In Omne Tempus

Author’s Note: This is the answer to a BSV challenge, and as before, I will post the guidelines at the end of the story. Similarly, this story is radically different from anything I’ve attempted to write before. It is Spuffy, and after two or three chapters, that should be very obvious…I just don’t want to freak people out too badly with the first few. It’s all set-up.

I’m molding some popular vampire traditions in some of the vampire romance novels I’ve read – *sheepish* – so I will be tampering with a bit of the myths outside Whedonverse. As far as I know, these new venues are wholly my interpretation.

Author: Holly (holly.hangingavarice@gmail.com)
Rating: NC-17 (For language, violence, and sexual situations)
Timeline: Outside canon.
Distribution: Mandi, Yani, Stacy, Luba…it’s all yours. Everyone else, just drop me a line. You can have it as long as I know where it’s going.
Summary: For a hundred years, William the Bloody has led a trail of bloodshed and chaos across Europe and the Americas. That all comes to an end when the woman he’s devoted his existence to brings his mate to him in the guise of a late-night snack. A small girl with eyes of green and blonde hair. And suddenly, Spike is thrown into a world of color beyond the black and white, and his life is never the same.

Disclaimer: The characters herein are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. They are being used for entertainment purposes out of respect and admiration, and not for the sake of profit. No copyright infringement is intended.

It was going to rain. The skies were clear now, but the weatherman was predicting heavy storms for the night, and the meteorologists in Sunnydale were never wrong. Thus Willow decided to count her blessings that she had a boyfriend with a van. With any luck, they could leave right after Oz showed up. After all, there was school tomorrow, and she wasn’t all too wild about the thought of being up all night, especially when she had finals to worry about and a paper at home, waiting for her finishing touch.

Willow shivered a little. The past three years had been trying on her. While life prior to Buffy and the bombshell of vampires and demons and other crawlies that stalked the night had been relatively quiet, she realized that her sleepy little town had always had its share of creep. She was just more alert to it now. More aware that every step she took, especially after dark, that she was challenging fate.

Granted, the past few years had similarly presented a fair share of problems in which walking at night from one place to another was unavoidable. Xander had accompanied her on a few missions, but he seemed to have less and less time for her and Buffy ever since he and Cordelia discovered they were destined to a love-hate relationship with much of the sex having.

She really didn’t care to think about how she knew about the last part. Finding condoms in her best friend’s wallet while fishing out a dollar for the soda machine? Yeah, that hadn’t been fun. Especially when Xander remembered they were in there. They hadn’t been able to look at each other for a week.

It would be easy to be irritated with Xander had she not been fault of the wonders of having a boyfriend herself. She had discovered Oz around the same time that Cordelia and Xander called off their childhood feud to make with the smoochies. And yes, while it was aggravating to have a super-genius boyfriend who could make peace in the Middle East in a blink but was a fifth year senior due to laziness, she and Oz had been glued at the hip for a good year or so now.

It was similarly nice, despite her outward disappointment, to have him with her when she walked the halls at Sunnydale High. She was no longer Willow-The-Nerd—she was Willow-The-Nerd-With-A-Cool-Boyfriend. It had just seemed so wrong that she found that happiness before Buffy had. Buffy, who embodied every characteristic that she had coveted since kindergarten. Buffy, who could’ve been the most popular girl in school if she wanted to, but had instead befriended her and made her life all the better for it.

Buffy was the Slayer. Willow had always thought her friend chose the road of solitude because of her sacred duty, though it hadn’t kept her from trying to set her up with every available guy with an I.Q to save her from loneliness. With her dating Oz, and Xander with Cordy, the redhead had experienced pangs of reverse-abandonment, and never wanted her friend to think that her love life came before their friendship. It didn’t. She likewise never wanted to be in a position to choose between Oz and Buffy; therefore, it had made the most sense to try to set Buffy up with guys and hope that it worked out. That way, at least, she wouldn’t feel left out of things that were of the coupley nature.

The past few days, though, had served as the ultimate wake up call.

Buffy had never wanted anyone, because there was only one in the world for her. And as twisted as it was, Spike being a vampire and all, Willow didn’t question it. She couldn’t. Simply watching them together had told her everything she needed to know. The way Spike looked at her friend left little room to doubt. Oh yeah. Even if Buffy hadn’t told her that he’d said it already, Willow would have known on first glance just how deeply he felt for her.

She was excited. All pending doom and gloom aside, she was thrilled that her friend finally had someone to double with…though granted, she didn’t know if Spike would be the kind of guy who’d want to double, but it seemed highly unlikely that there was anything Buffy couldn’t talk him into. Not when he looked at her like that. She could probably even convince him to be her date to the prom.

It would make next year easier on her as well. Willow and Oz were talking about getting their own place off campus, which would limit her time with Buffy even further. Now Buffy had a mate, someone with whom she would share a connection so great it would make everyone around them tremble with envy. And the knowledge gave the redhead a sense of endless relief.

She would never abandon Buffy; never abandon her best friend, but she didn’t want to feel guilty for having a boyfriend. And while nothing had ever been said to inspire such a feeling, Willow simply couldn’t help but worrying about it.

Though she had to be careful and pace herself. If she got too carried away, she’d forget imminent danger, such as this vampire that Buffy and Spike were currently trying to sniff out. Some big nasty that even had Giles wigged—a feat that wasn’t too altogether difficult, but unnerving nonetheless.

Perhaps it was a belated realization, but walking after dark? Alone? Not of the good.

Oz will drive me home.

Yeah, she always had some excuse to satisfy her conscience after she did something stupid. Like midnight walks to Buffy’s? Not smart…but then, she had done it all the time before she realized the town was a hellmouth. Particularly when Xander needed a shoulder to cry on in the years when his parents’ fighting wasn’t as easy to ignore as it was now. When he couldn’t escape it by blaring music and making out with his girlfriend. When he didn’t have a car by means to get far away with, or things like impending apocalypses to distract him from issues that looked downright petty in comparison.

Perhaps that was why she felt she could justify her carelessness. At least she was aware of the danger now. At least she was aware. At least she knew.

In the meantime, she would have to crack on a plan on defeating the latest threat to human existence. If it was that thing that Spike had mentioned—that stone hell-sucky demon—she wanted to be all with the ready. She wanted to know there was a plan waiting to be hatched. Something to throw back at the baddies.

Besides now? Two superhuman forces fighting together? So much more with the reassurance. Not that she thought slayage was too much for Buffy, but Willow would never pretend to be anything but relieved that her friend wasn’t out there alone.

The sooner this evil was defeated, the better. She wanted to focus on important things…like finals and term papers and the possibility that she and Oz might start talking marriage once they hit college.

Marriage that young, though, would be stupid, she told herself. Very, very stupid.

A shrill scream tore through the night, slicing through her reverie. Willow started and whirled around just in time to see the flash of blonde hair of a frantic young woman. She nearly ploughed the redhead over in her carelessness, panting erratically, her blue eyes streaked with fear, dodgy, and barely seeing her in the midst of her panic.

“Ohmigod,” she gasped, clutching at her stomach. “Ohmigod.”

Willow was dumbfounded. She hadn’t even heard the woman approaching. However, the fear in the blonde’s eyes automatically shoved aside any curiosity. Something was bad. Her heart had started pounding wildly, and she knew something was very bad.

“Calm down,” Willow said, hazarding a glance to their surroundings. The neighborhood seemed quiet, even deserted. “Calm down. What’s wrong?”

The woman turned to her and stared. “Oh, oh, oh, you’ve gotta help me,” she cried, seizing her by the shoulders. “You’ve gotta help me. He’s gonna kill me. I swear, he’s gonna kill me.”

“Who?”

“His face! Oh God, his face!”

Willow’s blood ran cold, and she looked up again with some urgency. No, the road was still deserted. That didn’t matter, though. If the woman was being hunted by a vampire, he could easily melt into the surroundings that even skilled eyes would overlook.

“Calm down,” she said again, voice full with sudden intent. “Calm down.”

“He’s gonna—”

“He won’t do anything. We’ll get you inside somewhere.” She licked her lips. “Do you live near here?”

The woman’s face went blank.

“Listen!” Willow seized her arm and shook. “Listen, you need to stay with me, okay? I’m gonna get you somewhere safe, but you need to stay with me.”

The woman released a deep breath and nodded. “Y-y-yes,” she agreed, shivering. “Yes, oh please.”

Willow sighed and began walking again at a brisk pace, never releasing the woman’s arm. The poor thing was shivering, and her skin felt cold through the fabric of her blouse. No wonder; the weather recently had been playing a symphony of different chords when it came to daily temperature. It was going to storm tonight, and that was allegedly supposed to be the end of the unusual southern California cold fronts.

“Do you live near here?”

“Yes.”

“Come on. I’ll take you home.”

“Oh, thank you! Thank you!” The woman seemed to snap back to reality at that, as though only then truly realizing that she was no longer alone. “He was gonna kill me.”

“I know.”

“There was something wrong with his face.”

