of the bed and at her feet. He hates himself; he hates how he's become. "STOP LOOKING AT ME FOR GOD'S SAKE!" he says louder than he intended.

"No need to raise your voice Mr Malfoy! I'm right here and my hearing is quite good I assure you." She says quietly. He is surprised to find such self control in this girl that used to wear her heart on her sleeve like any respectable Griffindor.

He grates his teeth and heaves getting up slowly, still uncertain of his balance. He straightens his back and looks down at the girl in front of him. She mimics his posture instinctively. She is so small, barely reaching his chin with the top of her head. How can this silly, insignificant mudblood have absolute power over him? Where has the world gone to?

She smiles smugly as if she can read his mind.

"There…see, that wasn't very hard." Her face might appear blank in other circumstances but now, in the glaring light of her wand, he can obviously detect apprehension and fear in her features. This makes him smile and he keeps staring at her wanting nothing else but to accentuate her uneasiness. After only seconds she looks away and this small triumph over her will makes him feel slightly better about himself. Not so strong after all, are you stupid mudblood?

"I think you should sit down." Her voice is hard and commanding. She raises her wand slightly looking back into his eyes. He laughs bitterly ignoring the scraping pain that attacks his throat at this small action.

"And why would I do that?" he asks her as quietly as possible. She purses her lips and inclines her head, dark eyes glimmering underneath dark eyebrows.

"Because I say so."

"That's hardly a reason Ms Granger." She takes a few steps away from him until she hits the bedside table. Her wand is now raised and pointed at his face, the light blinding him completely. He can't see her anymore, only an indistinguishable silhouette with wild hair and small shoulders.

"I don't need to justify myself to you. Stop wasting my time!" her voice is low and harsh and she remains unmoved. He smiles mockingly at her knowing that she can see him perfectly.

"Do you think I care for your wasted time?"

"You might care for your wasted time though, seeing that you are now standing in a pool of your own blood and that glass must be pretty well embedded into your foot." She moves to the left trapping him between the bed and side table. He lifts his foot and winces at the sharp pain that shoots through his flesh. He can actually feel the pieces of glass moving under his skin.

"What a good Samaritan…" he whispers. She glares at him and lifts her wand up again.

"Always and sometimes with the wrong people…"she replies pensively. "Please lie down or I might have to turn to other more persuasive methods."

"Threatening me now are you? How the tides have changed."

"Yes they have and you'll just have to get used to it. Now sit!" her temper is rising and he enjoys it immensely. She points her wand at his throat thinning her lips in expectancy.

A wave of sickening heat and dizziness suddenly hit him and he sways on his feet. He is dehydrated, hungry and exhausted; he can't keep this charade longer. He releases a breath and closes his eyes for a moment. He needs to drink something, the thirst is unbearable. Almost two days have passed since he had his last glass of water.

He finally gives in and sits slowly on the edge of the bed without another word or look towards the mudblood. He rests his forehead in his palms and tries to control his breathing.

"Good…" she whispers dejectedly. She is fumbling again with those bottles and the clatter starts to get on his nerves. "Take this." He lifts his head from his palms and looks up at her. She is standing above him with a small potion flask in her hand and an annoyed expression on her face. She moves the flask towards him, urging him to take it.

"What is it?"

"I'm not going to poison you, it's just an invigorating potion."

"I want some water first." He can barely hear his own words and it's a surprise she understands him.

"I'll give you water afterwards, now take this." She says impatiently pushing the flask in his hand.

He takes it and downs the loathsome concoction as quickly as possible. She plucks the potion flask smartly from his hand and replaces it with a glass that she magically fills with water. The mere sound of it sloshing in the glass infuses him with an unknown energy. He never realized how much he took for granted the existence of water. He downs it feverishly and greedily not even caring that he spills half of it all over him, in his beard and on his filthy prison shirt.

"Why do you like making things so difficult?" she speaks quietly as he takes the glass away from his lips and extends it to her. "More?" she asks arrogantly.

"Yes." He hisses at her. She laughs a small mocking laugh and refills his glass. He grabs it from her hand and downs it as swiftly as the first. He feels stronger now; he could easily tackle her, take her wand, kill her and the Weasley idiot and escape but there is the matter of the collar around his neck and the fact that he has no idea where he could run to.

She steps away from him and her grip on her wand tightens. He looks up into her face and he is met with narrowed, suspicious eyes. What is the matter with her? Why does she keep looking at him like that?

"What?" he asks harshly. She still stares at him, not saying anything for a long while. The nightjar begins its monologue again somewhere in the distance.

She shakes her head and lowers her wand.

"Nothing…" she whispers. "Let's get this over with, lie down so I can get that glass out of your foot." She approaches him with determination in her eyes. He wants to object, argue with her but he gives up, knowing that there is no use, knowing that arguing will only make her stay longer. He wants to be alone, he wants her out.

