She lies still beside me. She always seems so content after, like my touch has mended something broken inside of her. She has no idea how many things I have broken in my time.
Such is the effect we have over people. If they are strong of will, they may despise us, despise what we come from and what we stand for, but they are too drawn to us to properly fear us. They want to believe that we won’t hurt them, even though their inner voices assure them that we will.
I won’t. But that doesn’t justify her lack of fear. What I am is an exception. As a rule, she should be terrified of my kind. She shouldn’t even be at ease with me. If she knew what a struggle it was, how I longed to have her in the only way that I haven’t yet, perhaps she wouldn’t sleep so peacefully.