“I know.”

Willow didn’t feel particularly chatty. She understood that the woman needed to speak, but that didn’t mean she wanted a heart-to-heart as they fled for their lives.

“I think he was…oh God, this is going to sound crazy…”

“A vampire,” the redhead supplied. “I know.”

“Oh.” That seemed to shut her up for a minute; stun her into silence. Then, “Thank you so much for helping me. I didn’t know there were people in the world like that anymore.”

Willow released a deep breath and slowed. She didn’t feel like they were being followed, and though her senses were hardly Slayer-refined, being a loyal sidekick for the past three years did have its perks. “I just did what anyone would do,” she said.

“No, I don’t think so.”

A pause. They continued in silence for a few seconds, walking fast. Willow kept shooting glances over her shoulder. They appeared, for better or worse, thoroughly alone.

But she wasn’t going to question the woman and abandon her only to risk seeing her name in the obituary section the next day. Buffy would just have to wait ten minutes.

“I’m Willow, by the way,” she said.

The woman turned to her at that and flashed a smile, an unsettling flicker in her eyes. “Darla.”

Buffy was slightly disconcerted to see her house dark and unwelcoming, especially in the veil of night where it all but faded into shadows. She had neglected to leave the porch light on by simple force of habit, as she usually left the house for patrol through her bedroom window. She had thought, though, that Willow would have already arrived.

It was a quarter past eight o’clock, and the house was dark.

“Something’s not right,” she said, stopping coldly, squeezing Spike’s hand.

“What are you talkin’ about?”

“Willow should be here by now.”

Spike shrugged. “Prob’ly saw no one was home,” he replied reasonably, though there was a note in his voice that set her nerves ablaze. As though he was deliberately trying to keep her calm. “We are runnin’ a li’l late.”

Buffy shook her head. “No, she knows where we keep the spare key.” There was silence, then she realized that her boyfriend already knew that. There was very little about her life that he didn’t know. “She would’ve just gone inside if we weren’t home when she got here.”

“She’s not jus’ runnin’ late herself?”

“Spike—”

He threw his hands up and she immediately missed the comfort of his touch. “Jus’ don’t want you jumpin’ to conclusions, luv,” he said. “Let’s go inside an’ make sure she din’t phone you. Somethin’ might’ve come up.”

Buffy released a deep breath and relaxed. He was right, of course. Chalk up to her nerves being on fire. Since their tryst in the cemetery, she’d found herself growing increasingly anxious, and knew that as time came closer for them to make their union complete, she’d be in a state to make coffee tense.

It was a strange understanding. These were the last few hours of her life as a virgin. She was going to be claimed tonight; going to become the mate of a vampire. The knowledge made the evening seem holy, and she was just waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the silence that had surrounded patrol since she met the Order of Aurelius to shatter, especially when something so sacred was about to take place.

Spike kept looking at her as though she would vanish; kept looking at her with a world of love and adoration. It made her feel warm, but the weight of what they were about to do was similarly unstable. She feared a girlish breakdown, and that simply would not do.

It felt like her wedding night.

As Spike had predicted, there was a message from Willow on the answering machine. Her friend had evidently decided to wait and catch a ride with Oz later, which seemed more sensible, and spend the time until then working on her research paper. That way, she didn’t hazard taking on a dangerous town alone and after dark, and she could get some homework done in the process. But she did advise Buffy to give her a ring if anything came up.

Relief washed over her.

You need to stop looking for bad in every direction.

Only there usually was bad in every direction. She had Spike, but she was also the target of one of the most notorious Orders in history. That was bad. Bad, but fixable. And she had Spike’s assurance that Angelus wasn’t the type to randomly attack. He planned strategically—which in itself was frightening, sure, but she had an insider feeding her all the information she needed. When it came time for the big fight, she would be Spike’s mate in name as well as blood, thus the danger of using their unclaimed bond would be out of reach.

She hoped so, at least. They were in love; Angelus and Darla were not. It seemed to her that her enemy still had a deadly advantage.

The thought was terrifying.

“There, now,” the vampire cooed, dropping a kiss against the back of her neck. “Feel better?”

“Yeah,” she said, sighing. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m just on edge.”

“I know, baby.” He smiled, twisting her in his arms so that he could see her eyes. “Anythin’ I can do?”

The question was innocent enough, but her polluted mind took the back alley without needing any direction. He sensed it, of course, and the grin turned wicked.

“Any virtues you need me to sully?” he asked, waggling his brows.

God, it was so tempting.

“We shouldn’t.”

“Why not? Far as I can see, we have the house to ourselves for two an’ a half hours.” His eyes smoldered and he neared. “Wanna see how many times I can make you come in two an’ a half hours?”

Her knees buckled. “Spike…”

“Wanna see how loud I can make you scream?” He nibbled on her ear lovingly. “Wanna, Buffy?”

God yes.

“But—”

“Won’ put anythin’ anywhere you don’ want it put,” Spike promised. “That’s for later.”

Oh God.

He cupped a breast, stroking her nipple through the thin fabric separating them. “Please, sweetheart?” he pleaded softly. “Need you.”

He hadn’t reached fruition in the cemetery. He’d sent her into two spiraling orgasms before noting that he didn’t like the idea of sharing her with Sunnydale’s deceased residents. They’d made two more sweeps, talking quietly about her English paper before coming home. And all the while, he’d been sporting an erection that he had occasionally thrust against her backside. Whether or not this was to relieve tension on his part or make her all kinds of horny, she didn’t know. Probably both.

He liked making her squirm. She’d be in the middle of trying to answer a question he’d asked her, concerning how her teacher was tackling Orwell’s novel, and he’d break into her explanation by reminding her how much he wanted her.

“You’re a bad influence,” Buffy murmured.

“The baddest, baby.”

“We have two and a half hours?”

Spike grinned.

“Well,” she continued, flashing a saucy smile. “I think I could use a shower. You think you could help me with those…hard to reach places?”

His eyes widened and he kissed her fervently, leaving her breathless with the taste of his passion. “God, I love you.”

Buffy melted. “I love you, too.”

“And I’ll never tire of hearin’ that.”

It sounded like a casual assurance, but there was something in his gaze that spoke volumes of truth. He was in awe that she had said it. More so tonight than ever, she’d catch him staring at her as though she was a flame that would disappear with the slightest hint of breeze; a flame he depended on for warmth and beauty, and all the other virtues vampires were supposed to reject. All the virtues he embraced. As though he was still holding back the full wealth of his feeling to keep from scaring her. It didn’t. She was in love, and with them it was forever. Forever.

Tonight was the night they made it final.

She only hoped she could wait. Even now, with his arms around her, the peace she craved seemed years away.

Spike paused. He had just discovered Joyce’s liquor cabinet and was in the process of helping himself. He’d left Buffy upstairs about ten minutes earlier to let her get ready for bed and was busy scrounging through the kitchen for something to eat. There was no blood, of course; and even if there was, he couldn’t fathom indulging himself when he knew the chalice that awaited him that night.

Buffy was dressed in sweats and a camisole, which seemed to be her favorite pajamas. Plus, they were appropriate for company. She looked so sweet, so innocent. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, and she had paused in the doorway, gracing him with a look that struck him as both domestic and coy. Even with everything they had shared, there was little she could do to take away the innocence that made her so warm and effulgent.

He had her for eternity. For the rest of his days, this was the face he would awake to. A rush of excitement filled his veins, and for the thousandth time in the past ten minutes, he found himself cursing the clock. Now that he knew it was tonight, that she would be his forever in blood and name after tonight, time had slowed to a near halt. His fangs ached like never before, and his body was tense with anticipation.

“Ah,” he said teasingly, glancing down to the bottle of wine in his hands. “A dangerous pastime.”

She paused, looking from him to the wine to him again. “Ummm…you know I’m not old enough for that, right?”

He arched a brow. “Evil, pet, remember? Liquorin’ up innocent young girlies is my job.”

Buffy’s eyes darkened. “There better be no more innocent young girlies,” she pouted. “And here I thought I was special.”

“Better believe it, baby.” He uncorked the bottle and considered it before deciding that he was better off just buying Joyce another rather than dirtying one of her glasses. “If you don’ know by now that you’re the only one—”

She grinned shyly and crossed the room, curling her arms around his waist. “I know it,” she said. “Besides, seducing big bad vampires is totally my job.”

He growled at that, eliciting a giggle from his young mate as she brushed a kiss across his lips.

“I think the idea of me seducing anyone, least of all vampires, is hysterical.” Buffy kissed him again. “Oh, and if they’re not you. Vampires who aren’t you are a major yuck.”

“When’d I get myself sired?” Buffy nodded. “Dru snagged me in 1880 after some upper class bint broke my heart.” He stopped, surprised with how quickly that confession had rolled off his lips. Speaking of Cecily was always a sore spot, even if he had long ago made peace with the fact that she was a vindictive bitch and hadn’t been good enough for him from the get-go. He hated thinking about her, and had actually dedicated several long hours during his years of solitude to concocting exciting stories about the night he became a vampire, knowing Buffy would eventually ask.