He pulls himself up and reclines on the headboard. His eyes follow her every movement. She is quiet as she walks to the foot of the bed. She gathers her nightshift around her body and sighs. She gives him one last strange look before she starts whispering an incantation and moves her wand intricately around his feet. He is almost thankful that she is using magic; he couldn't have went through with the awkwardness and embarrassment of having a stranger touch him so intimately, so closely.

The sharp, nagging pain that her magic is causing him doesn't even startle him. His eyes stay closed and his teeth clench at the stings of every shard of glass wrenched from his flesh. The nightjar accompanies the dull torment.

"Done." Her voice makes him open his eyes. She stands there looking at him for a moment. She walks to the nightstand guided by her livid orb of light. "You have here some more potions that I trust you will be able to take by yourself" He still looks blankly at the spot she occupied earlier. "A strengthening potion and an invigorating potion…You will eat tomorrow, I don't allow anyone, under any circumstance to eat anywhere else but down in the kitchens. There are some rules that you will have to learn and obey…I'm sure that rules aren't a problem for you." She chuckles.

"Just like cheap sarcasm isn't a problem for you." He says.

"I'm sure that rich sarcasm isn't directly proportional with wealth judging by your crude mockery." She speaks quietly and distantly as if mussing to herself.

"You amuse me Ms Granger, please go on." He finally looks up at her and is met with her straight, inexpressive face. The corner of her mouth twitches in a small smile.

"Amuse yourself Mr Malfoy, I'm sure you've become an expert in that by now…" she turns away from him and back to her task.

"Do you really believe everything you hear? Do you honestly think your dull prattling is attention-grabbing? Azkaban guards are more entertaining in their wit than you."

"I'm sure their conversations are scintillating for that that spent their lives among brutes and became apt in deciphering grunt language." It's amusing how she doesn't realise she slipped a compliment in her insult.

"I'm sure you are just as familiar with it, considering your entourage."

"You can't even control yourself when someone is helping you can you?…I must say, I'm not surprised." There is a glint of wickedness in her stare as she looks at him from the corner of her eye.

"I never asked for your help."

"But yet I am helping you." She turns to him clutching the small leather case in her fingers.

"Why?"

"Because I have a conscience!"

"A conscience…" he chuckles "you are just afraid of what the tabloids might say if I died the first night spent in your house."

"Not everyone is like you."

"Ah so you enjoy tending to me?" he laughs. Her face has lost all control, she looks stricken and angry.

"I hate tending to you." She whispers angrily.

"Then why do it? Your help is not appreciated, thank you." He turns his head to the darkness of the ceiling.

"Alright, then." She says scornfully. "Bandage that wound yourself, you arrogant bastard!" she grounds out heatedly throwing the leather case at him. She goes for the door in a rage with her hair flying wildly around her.

"Why thank you! I'd hate to have your filthy hands on me!" He yells after her. She stops in her tracks and freezes in the middle of the room. She takes a few deep breaths before turning around swiftly and facing him. Her eyes burn into his skull. Her nightshift is askew and her hair seems to crackle with static energy.

She walks slowly back to him. She blows out the candle and takes it off the nightstand. They are swallowed by the livid light of her wand again.

"I don't think you'll be needing this anymore." She speaks quietly looking down at the candle, her control regained. "Speaking of filth, you reek and you look hideous, I'd appreciate it if you'd make yourself a little more presentable. The bathroom is in that direction," she points smartly with her wand to the right. "I'm sure that your superior intellect is sufficient and you don't need such trivial things like light to bandage a wound, wash yourself or piss." She smiles tightly at him and walks away.

"Charming as ever, mudblood." His words have no evident effect on her; she walks out without looking back and slams the door behind her. She does not forget to turn the key in the lock however.

As the sound of her footsteps die down and he is sunk back into absolute darkness he reaches for the leather case that rests on his chest. He fumbles like a blind man with it looking for a way to open it. He finally unzips it and feels inside of it with his fingers. He finds what feels like scissors, gauze and a small bottle with what he presumes must be some sort of disinfectant.

His fingers slowly return to the scissors and he touches it gingerly, pressing its sharp point into his palm for a moment. The scissors' blade isn't blunt - when opened its tip could easily penetrate flesh. He freezes for moments, thinking, analysing, cutting into fine pieces, driving himself mad.

No. No. It's too easy. Life is never easy and neither should be death. He is above such melodramatic nonsense.

The alleyway is deserted as always. It smells of garbage and cat piss but he is used to the conditions and he accepts them as a given. If he wants something he gets it and if he wants to do something he does. There are limits of course, as long as no one knows, no one gets hurt and as long as no one gets hurt he can do whatever he wants. It's simple and logical to him.

He still smells her on him, her scent is overpowering and his heart brakes at the disgust he feels. His bottom lip is crushed between his teeth and he feels like yelling and ripping his hair out. And he does just that, at least inside. The silent scream bubbles in his chest twisting his soul, taking his breath away.

