Rhoen lay curled up on the couch in the same position he'd been in for the past two hours, his lithe form curved around a body pillow that his face was squished against. It made him look even smaller than he already did, younger and more vulnerable with his pale hair spilling across his forehead and nearly hiding his clear, golden brown eyes from view. The TV was on, but he wasn't looking at it. He was just staring at a point on the coffee table, some emptied bag of chips that he was looking at but not really seeing, and his left hand was toying with something under his right sleeve.

He'd thought that living in an apartment and having a job and doing responsible, autonomous things would make things better. That maybe he wouldn't feel the need anymore, that building pressure in his chest eased by distance and time. But it only worsened. With the hunger, the urge sharpened, honed like a blade against a stone until he could feel its acute edge stinging his skin. He pressed his fingers down, the sting less a metaphor and more a reality, as Duke's large shadow fell over him.

At first Rhoen didn't process the words, only the command. He sat up without thinking of it, trained by years of practice, then halted and craned his head back to glare at Duke, almost baring his hidden fangs at the man. "What are you, my mom? I'll clean up later. I just worked for nine hours in that stinking club, give me a break." He raked his hair back from his face and stood up, fishing for the cigarettes he always kept in his back pocket. He needed something to take the edge off of this hunger. It wasn't that time of the week yet, even though he knew Jude would give him blood off schedule if he asked. But he needed to learn that self control, and right now it was mighty difficult with Duke standing so close, that vein in his neck pumping sinuously beneath his skin. The man smelled like a Happy Meal and Rhoen needed to get away.

"I'm stepping out. You should try smoking, maybe it'll soften the stick you've jammed up your arse," Rhoen muttered, a hint of his parents' Irish brogue peeking through. It only made itself known with certain words or intonations, or if he was a particular sort of drunk. Either way, it gave him an unpleasant, squirming feeling that he shoved way down as he headed for the door.

The glob of spit cooled against his cheek almost immediately, but Roan didn't flinch. He did not scowl or yell. If anything, his smile seemed to brighten. "Oh, Hassan. You're not making very good choices today," Roan said softly, his tone admonishing as if he were scolding a child. His grip on Hassan's wrist tightened sharply and a sickening series of snaps reverberated through the hall as he crushed the bones beneath his fingers, his expression never shifting from that sweet, if disappointed smile.

While Hassan dealt with the agony of his shattered wrist, Roan's wings flared out wide behind him, almost shielding Amrane from sight but not quite. Roan reached up and wiped the spittle from his cheek and then wiped it on Hassan's shirt, patting him gently on the shoulder. "You will listen to me now, because I'm not going to repeat myself, Hassan. Are you listening to me?" Roan grabbed a fistful of Hassan's hair and forced the man to look him in the eyes. His normally bright violet irises were shadowed in the hall, unaffected by the disturbing smile plastered across his face.

"You are not to approach my husband unattended from this day forward. You will not lay a finger on him under any circumstances, unless you are crawling on hands and knees to kiss his boot and apologize for this reprehensible behavior. You will address him respectfully at all times you interact with him, or there will be worse consequences for you than a broken wrist. You will also discontinue these disgusting rumors you've been spreading about Mariam, and endeavor to change the opinions of those you hear repeating them. You are going to follow these rules to the letter, and any others Amrane and I think up to keep your vile, miserable hide in line. Now go and see a healer," he finished, releasing the man's hair to pat his cheek affectionately.

"My men and I humped her until she shut up," the soldier continued. Aleks sat back on his heels and ran a critical eye over the man's face. "She was a good lay once she stopped screeching. Nice and soft." He spit into the snow and grinned at Aleks, who smiled back.

"You're not a good liar," Aleks said, his voice soft, then reached forward and sank his dagger into the man's eye. He pinned the man to the wall with his knee and dug the eye out, careful not to dig too deep as the man thrashed and squealed. Aleks removed first one eye, and then the other, then held the ruined globes in his hand. Blood poured from the man's empty sockets and down his face like macabre tears. "I will make you eat your own severed eyes if you continue behaving like a churl. Or you can mind your manners and I'll make your death quick."

The man just lay against the wall weeping quietly, shuddering in pain.

"The girl. You didn't touch her," Aleks prodded. It took a long moment, but the man whispered a response.

"...no."

"When did you reach the mountain pass with her?"

"A week ago. Please... please."

"Begging will get you nowhere. Where exactly has she been taken?" There was silence in response. With a sigh, Aleks angled his dagger between the man's legs and gave a sharp jerk forward. The screeching this time was enough that Aleks even flinched away. It hurt his sensitive ears. "Who's the shrill bitch now? Where?"

"A villa outside Aylmahyl! Whitvan, it's called Whitvan! Please, please—" The man's screaming was cut off as Aleks's fangs sank into his throat. Aleks could feel cartilage crunch and snap under his teeth as his bit down and tore his face savagely away. Blood sprayed, then gouted down the man's chest in sheets. And then there was silence.

Aleks loved the rain. The pressure and the cold, the thunder and lightning and howling winds that came with the downpour. It was soothing and beautiful and perfect, a force of nature that didn’t care in the slightest for what it passed over. It simply was.

That night, Aleks hated the rain.

The cold knifed through him. The only spot of warmth was the blood that slowly but steadily gouted out of his ruined shoulder and side, throbbing with every beat of his heart. He didn’t know if he was actually walking anymore. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t feel. Perhaps he was simply standing in the pouring rain and waiting for his strength to fail, for his body to stop working and finally collapse.

Aamon had escaped. He had put his hands on Aleks’s body, those hands that smelled of sandalwood and blood and pain. It wasn’t possible, but Aleks could still smell it. That sandalwood scent that choked him.

A rumble of thunder so deep it shook his bones snapped him from that thought. He was shaking. He thought he might be crying as well, but the rain made it difficult to tell. So tired. He was so tired. He wanted to sleep.

In a flash of lightning he could almost swear he saw the looming outline of a building, but it was gone in an instant. No, he was alone out here in the forest, and he was going to die. As if waiting for that thought, his legs weakened and he fell to his knees in soft mud, then slumped to the side. A soft plant tickled his cheek, and it something smelled like mint through the rain, sharp and sweet. At least he would die in a rainstorm with such pleasant smells. Better than at his brother’s immediate hands or the sword of a slaver. Better than by sickness or old age.

Aleks slipped away into oblivion.