He hadn’t wanted to lie to her, though. He wanted nothing but truth between them.

It obviously wasn’t the answer she’d been expecting. “You got sired because…”

Spike shrugged. “Doesn’ mean I haven’t made peace with it, luv. If you think I’d change anything that’s happened between us given the chance, you’re off your bird.”

He smiled. “’Cause I love you.” More than words could express. More than poetry and sonnets, more than light and warmth. So much he felt he would quiver from it, a slow growing burn that threatened to devour him whole.

He’d watched her since she was small. Watched the child grow into a girl, the girl become a woman. He’d watched as she took her first steps as a slayer. He’d watched as she lost and sacrificed, learned and grew. He’d watched her fight with dignity and grace without succumbing to darkness that had always, in his experienced, coincided with great power.

God yes, he loved her. He loved her for being everything he couldn’t be, but loving him anyway. He loved her for her kindness and virtues, her quirky sense of humor, her faults, and every little thing that made her Buffy. He loved her for being his salvation, even when she couldn’t see it. When she didn’t understand what she gave him with a simple touch, and how watching her smile flooded him with warmth.

He watched her; her charming innocence, even in light of everything they’d shared, filled him with grace he had never anticipated wanting.

“Guess you can say that,” he replied, taking another long drink of wine. “The chit turned me down, an’ in my infinite wisdom, I ran outside in the middle of a bleedin’ killin’ spree that we’d been talking about that very bloody night, an’ the rest is history.” He grinned. “Guess there was some irony in that the killin’ spree that killed me ended up bein’ the handiwork of the blokes that became my family.”

He felt a pang strike his chest, but shrugged nonchalantly all the same. “You asked.”

“I know.” She wet her lips. “I need to hear it. I need to know…I love you, but I want to learn to love all of you…not just the vampire you’ve been since you came into my life. The goodness you’ve shown me…and the bad. Because if I can love the demon, too, then I can appreciate the man all the more.” She kissed his lips. “After all, the demon’s what brought you to me, right?”

Her words awed him. The part of his existence before her was something he thought she’d never want to touch. Full acceptance was nothing he’d ever had. No one had ever wanted him that much.

Before he could stop himself, a passionate growl rumbled through his throat, and he cupped her face, bringing her mouth to his. She tasted like sunshine, like a star that had fallen from the heavens. He stroked her tongue with his, his hands sliding down her throat, over her arms, and finally cupped her breasts, pebbling her nipples between his eager fingers. He was so hard. God, he’d been hard for years. Waiting for her. Dreaming of the woman she’d become, but never had his fantasies brought him this close to heaven. Never had he envisioned her like this. So perfect, not despite her flaws, because of them. So warm. So accepting.

“Buffy,” he moaned into her mouth, lifting her in his arms and setting her atop the island. Her legs parted instinctively, and he seized the invitation before she could recant, thrusting his erection against her cotton-clad pussy. “Buffy, I want you so much.”

“Spike, we…Spike…” She half-mewled, half-protested before her hands came to rest on his chest. “Spike, stop!”

The shrillness of her voice brought him back to himself. He ripped himself away from her as though scathed, crashing against the counter, panting harshly.

Buffy shook her head. “No. No, it was me. I just…we can’t do this now.” She glanced at the clock. “Oz and Will are gonna be here soon, and I…”

He cursed. Bloody well forgot about that. Thoughts of tonight, of losing himself in her body, were taking their toll. He’d waited so long, but never had fate been cruel enough to squeeze in an eternity or two in a few unbearable hours.

“I want to,” she said softly, bringing him back to her. “I really want to.”

“An’ all of tomorrow. If you think you’re goin’ to class after what I do to you tonight, you’ve got another thing comin’.” He paused. “Pun intended.”

Buffy’s blush enthralled him, but he forced himself to stay a pace away from her. She held his eyes for a long minute, then smiled and glanced down. “When all this is over,” she said. “And you and I are mated and the Order’s been taken care of, you need to take me out.”

Spike arched a brow. “You really think you’d ever be happy with normal, pet?”

“No,” she replied immediately, making a face. “Ew, no. That’d be way boring. But it doesn’t hurt to remind myself why every now and then.”

He smiled. “You wanna go dancin’, an’ we’ll go. We’ll dance all over this miserable town.”

“In my day, dancin’ was a part of society. Granted, it wasn’ as much fun as it is nowadays.” He shrugged and took another long swig of wine. “Plus in the ’40s, Dru was big into swing. She insisted that she had to learn how to ballroom dance.” His eyes distanced as the memory struck: his once black goddess, sinking her fangs into one dance instructor after another if he offered the slightest critique, or if she happened to be hungry. “I told you she was into musicals.”

Buffy nodded, pursing her lips. “Sounds like you two had a very exciting life together.”

“It’s important for me to understand, Spike. It’s not like I was there in the past for you to be faithful to. I can take it. I’m a big girl.”

He didn’t want her thinking about his life with Drusilla, though. He never wanted her to think that he’d settled for something that was less than what he was. He’d let go of Dru a lifetime ago, it seemed. He’d seen her that night that she brought him his small mate, and it was as though a veil had been lifted and he was using his eyes for the first time. No longer content to watch the shadows on the wall of the cave and mistake that for reality; he needed the sunlight Buffy gave him. Needed it to be real rather than an allusion. He needed it all.

“My life with Dru wasn’ as excitin’ as you might think, luv,” he told her honestly. “It was the life of a vampire. I was a part of one of the oldest an’ most feared Orders in history. I was the only one of them to have ever tasted…the blood of a slayer. But they din’t respect me. Never. Angelus an’ Darla were never secretive in the fact that they thought sirin’ me had been a great injustice to vampire-kind.”

“You did kill two slayers…like you said.” She shuddered slightly, but managed to go on. “You accomplished what none of them ever had. For the big reputation, you’d think Angelus would seek out slayers…like you did. But he didn’t.”

Her words sent a haunting resonance through his body. Suddenly, he was a hundred and thirty years younger, and Angelus’s big clammy hand was around his throat. Trying to teach him a lesson. Trying to learn him good on what constituted a good kill. Warning him that his carelessness would eventually result in his death, if not by an angry mob, then certainly by the Slayer.

He’d sought her out. Angelus never had. Rather, Angelus had waited from the sidelines, hoping that his grandchilde’s aspirations would eventually result in a good dusting. He remembered the big sod’s seething anger when he strolled out of his first confrontation with a slayer, smeared in her blood with a very amorous Drusilla glued to his side.

Angelus had nearly killed him that night, he realized. Why he hadn’t, Spike would never know. It hadn’t bothered him at the time—he hadn’t taken the lout seriously. After all, the blood of a slayer was on his hands. How much of a threat could his grandsire be?

Angelus had been jealous. And not only of the Slayer he’d done in during the Boxer Rebellion; of everything since. Of Dru’s doting, of Darla’s silent appraisal, of the boost in status that occurred almost overnight. His ownership over Drusilla barreled to epic proportions after that. After all, he couldn’t have his childe favoring another vampire over him. No, no, that simply wouldn’t do.

And now, Spike had more recognition than ever. The pages of history might remember Angelus as a nasty of son of a bitch, but for the first vampire to ever claim a slayer, there would be volumes of text. Tales of epic romance and sacrifice. How he, above any that came before him, had fought the monster within in the name of love. How he’d come so far. How he’d sought something more than the mediocre existence of a demon. How he’d sought to be.

How the small girl before him had brought him into a life that was actually worth living.

The ring of the doorbell sliced through the waiting reply on his tongue. The Slayer’s chums were here. He sent her a scorching look that spoke plainly that they weren’t through discussing this.

If anything, he was going to show her how amazing she was tonight. Graphically. With his tongue.

“Gah,” Buffy grumbled, sliding off the island. “I don’t see what the point of tonight’s get-together is, anyway. We haven’t found Angelus, we don’t know what kind of apocalypse he’s planning…so we’re, what? Brainstorming to brainstorm?”

“Gives your mates a sense that they’re prepared for whatever’s comin’,” Spike retorted with a shrug, reaching for his cigarettes. “Might as well humor the lot.”

She tossed him a narrow glance. “You’re actually in favor of wasting potential naked-time planning a strategy that could change in a blink?”

She frowned and plucked the cigarette from his mouth. “No smoking in the house.”

Spike smirked and brushed a kiss across her lips. “Hold that thought, pet,” he murmured, moving for the entryway. “This shouldn’t take too long.”

When he opened the front door, though, and saw Oz standing by himself, he knew something was wrong.

Spike swallowed. He heard his young mate’s heart skip a beat. The air stank of fresh tension. The fear he’d coaxed her to cast aside only a few hours before returned with a fiery vengeance.

The wolf shook his head, his normally stoic eyes flashing with sudden urgency. “I haven’t spoken with her since this afternoon.”

“Spike?” The sound of Buffy’s voice, so small and afraid, pierced the vampire’s heart. “What’s going on?”