There is a completely different person inside of him. People see what they want to see, but inside the shell of his body lives a hysterical, raging man. A creature wild with remorse and yearning, wanting to tear open his chest and burst out and destroy him. This man is sad and twisted but he never lets go, never leaves him and one day he will merge with this man, they will be one.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and he smells her again, on his palm and on his fingertips. And he tastes her in his mouth and he needs to be exorcised of her, he needs him to be cleansed of her. His feet start to move on their own accord and he runs, not wanting to waste any more time, not wanting to wait longer and burn with desire any more minute.

Images of her on top of him haunt him. She moans and her head falls back wantonly, he feels her from the inside, clenching around him and he shivers with loath and guilt. He feels sorry and sad and wretched and he sometimes wants to die. And she doesn't even suspect, the poor thing.

How did this happen? When did it happen? How did he not see the signs? Where does it come from? Will it consume him? Questions, doubts, muddled and incoherent thoughts that only his body can silence.

He finally reaches the gangway he knows all to well and his heart travels in his throat in anticipation. He lights his wand and walks quickly and silently like a cat. The night is his best friend lately, only she knows him, only she understands him, only she helps him quench his thirst.

The door, the beautiful red door that leads to content finally appears before his eyes! He raps quietly with the back of his fingers on the smooth dyed wood. A lock is being opened, a latch is being pulled and his personal "St. Peter" opens the door.

"Good evening sir! Password please." The old gentleman speaks curtly. He has a finely trimmed beard and intelligent blue eyes.

"Tonight…tonight it's…" he rubs his bottom lip with his thumb in thought and then leans towards the man and whispers in his ear, "Liebe." He pulls away and looks at the man. "That's it, right?"

"Yes sir, you are quite right. Welcome!" the man bows respectfully and gestures with his right hand towards the crimson hallway that opens in front of him. 'Liebe', German for love. Is this insanity love? Does it matter? No.

He shakes his head and walks in leaving his doubts on the threshold and baptising his thoughts with the hypnotising fumes of burnt incense that assault his senses. The music is soft and mysterious, demanding somehow. He never heard the song being played here before but he resonates with the notes, they excite him, increase his desires and erase his guilt.

He hears laughter coming from the central room and he follows the sound eagerly. A pair of boys, holding onto each other, passes by him. They nod at him and he smiles back. He feels no desire for them, no one arouses him, and no one interests him since he met him.

The hallway opens to the large, opulent room. Chandeliers hang from the high ceiling, draperies fall in waves around the walls and behind soft velvet recliners and ottomans, the forbidden scent of blissful obliviousness saturating the air.

There are many men tonight; indistinguishable figures float around him like in a dream. Some smile invitingly at him, some nod, some say hello. He is distant but polite, the singular goal in his mind making him numb.

The silver bar in the centre glistens in the kaleidoscopic light cast by the magical chandeliers. He needs to drink something to calm his rampaging heart, to unwind and let go but he does not dare approach the bar. He needs to see him first; he needs a precise goal.

He scans the crowd and searches the darkest corners of the room with his eyes, searching, yearning. His breath catches as his eyes fall on him. He is there, he never fails him, he never disappoints him. He is with his back at him on one of the stools surrounding the bar. He takes in the image, following the line of his body with greedy eyes. His shoulders shake with the laughter that is loud enough to reach his ears. The sound pierces through his heart and coils in his stomach. He reaches a slender hand to his drink, the fingers curl around the steamy glass and his head turns slightly, enough for him to see his glorious profile. He drinks from the glass slowly without taking his eyes away from whoever it is he is speaking to. A pang of jealousy twists his heart and he walks to him, this time determined to smother his timidity.

As if in slow motion he sees his companion stand up and walk away. He spins on his stool and faces the bar and as if on queue his head turns to him and finally their eyes meet. He freezes in his tracks and looks at the man at the bar expectantly. He nods slowly and his crimson lips twist into a meaningful smile. He stands up swiftly, his stool spinning in place. He stands for a moment looking at him impassively and then turns his back and walks behind the bar. This is the sign, he needs to follow him.

His feet have a mind of their own again; he is in a daze, he is hypnotised by the beautiful, elegant shadow he follows. The man's jet black suit conceals him, he becomes part of the deceptive shadows that glide on the walls.

The man's hand pushes one of the crimson draperies that cover the walls revealing another corridor. He follows as if in a dream until he stands face to face with him finally drowning in his eyes. The man's face relaxes into that familiar, secret smile only he knows and puts a hand around his shoulder pulling him behind the curtain. His body is clay in the man's hands and he closes his eyes revelling in the sensation. The man's hot breath snakes on the shell of his ear and down his neck.

"Welcome love."

A thousand thanks for reading and hopefully enjoying my story. I need to know what you think especially now that I can't update very often and to top it all the story is at a rather confusing turn. But please bear with me and I promise you will understand and start to adore the rather insane and weird plot bunny that has been munching at my brains and patience for well over a year. Thanks again with cherries on top!:)
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Under The Cool Shade Of Virtue