"You enjoy this," Alistair told Selene one night, his voice low as he drew blood from her again. "Do not deny it."
She did not.
"Yes, my Lord," she replied, breathless. "I enjoyed it."
That pleased him.
Days blurred into nights. Nights bled into one another. Selene's sense of time was lost, replaced by the rhythm of anticipation, endurance, and aftermath.
She learned to read Alistair's moods—to recognize when restraint would be tested harder, when he would push further, when he would linger afterward in silence that felt almost contemplative.
She learned something else, too.
Alistair never killed what he valued.
Those who survived were those who understood him—not emotionally, not romantically, but instinctively.
They knew when to submit, when to endure, when to accept the pain without surrendering themselves to panic.
Selene understood now why she still lived.
Why Caroline still lived.
They were not special because they were loved.