Buffy didn’t need to be told twice. She disappeared back into the kitchen, Spike and Oz following close at her heels.

“Hey guys. Ummm, slight change in plans. I’ve decided to stay and work on my paper until Oz is out of practice. Might as well get it all done at once, right? So, uhhh, if you need me, gimme a call, but otherwise, I’ll see you at eleven.”

“She never called me,” Oz said sharply. “She never told me any of this.”

Buffy shook her head. “Willow doesn’t lie,” she replied. “I mean, she doesn’t lie, and she can’t, even if she did want to. She’s a total crappy liar.”

“What else do you suggest?” he retorted, foreign anger rising in his voice. “You said it yourself. Willow doesn’t lie.”

Of course she was. He knew this. He knew it all too well. How in God’s name had he missed it? How many times had Angelus and Darla pulled this stunt? How many?

Devastation wracked his body; not for him, not even for Willow. His eyes met Buffy’s, and he knew that she knew in that instant. He knew that she knew.

It was over. He knew it then. Everything was over. He’d played with fate one too many times, and finally, fate had snapped back. He felt the wealth of everything he’d waited for slide through his fingers. The world he’d been building for Buffy and himself had been invaded by reality, and the weight of their self-indulgent avarice was crashing around them.

There was fear in her eyes. He prayed it wouldn’t turn into hate. He couldn’t bear it.

The thick silence surrounding them exploded. A long, familiar wail that felt almost artificial, too far placed from veracity to touch him tonight.

Sunnydale wasn’t a town of immense size, and despite the population, the law enforcement very rarely saw the need to get involved. Spike had suspected for a while that the ‘don’t-ask-don’t-tell’ policy when it came to human-demon relations had a seat in some of the city’s high ranking official chairs, though he had never cared enough to investigate. It just struck him as especially curious now, despite the mortality rate on the Hellmouth, that there was an active crime scene investigation, complete with police cars and ambulances. The sirens had awoken the town—human and demon populace alike—such to the point that by the time he, Buffy, and Oz saw where the commotion was, there was already a large crowd blocking their view.

There was something else. Something that made everything fall into place.

Spike knew exactly where his family was. Whatever veil they had used to shield themselves from his nose or the Slayer’s intuition had been lifted, and that clinched it for him. He knew what had happened. He knew exactly. There was no room for doubt.

Angelus. Angelus and the whole miserable family. They weren’t hiding anymore. Their scent hung in the air, tackling him for his lack of foresight—like a name he’d thought he’d forgotten, only to have it resurface when least expected.

He knew what this was. His grandsire had seen how the Slayer dealt with outrage. He’d experienced it; seen that glorious waver of control just inches away from breaking altogether. He knew how protective she was over those she cared about. He knew what killing her best friend would do to her.

Would do to them.

He’s drivin’ us apart.

Angelus wanted Buffy to hate vampires. He wanted her violent and careless. He wanted her in the open where the protection of her mate could not guard her. Slayer or not, he wanted her in her element.

He wanted to use them against each other.

Willow’s blood tainted the cool night air. It was all around him, tickling his tastebuds, warring with his conscience. There was a glimmer of hope in Buffy’s eyes—hope that had not completely lost to anguish. As though light was slowly draining out of her body, and there would be nothing left but darkness. She didn’t ask him if he knew what happened, because she knew he did. And he didn’t say anything, because there was nothing to say. As long as they didn’t discuss it, it seemed that false hope could stay in place.

Perhaps there was a way he could prolong time to make this moment last. To extend that false hope before his mate was crushed with ultimate despair.

Spike wasn’t foolish. The night was compressed with trepidation—with fury waiting to be unleashed. Waiting for a spark to incite explosion.

Oz understood. Spike knew he understood by simply looking at him. There was no false hope in his eyes.

“Oh God,” Buffy gasped, subconsciously seizing his hand. She squeezed tight enough to make his bones crack, but he didn’t wince. He wouldn’t pull away from her for anything now. Not for the whole bloody world. “Oh my God.”

The flashing of squad cars was growing brighter. Spike saw where they were headed. Back to the graveyard, in the courtyard of a church.

Spoken like a true Protestant.

“Oh God. Oh God!”

The next few seconds were a blur. One beat she was beside him, the next she wasn’t. Buffy released his hand as though scathed and bounded across the cemetery lawn. And he saw it. He saw it just as she did. Just as the pained sound choked from Oz’s throat, and he caught the unfamiliar glimmer of tears in the young man’s eyes.

God, it was too real. It was too fucking real.

“Buffy!”

But she was gone. She’d fallen to her knees before the church. The crowd was thick, but not so that he didn’t see where she’d collapsed.

No, no. He didn’t want her to see this. This wasn’t monstrosity—monstrosity she knew. Monstrosity she battled.

This was something else. This was darkness without hope.

“Buffy!”

She didn’t turn. He saw her, but she didn’t turn. She remained on her knees, her hands fisting the blades of the earth as she wept.

At that moment, she was a thousand miles away.

It was going to rain. She knew it was going to rain. The air felt thick and the skies were heavy. It was going to rain. The heavens would open and tomorrow, no one would know that the ground she sat on was saturated in blood. No one would know tomorrow. Tomorrow, the blood would be gone. It would be as though this moment, this brief stretch of existence, had never been.

The rain couldn’t wash away a memory.

“No!” she screamed. “No, no, no!”

But it didn’t matter how loudly she protested; the scene before her remained the same. A girl was nailed to the front doors of a church, stripped off all clothing; her familiar red hair looked almost black under the moonlight. Her pale, alabaster skin was marred with black bruises and teeth marks, ribbons of blood trailing down her right side. Her arms were outstretched, her body crudely posed in a mocking rendition of Christ. Above her head, written in red against the church wall, were the words: For Your Sins.

“Buffy!”

He was there suddenly. His hands were on her, and he was trying to shake her back to herself. Spike. Spike. Spike was there.

Instinct raged against sorrow. Not the stirring of an unclaimed mate, rather the Slayer surfaced and she saw him truly, looking at him as though for the first time. As though her rose-colored glasses had been ripped away, and the human guise he so enjoyed could no longer hide the demon that resided within. And in that second—that blink of an instant—she was filled with such self-disgust that her body quivered, and she thought she might be sick.

“No!” she screamed, this time at her pained lover, jerking her arm away from his touch. “Leave me alone!”

“Buffy—”

“I hate you!” She collapsed again, though there was nowhere to fall. His arms were around her, his body unmoving, even as she pounded against his chest with closed fists. “I hate you! I hate you!”

Oz was beside her the next minute, placing a calm hand on her shoulder. She could nearly smell his tears.

God, Oz was crying. Oz was behind her, weeping, and she was striking her demon mate with half-hearted swings that weren’t meant so much for pain as they were for release.

“I hate you. I hate you.”

The minute she felt defeat rush through his body, though, the minute she felt he might actually leave her, a pain unlike anything else sliced down her middle. And suddenly, she reached a moment of clarity. A place of reckoning.

Buffy shoved Slayer instinct aside, reaching instead for the warmth of her mate’s embrace. Even as he rose to his feet and started away, the fog surrounding her reality parted, and she remembered again who she was. More importantly, who Spike was. Not just a vampire. Not a demon to kill. Her mate. The man who loved her. He had nothing to do with what had happened here.

She needed him. As the world fell apart, she needed the one she loved.

“Spike…” she cried, her body breaking. “Don’t leave me.”

He didn’t hesitate. The next second, she was in his arms again, sobbing onto his shoulder as local police attempted to get the crowd in order. Attempted to get everyone to back away from the sight. Attempted to conduct Sunnydale police business that seemed so fundamentally out of place. As though this was a crime scene—a real crime scene. As though Willow had been killed by real criminals that manmade law had any hope of stopping.

It was going to rain. God was going to wash the blood away. Hide the world from his crime.

Angelus.

Buffy clutched Spike tighter, her heart blackened.

Angelus killed Willow.

She would tear the town apart. She would bring him close to death a thousand times before granting it. She’d chain him up somewhere and embed a stake in his chest, just inches above his heart. He would know every indignity that Willow had known. He would know the pain of every soul he’d ever destroyed.

But for now, she simply wanted the warm, false assurance of her mate’s embrace. Spike was holding her, murmuring words of empty comfort, but it was what she needed.

If he let go of her, the world would disappear. She was sure of it. The rain would wash her away as well, and there would be nothing left.

Nothing but this black, hollow despair.

Spike knew the wolf was going to do something. He knew resolution when he saw it. And while he could admire the boy’s bravery, there was no way he was going to let Buffy lose two friends in one night.

He’d taken her home. There was intent in every nerve in her body, but she was in no condition to fight anyone tonight. Moreover, she seemed to accept that. She hadn’t protested when he whispered that she needed to go home. Needed the comfort of her bed, and they would discuss the rest tomorrow.

She’d sobbed herself into exhaustion. He was glad. He needed her to rest. Right now, she was too emotionally charged to fight anyone. She’d be careless and sloppy, rather than cunning. And she was too strong to stop, but not too strong to kill. In this state, there was no way he would let any of the Order near his mate.

“I don’t hate you,” she murmured as he turned down her bed. “I don’t, Spike.”

He released a shuddering breath. The words had cut, even if he’d known that she didn’t mean it. The thought that she could ever hate him made his demon yearn for dust. But she didn’t hate him. Not when she said it, and not now. “I know, pet.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“I didn’t mean to say it. I don’t know where it came from.”

Spike knew, and he couldn’t blame her. For that second, she’d become wholly Slayer. For that second, she had seen every vampire as an enemy. It had terrified him, not for what she could do to him bodily, rather that everything they had accomplished together could be gone in a blink. He was guilty of many things, and he would never deny it, but the notion that he could ever willfully do anything to harm his mate was against every innate nerve in his body. He’d made a promise to her, and to himself. If keeping her meant going against what he was, it was a sacrifice he was prepared to make.

But even without that resolve, there was no way he would have ever harmed one of Buffy’s friends. She knew it—he knew she knew it. But the screams of her protest would remain with him for a long time. His girl was the Slayer, and her nature could not be pushed aside.

He brushed his lips against her forehead. “Don’ worry about it, sweetheart.”

Buffy frowned, rubbing at raw eyes. “It’s a dream,” she murmured. “It’s all a dream. I saw Willow earlier today. God, she was working on her paper. Her term paper…on Russia. It’s due next week…she’s gonna wig if it’s never done.”

His eyes filled with tears. Her broken voice made his heart shatter.

“Jus’ sleep, kitten,” he whispered. “Things’ll be different tomorrow.”

“Are you gonna sleep, too?” Buffy sat up abruptly. “Don’t leave. I can’t be alone.”

He released a sharp breath. Slayer or not, there was a very real part of her that would always be a little girl. The same little girl that had proudly displayed pajamas with footsies and sobbingly thrust her loved teddy-bear into his arms so that he wouldn’t forget her.

He couldn’t promise her that he wouldn’t leave tonight. He had to leave. His mate had been hurt, and the demon was screaming for retribution.

“I’ll be here when you wake up,” he promised.

“Stay,” she commanded, tugging him down onto the bed. “Stay with me.”

Spike sighed and wrapped his arms around her, resting his cheek against her head. “Always,” he swore, pressing another kiss to her brow. That seemed to satisfy her. The tension she’d been harboring rolled off her body, and she finally relaxed.

It only took minutes for her to find sleep.

What little good it would do, he realized. Sleep would not bring her friend back. Sleep would not make Buffy’s world right again. Nothing could.

He’d walked away from death for so many years. And while he felt nothing more than a twist of pity for Willow, he was devastated in watching his mate grieve. It was this aftermath, this complete ruin of humanity that filled him with shame. Angelus killed to hurt people, always had. Spike had killed for food and, yes, for fun. But never consciously for the intention of being deliberately cruel. Never to watch people sob themselves to sleep. He’d never been comfortable thinking about the family that would weep for those he killed. It had never been enough to make him stop, of course, and even if Buffy gave her blessing, he rather doubted an added insight to humanity would hinder his fun. He was, after all, a demon.

But looking at her, with her red, swollen eyes and dried riverbeds of tears scaling her cheeks, he wanted desperately to be more than what he was. He wanted to be the man she deserved, not just a shadow of goodwill.

He couldn’t bring Willow back, he couldn’t eradicate her pain, but he could bring justice to those that had killed her. He could shed blood in retribution. He could destroy.

It was what he was good at, after all.

Spike waited about ten minutes, holding his sleeping Slayer until he was satisfied that she would not awake. He brushed a parting kiss across her cheek, drew in a deep breath, and slowly extricated himself from her arms. He murmured, “I love you,” into her hair, and forced himself to leave the room without tossing a glance over his shoulder.

He wasn’t surprised to see Oz downstairs, waiting for him.

“Is she asleep?” the wolf asked.

“Yeh.”

“You know what I’m doing, right?”

“You know it’s suicide, right?”

“They killed Willow.”

The agony in Oz’s usually calm voice sent a sharp pang to Spike’s chest. This boy had loved the girl. He couldn’t imagine what he was going through. More of that unwanted association with humans. He was growing softer by the hour.

“Yeh, they did,” he replied. “An’ there are three of them, an’ only one of you.”

There was no point in trying to talk him out of it, though. The boy was determined.

“They killed her,” he repeated. “There’s nothing beyond that.”

“They’ll rip you apart.”

“Probably,” Oz acknowledged. “But I’ll go down taking one of them with me. They killed Willow. I don’t care about anything else.”

Spike understood that. Pain was fresh, and the boy had just lost the one he loved. Vengeance, right now, was the only virtue that offered any comfort.

But he wasn’t going to let the kid get hurt. Not while Willow’s body was still warm. Not with Buffy hugging a tear-drenched pillow. Not with his chest still aching from the fists of her agonized outrage.

She loved him. She trusted him. And he wouldn’t let his family hurt her again.

It didn’t take much. One quick punch and the wolf collapsed.

There would be no more blood tonight. He wouldn’t allow it.

No one knew his family like he did. And strangely, as he left Buffy’s house that night, he wasn’t apprehensive. Wasn’t concerned. There wasn’t even the lingering fear that he would never again know the comfort of her arms.

It ended now. He’d been a bloody fool, and it ended now.

No more blood tonight. Only dust.

She slept only a few minutes, really, but that time submerged in her subconscious was a violent spiral of colors meshed with knowledge, comprehension tangled with justice. She saw Willow nailed to a cross; saw Spike looking at her with sorrow. And she was lost, split down the center.

Her friend was looking at her, her eyes large and dead. Her mate was reaching for her, his arms welcoming and outstretched.

Angelus was there as well. God, Angelus. And an eerily familiar woman was twirling in sunlight, giggling like a child.

“Shame, shame, shame, shame,” the girl singsonged. “The party mask deserves the blame.”

Drusilla. Yes, Buffy saw her now. The woman that had snatched her from her mother’s side when she was small. The one that had brought her to Spike, unknowingly as a mate, rather than a late-night snack. She was the one Spike had spent a century with. She was the one, more than any of the others, that truly had the power to break her.

“I wouldn’t worry about that, Dru,” Angelus sneered. “Our little Buffy slept through what could’ve been a helluva break. Seems to me that the dance is over.”

“She turns him away because the red one bleeds,” the raven-haired loony continued. “On her sorrow, Asmodeus will feed.”

“Humans are so predictable,” the blonde one said, materializing from nowhere. “Did you see her earlier? She’s gonna die for her grief because she doesn’t use it. Not like we do. And now she’s abandoned her mate to embrace pain. Really, it makes our job laughably easy.”

“When the sky is dark, she awakes. Her loneliness, communion breaks.” Drusilla stopped twirling, her childish rhymes died down a corridor somewhere in Buffy’s subconscious. “He rules you, dearie,” she said. “You give him power.”

Buffy released a deep breath. “Spike…”

Darla rolled her eyes. “Honest to God, dealing with such stupidity is exactly what Spike deserves.”

“Yin and Yang.” Angelus smirked. “Too bad her boy’ll be dust before she realizes it.”

Buffy awoke to an empty room.

“Oh God.”

She felt as though she’d been sleeping for centuries. As though she was awaking to a new existence, and the pangs of outside influence no longer mattered. Her body was exhausted still from crying, her throat sore from screaming. She released a shuddering breath and turned her eyes to where Spike was supposed to be, but wasn’t. Spike wasn’t there.

The house was quiet.

It came from nowhere. A burst of knowledge that jarred her from the false world she’d settled into since the wail of police sirens destroyed her doll house rendition of reality. She knew where Spike was. Of course she knew where Spike was.

A sharp pang struck deep inside and the air around her grew thick.

“Oh God,” she gasped again. “Oh my God.”

Pain was gone. Pain had been replaced by fear.

Heart pounding, Buffy threw the blankets off her body. She tossed a quick glance to the mirror, confirming that she was still in the sweats and the cami that she had changed into forever ago. She felt as though she had been wearing the same clothing for a lifetime. When morning finally chased the night away, she promised herself, she wouldn’t touch the garments ever again.

Her bustle out of the house took all of four minutes. She struggled with her sneakers and ransacked her weapons chest. There was the crossbow that Giles had given her for her seventeenth birthday. There were her good stakes, which she spent boring nights carving into affectionate perfection and only sacrificed against particularly nasty vamps. There was a cross on a necklace that Xander had given her after she defeated the Master. There were vials of holy water that Willow had bought for her the last time she thought the world was ending.

Buffy couldn’t stop and mourn the memory of her friend now. Human feelings wouldn’t help. Something greater was driving her onward.

Her mate was in trouble. And she knew without even giving it a thought that his death would thoroughly defeat her. Too much of him was a part of her—and more than just beyond the physiological tug of their unclaimed connection. Spike was so much more to her than that.

She ignored the pang of guilt that inevitably struck. Willow was dead, and she wasn’t mourning. Not now. It felt wrong; it felt so wrong. It felt as though she had betrayed her friend by even considering a more horrendous alternative. By playing out a scenario that her mind, body, and heart suffered for even considering. But at the same time, she needed that outrage. She needed to convert pain to anger, and guilt to action. Willow was gone, but there was no time to cry for her now.

Willow would understand that.

Buffy hardened. She had to. Her mate was in trouble, and it was because of her. Because her friend was dead, because she hadn’t allowed him to claim her over the endless hours that the Order had given them. Because she’d been so focused on her fears that the knowledge of its inevitability hadn’t sunk in. Willow was dead because tonight was supposed to have been their night to make it final. If they’d made it final sooner, she’d be alive.

It was her fault. All her fault. And now, because of her folly, Spike was going to get himself killed.

No, the Slayer raged. No. She’d lost her best friend; she wasn’t about to lose the one she loved. Not like this. Not tonight.

There wasn’t any room for disagreement. She wasn’t going to lose Spike.

She allowed nothing else if not that knowledge. As long as she breathed, her mate would still be of the earth.

Spike drew in a deep breath. He wasn’t at all surprised that they were expecting him. Rather, it was almost poetic. Angelus the Villain, Darla the Shrew, and Drusilla, his own Ophelia. There weren’t many fledglings covering the main chamber of his family’s new digs—some trashy factory downtown that he and Buffy had crossed a thousand times but never investigated. He staked the few baby vamps he came across, ignoring the shudder that slivered down his spine with every step.

Angelus had known one of them was coming. He’d just been hoping for Buffy.

Wishful thinking. Spike would be dust before he let his grandsire touch his mate.

“Well, damn,” the bastard drawled. “It’s the other one.”

“Kinda sweet,” Darla observed boldly. She was seated at a table, reading the Sunnydale paper. She didn’t even glance up. “He’s come to defend her honor.”

Spike shrugged. “Jus’ thought I’d drop by,” he replied conversationally. “Angelus mentioned somethin’ about an apocalypse.”

Darla rolled her eyes and looked at him. “You know, William,” she drawled, “you were never particularly talented at playing it coy.”

“He reeks of her,” Drusilla spat nastily. “Rolls in filth and expects a treat.”

His jaw tightened and his body grew tense. “Nice to see you, too, pet.” He turned his eyes back to Angelus. “Y’know, if you wanted to piss the girl off, there are more subtle ways to go about it.”

“Ah, so now William the Slayer-Whipped Bloody is going to give me lessons on how exactly I should terrorize the innocent?” Angelus flashed a condescending smile. “This should be good.”

“No.” He tightened his hand around his stake. “’m here to right a few wrongs.”

“The only wrong I see is a presumptuous childe who’s gotten in over his head.”

“Imagine that,” Darla retorted, her eyes glued on her paper. “He thinks because he’s the mate of a slayer, he has the right to assume a moral high ground. How…pathetic.”

“You can’t really tell me that you expected me to sit by an’ do nothin’ when you came after her, can you?”

“Pathetic,” Angelus agreed. “Wholly pathetic.”

“He’s going to try to break the jar,” Drusilla cried mournfully. “Makes him cranky. Makes him bad company. He wants to kill us, Daddy.”

“Yes,” his grandsire replied. “I suppose he does.”

“His presumption displeases Asmodeus.”

Spike’s head snapped at that. “Asmodeus?”

Dru paused, grinning scandalously like a child who’d just spoiled a surprise party. “Oopsies.”

“Well, there goes the neighborhood,” Darla grumbled. “Guess we’ll just have to kill him.”

The peroxided vamp’s eyes flickered dangerously. “You can try.”

“Look at this,” Angelus said, taking a step forward. “Seems our boy’s grown an ego.”

Darla was not impressed. “God, just dust him already.”

“The meat spoils,” Dru whimpered. “No time for tea.”

“You can kill her while you’re at it,” said Angelus’s mate. “Really, her prattling is wearing on my last nerve.”

“He won’t do it,” Spike replied confidently. “Can’t bloody well afford to, can he? Dead worms don’ garner nearly as much attention as live ones. He doesn’ want me. He wants the Slayer.”

Angelus merely smiled.

His eyes flashed again and he stepped forward. For the first time in his many years, he felt nothing of the usual inferiority that resulted in standing near his grandsire. There was nothing impressive about him. Nothing whatsoever. He was a name; a face. Someone who’d bloodied history for the reputation and nothing more. He’d bullied his own sire into being submissive.

But he was just a vampire. An aged vampire, yes, but the Master himself had fallen at the stake of a sixteen year old girl. A girl who then had only touched the breadth of her powers.

“You’ve come here for retribution,” Angelus cooed. “How…sweet.”

Spike just laughed and shook his head.

Bloody pathetic.

“God, how it must bug you,” he said.

“What?”

“The Powers chose me, you git. Not you. Not the bleedin’ ringleader of our miserable family. You got stuck with her.” He nodded at Darla, whose eyes widened in offense. “You got stuck with your sire. How sodding original is that? The big bad Angelus isn’t quite as memorable as he’d like to be…not enough to make you anythin’ more than an enormous egomaniac with an inferiority complex that’s almost as funny as your sense of entitlement to everythin’ this rich world has to offer. What a bloody joke.”

His grandsire’s gaze had grown dark. “You honestly feel that I am jealous?”

“’Course you are.”

“My my my, what a big ego we have.”

“You’re not special,” Spike growled. “You’re not. Out of all the vamps in history, I’m the only one who’s ever tasted a slayer an’ lived to go back for more. Not once, not twice, but three times. First two times, yeh, standard killin’. Nothin’ to brag about too much, ‘cept I managed to do it twice in a century when you’ve fumbled it…how many times now? An’ what’s more, I’m the one that was chosen for the special seat. Not you. You jus’ weren’t impressive enough, I guess.”

Angelus growled. “You’d do better to remember who you’re talking to, boy.”

“’S why you killed Red, right? You wanted to feel you’ve accomplished somethin’…so yeh, you piss off the Slayer by goin’ after her chums. Not demon enough to take all of her out. Can’t even go to her, you gotta make her come to you.” He shook his head, chuckling. “See, you got it all wrong, mate. You fight slayers on their turf, not yours. Gives ‘em a false sense of protection, yeh? Really, if you were lookin’ for pointers, you should’ve given me a ring.”

“You don’t actually believe any of that crap you just spewed?” Darla demanded, rising from her seat. “This coming from the punchline of all our kind? You think you’re extraordinary for being the softest vamp in history? Please. The Powers gave you Buffy for a reason—you’re a joke.”

A scent stung the air the next second, and Spike’s insides froze.

Buffy.

“The light!” Dru wailed. “The light is so bright. My boy drowns in it.”

“He had to go outside his species to find love,” Darla continued. “That’s not special. That’s, as I said, pathetic.”

“Leas’ I have it,” Spike ground out. “’d rather die now than know an eternity without it.”

It was liberating. It was so liberating. The emotions he’d harbored for years, the emotions that he’d been told made him weak, the emotions that his family had ridiculed, were now his driving force. There was no shame in how he felt. No shame in the measures he took, or the people he loved. There was no shame in anything. The condescension in Angelus’s eyes didn’t bother him at all, nor did Darla’s mocking snort, or Drusilla’s pitiful wail. Buffy had freed him. Buffy had led him away from darkness.

She was here now. He could feel it. And if his family didn’t know, they would soon enough.

And he wouldn’t let them touch her.

“Slithers like a snake,” Drusilla moaned, clutching her stomach. She turned from the group and fixed her eyes heavenward toward the upper rafters, her body swaying back and forth. “All in shadows. Little moppet won’t join us for tea.”

“Well, as your grandsire, I can only be so happy as to appease your wish,” Angelus told Spike, eyes not wavering. He didn’t make as if he’d even heard the insane vampire’s wails.

“The party’s ruined!” the raven-haired vampire cried. “She doesn’t want her present. She’s going to take down the decorations!

A century with Dru had given Spike particular insight to her various eccentricities, and habit alone refused to let him ignore the words that poured from her lips. Something was wrong. Buffy was there; he felt it. He didn’t know why Angelus hadn’t thrown it in his face. He didn’t know why Darla wasn’t pitching a fit. He didn’t know where she was exactly, and not being able to see her was absolutely terrifying.

He couldn’t let Angelus see it, though. He couldn’t. So he didn’t spare his former a glance when she began to rant and rave. He swallowed hard instead, his eyes glued to his grandsire. “You can try,” he spat again.

The other vampire’s smile grew tighter. “I can keep you just inches from dust. Just barely undead to make sure your precious little mate shows up, looking for a fight. Which do you think would trouble her more, hmmm? Watching Dru ride you into oblivion, or a graphic detail of just how many times I defiled her friend? How she screamed and cursed her maker, begging little Buff to show up, but knowing, of course, that she wouldn’t? Oh no, of course the Slayer couldn’t make an entrance. She was too busy sucking her mate’s dick.”

“You son of a bitch!” Spike snarled, leaping forward without thought.

Angelus merely chuckled and side-stepped, offering slow, sardonic claps for his effort. “See! That was almost impressive!”

“Ooohhh,” Drusilla cooed. “You’ve angered the bishop.”

The smell of smoke permeated the air. And suddenly, he knew.

Buffy had set fire to the building. He didn’t know where; he couldn’t see the flames, but the smell was unmistakable. And just like that, their time had been sliced in half.

“Darla,” Angelus said. “I think we have a houseguest.”

That was it. Drusilla’s rants and wails suddenly became substantial, and Buffy leapt at her from the rafters. The rafters the vampire had been studying while muttering bits of prophecy to herself.

His sire shrieked in glee, capturing the Slayer by the wrists, holding her close to her chest. “Bad dolly,” she scolded. “No treats for you.”

“’Bout time she stopped lurking,” Darla retorted, jumping up. “I’m hungry.”

But Spike wasn’t listening to her or Angelus anymore. His eyes were locked on Drusilla and the struggling girl that owned his heart.

Oh God.

“Spike!” Buffy screamed.

“Spiiiike!” Angelus cackled, his voice a high falsetto. “Spike, save me!”

Dru burst into game face. The fangs of another vamp were near his mate. It was a split decision at that. Spike wasn’t even aware the stake had left his hand until he saw it spiraling across the room. He didn’t realize what he’d done until it shattered through the back of the woman who’d been his life for a hundred years, and he didn’t feel pain until her body crumpled to dust, and Buffy fell to the ground. It all happened so fast. So fast.

In a blink, a century had been erased. His body was consumed with agony, his physiological ties to his sire screaming out in endless protest. Buffy was on her feet the next second, her eyes wide as she found his.

In that look, they knew each other. Truly.

It had certainly shocked the hell out of Angelus and the other one.

“Oh my God,” Darla gasped.

“You presumptuous whelp!” Angelus screamed. “I’m gonna—”

Spike wasn’t listening. The flames were visible now, licking the rafters where Buffy had materialized just seconds before. There was no time now. No time for anything.

The Slayer was at his side the next beat, knocking Angelus off his feet. Spike closed his hand around hers, turned, and ran like hell was chasing them.

Outside it was thundering, and the skies were a symphony of light.

It was going to rain.

“What the hell were you thinkin’?” Spike snarled, turning to his small mate when they were far enough away from the factory to ease his raging nerves. “You could’ve—”

“I burn down buildings full of dangerous vamps, remember? It’s kind’ve my M.O.”

“You could’ve been killed!”

“You went in there by yourself! You didn’t even let Oz…” She shook her head. “Why, Spike?”

“Why?” A long, humorless chuckle rumbled through his lips. “You really gotta ask why?”

In the distance, a roll of thunder crashed.

“What if I’d lost you?” she cried, fighting back tears. “I can’t lose you.”

Spike melted, but his body was still rigid. His mind wouldn’t let him forget the vision of Dru exploding into dust. Of Dru falling victim to a stake he’d thrown. “Lose me?” he retorted. “Lose me? You daft girl, do you have any idea what I jus’ did for you?”

How could he throw a stake into the back of his sire, of the woman he’d worshipped for a century, and feel nothing in the aftermath? Nothing beyond the pain of watching his maker dissolve? How was it possible?

Maybe he was truly heartless.

“Spike, please…”

He looked up again. His gorgeous angel was standing just feet from him, her chin wobbling, her eyes tired and hurt. He’d never loved her more than he did at that moment, but he’d discovered some things about himself tonight that he couldn’t so easily reconcile.

The factory was burning. Dru was dead.

He loved Buffy, granted in ways that surmounted anything he’d felt for his sire, but the night felt changed. Tainted with something beyond Willow’s fresh blood, or the horrors of their besieged paradise. As though he’d been given back his reflection and discovered a truth about himself that he had never before faced. He never thought he’d be able to stake the woman to whom he owed his existence. Never.

He felt cold and barren. Buffy’s eyes were on him. Her lovely, tear-filled eyes. He wanted desperately to take her into his arms, murmur how much he loved her into her hair, and promise that it was okay, that everything would be all right.

But he couldn’t, because it wasn’t. And he didn’t know if things would ever be right again.

He’d felt nothing. Nothing beyond the tug on his conscience that his sire was dead at his hands. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t human, and it was barely vampiric. It was something else entirely.

“Go home, Buffy,” he said softly.

“Spike—”

“I need to be alone for a while. Go home.”

She was crying openly now, but he couldn’t look at her. Instead, he turned around and walked away without waiting for a reply. Watching her weep broke his heart.

But he’d discovered something about himself tonight that terrified him. Beyond anything else. And he needed to be alone. He needed to sort it out.

He needed the woman he was leaving behind, but he couldn’t reach for her now.

There had only been two people in all his life that he’d cared about to die at his hands. His mother in the infancy of his turning—a memory that haunted him still, occasionally spurning nightmares that were near impossible to shake. He remembered lying awake for days after that, after Dru had fallen asleep or was banging Angelus in the other room. Remembered thinking of the look on his mum’s face, the words she’d taunted him with, the feel of the stake as it plundered through her chest.

His world had been devastated at that, and he found then that he truly was a vampire. Not William—he’d become Spike that night.

Now Dru was gone, and there was nothing. Nothing but the want of something. The want of a feeling to let him know that the years with her, as hollow as they’d been, hadn’t been for naught. That he could feel beyond his instinctive urgency to protect his mate, or the wail of a childe that had just lost his sire. That he wasn’t the type of vampire—man—who could walk away from killing a woman he’d shared so much with without so much as a flinch.

He needed time without Buffy. Because if he was that sort of man, he didn’t deserve her.

It was fruitless, of course. He carried Buffy with him wherever he went. He was never without her.

And as for Dru; her teeth had been near his mate. There was no greater sin.

A shuddering breath reverberated through his body. No greater sin.

Lightening flashed and thunder rolled, and the skies opened then. It began to rain at long last.

The night was a perfect archetype for ultimate realization. As the rain washed the old world away, cleansing the tainted earth of Drusilla’s dust and Willow’s blood, Spike stood in steady acceptance.

It was a baptism of his prior sins. The chaos he’d inflicted upon the innocent for so many years was finally rectified. The horror and bloodshed, the pain he’d caused so many had officially come full circle. He stood in a downpour of the heavens and let it wash off his skin. How often had he snapped a young girl’s neck, or indulged in a long, warm drink while his sire terrorized children and forced their parents to watch? It was all there. The years hadn’t done anything to right his many wrongs. The full burden of what he felt, or what he ought to feel, was finally shouldered squarely upon his body. He knew then.

Two slayers, both alike in dignity. The third was beyond them. Untouchable.

The third had returned his humanity after so many years of being without it.

He felt he’d been on the verge of an emotional break-through for years. He’d been climbing a mountain steadily, faithfully, and mostly alone since the night he left his family. He’d started such a long time ago. A reluctant acceptance in the face of a young girl that had sealed his fate—the knowledge that whatever life he thought he’d been leading was over. He’d gone with it because there was no alternative, but he’d never pretended to understand it.

So he had watched her grow. He had watched and coveted, craving contact from his self-imposed isolation. He had still killed, because that was what he was. Who he was. Having a human mate couldn’t take away his identity. He took because he was greedy. He drank because he was gluttonous. He reveled in destruction because he was a demon, and that was what his existence was built on.

He had watched Buffy from the outside. He had watched her without knowing her beyond her habits, her voice, her tears; he’d never considered the one fundamental element that would make her who she was: him. No, he had never truly understood her until he held her in his arms. Until she had touched him, smiled at him, trusted him, loved him, he’d been lost. Now he was a broken man, crawling back for the light that he’d shunned so long ago. The light that had given birth to him as a man and had been extinguished the second Drusilla sunk her fangs into his throat.

Buffy was his light.

The question about Drusilla was rudimentary, really. After all, he’d known for a while now that the love he thought he harbored for his sire was nothing more than an allusion. It wasn’t all too surprising, given the way she’d never attempted to mask how bothered she was by his humanity. How much she’d rather be her Daddy’s girl. How fortunate Spike was that she let him touch her at all. That she was even a part of his post-mortem existence. He’d been enchanted with her, yes, but never in love. Not in the way he was supposed to be.

After all, a blind man can’t tell colors apart from shapes. Neither could he. As the blind man, living alone in the dark with the promise of a great love guiding him onward. A promise that could have destroyed him had he not discovered the wonders the Powers had in store for him. The life he’d led with his sire was a miserable, hollow shell of empty survival. He’d never been one of the family. Never.

He’d started to reach for light after Buffy came into his life. Only now did he realize he was walking with sight. Somewhere, somehow, she’d given vision back to him, and he knew.

It wasn’t a matter of lack of feeling. What he felt for Dru was simply no more than what she’d given him. He hadn’t truly grasped it until that night. He’d known it, but he hadn’t understood the depths of his knowledge. What it meant backwards and forwards. Dru was to him what she should have been from the beginning—his sire. The years they’d shared together hadn’t meant much of anything. Not to her at the time, and now that he had the world at his fingertips, not to him, either.

The fantasy was gone. The dark had been chased away by the light. It didn’t make him any more of a monster to shun the darkness that had born him—no, he’d spent too many years being deceived by a lie. Killing Dru hadn’t simply been to save the face of his true salvation; it had been cathartic. It had solidified the life he wanted. The life that was his now.

He wasn’t going to live with his eyes closed. Not by any stretch of the imagination. He’d been given something precious; something holy.

He loved Buffy. Drusilla had attempted to kill Buffy, so he’d killed Drusilla.

And that lack of feeling, beyond what the fates handed him? Beyond the demon mourning the loss of its maker? It was exactly what she deserved. She’d deceived him into believing he loved her; into believing what he felt was love. She’d gleefully taken advantage of William’s naïveté and fooled him into thinking that the years they’d had together could ever be considered real. That the bond they shared went beyond physics. Beyond the tie that bound all childer to their sires. There was nothing else there. So yes, his demon had mourned, but not the way it should have.

Had a second of what they’d shared been real, watching her dissolve would’ve destroyed him. But it hadn’t. The only one that mattered to him was Buffy. Buffy, who’d opened up his heart and reminded him what it was like to be human, beyond the suffering and the heartache that had followed him through his years as a man in nineteenth century England. She’d reminded him how to weep for others. How to care. How to open himself up to the world of possibilities beyond hurt and despair.

As a vampire, such connection to feeling should have been rejected. And yes, while he fundamentally opposed the notion that he was any less monstrous than the next bloke, he similarly knew that the finer aspects of life could only be granted through the virtues he was only now regaining.

Perhaps that was what bothered him most about Drusilla’s death. Not the fact that she was gone; the fact that she had shaded his pathway from enlightenment for so many years. Watching her die had been a final farewell to the demon he’d once been.

But to him, now, this moment wasn’t about mourning.

It was about living.

Buffy had lost her friend. He’d lost his sire. They hadn’t lost each other, though, and they never would.

The world had given him love at long last.

It came down with a crash of lightening. It was all there. He understood. He understood perfectly what he was, what Buffy was—and more importantly—who they were together. Beyond slayer and vampire, beyond mates, beyond anything. They were simply themselves.

The past was over. He loved Buffy with everything that he was. And they couldn’t hold off life because of death. If they did that, they’d never be anywhere.

The demon roared in triumph as he came to a halt, rain washing over him.

He needed her tonight. Tonight and forever. Apart they were strong, but together they would be undefeatable. But that wasn’t why. That was barely a part of why. He needed her because he loved her, because the demon had waited, and because life couldn’t stop for death. Death was the natural conclusion to life, despite how it came to pass.

He needed her. And he couldn’t wait any longer. They’d built a palace on dreams, but the real world had crashed at the doorstep. That didn’t make what they had together less valuable; if anything, his love for her had conquered all odds tonight. And the fact that she could look at him and whisper that she loved him after the church meant more to him than anything else that the miserable world had to offer.

Life would not stop because of death. It never had before. However, time was not a limitless commodity. Even immortals faced their day of reckoning.

He needed her as his mate. Tonight. Not for what they had lost, rather for what they had gained. What they had survived and what they would face. What they had discovered about themselves and each other. He loved Buffy, and he couldn’t wait to make her his any longer.

Spike drew in a deep breath, turned, and ran for Revello Drive.

If he lived for a thousand millennia, he would never forget the look in her eyes when she opened the front door.

“You came back,” she choked. “You…you came back.”

The desperation mingled with relief in her voice made his insides quiver. God, had she thought he’d left for good? He didn’t remember exactly how he’d worded his need for solitude, but he was certain that he would never have been as bold as to leave her without letting her know damn sure that he would be coming home to her when it was over.

No, he hadn’t known it would be so soon. But even still, only a heartless bastard would leave the woman he loves to cry for a dead friend in an empty house.

“Buffy…”

He couldn’t take it anymore.

She was in his arms in a flash, pressing herself against his cold, wet body as her mouth met his in a desperate, hungry kiss. He was lost on first touch. It felt like they’d been apart for years, and he wasn’t going to deny himself anymore. With a passionate growl, he slammed the door shut, twisting her so that she was pressed against the frame. Her legs scissored around his waist, arching his erection into the warm apex of her thighs. Her hands were everywhere. God, she tasted like tears and honey. Like blood and wine. Like a homecoming he hadn’t known he deserved.

But even in his desperation, he refused to be an outlet of escape.

“Buffy…”

“I’m sorry,” she babbled, pressing sweet kisses to his chin. “I’m so sorry, Spike. I didn’t mean for that to happen. I didn’t mean—”

“What?”

“You…you killed…”

A pang struck his unbeating heart. “Sweetheart, I’d kill her a thousand times to keep you. It din’t mean rot beyond what it was s’posed to mean.” He brushed his lips across her forehead. “Doesn’ matter…it’s over now.”

She nodded, though he could tell she was confused. “Spike…” she murmured, kissing his lips. “Please…tonight…”

“I—”

“I need you.”

Any last reservation snapped at that, a possessive growl clamoring through his throat. “Need you,” he repeated, shedding his sodden duster and tossing it to the floor. “No looking back, right?”

“I won’t. Please.”

Spike claimed her lips again, warm sparks seizing his body. He needed to know that she wasn’t doing this because of what had happened, but hadn’t the heart to ask. Her eyes were filled with aged understanding, as though a thousand years had already come and gone, and a part of her had made peace with the torments of the night. She still loved him; god, what a miracle that was. Buffy still loved him. Still wanted him, even after everything. This small lifetime that they’d squeezed into a few endless hours. She was an older woman, now, a different person—wiser—than she’d been before. She was in his arms, wrestling needy kisses from his lips as he attempted to walk her up the stairs.

Not a girl. Not a teenager. A woman.

It didn’t occur to him until they were in her bedroom that this was really going to happen. Buffy peeled his wet tee from his chest, her mouth pressing kisses to his nipples with guised innocence. The darkness of the night was suddenly disturbed by a reckoning larger than himself and he realized that the goddess he’d waited for was stripping him down, the scent of her arousal unmistakable. God, she was going to do it. She was going to let him into her body. Like this. Tonight.

“Buffy…”

She dropped to her knees before him, working his shoes off his feet before turning her attention to his zipper. She was shivering, but not from cold, and as his cock sprang into her hand, he was sure he’d been welcomed through the gates of paradise.

“Buffy, you need to—”

Her tongue lapped at his head, her hand pumping him masterfully. The weekend they’d shared had boosted her confidence in nearly every facet of their sex life, and the feel of her lips around him now nearly made him lose all restraint.

“Buffy…ahhh…you need to…ooohhh, god…stop!”

She released him abruptly, and he nearly roared in frustration.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, eyes wide. “I…was I not doing it right? I thought…”

Spike shook his head. “Baby, there’s no way you can’t do that right. Felt wonderful…I jus’…are you sure you wanna do this tonight? I don’…I don’t want this to be about loss, sweets. When we go to bed, it’s jus’ us. Not my sodding family, not what’s happened…I don’ want you to…I can’t make love to you as a way for you to forget.”

Buffy was still for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she rose to her feet; eyes trained on his, and brushed a kiss against his lips.

“I love you,” she said. “Whatever else happens, that doesn’t change.”

“An’ tonight—”

She stiffened, but shook her head. “Right now, it’s just us.”

“I’ll still be here tomorrow if it’s not, luv.”

“I know.” She smiled. “So will I.”

Heat flooded his body, and he stared at her for a long moment. There was no fear in her eyes. No hesitation—only resolution. And that solidified it. There was no going back now. A passionate rumble tore through his throat. He cupped her face, bringing her mouth to his. Her lips were soft and welcoming, her kisses eager and needy. As though she feared he would vanish. As though this moment they were having was fragile enough that if she handled it roughly, it would no longer exist.

“Sweetling,” he gasped as she broke from his hungry mouth, nibbling a wet path down his throat. Her small hand wrapped around his cock once more, stroking him with tender veneration. “God, you drive me outta my mind.”

“I love you, Spike,” she replied simply, heartfelt.

He quivered. The words could positively unmake him. “I love you, too,” he whispered. “I love you so much.” Her grip around his erection tightened, eliciting a long moan. “But if you keep doin’ that…”

The thought never saw fruition. Buffy ignored his warnings, pumping his length as her mouth played across his skin. His control was teetering on edge. Christ, wasn’t she supposed to be the fluttering virgin, here? She unwound him with the slightest look, the gentlest touch. And now she was tugging his jeans down his legs, dropping to her knees before him once more. Her mouth nipped at his erection, her tongue lapping at his sensitive head, murmuring her approval lowly in the back of her throat.

She had him fully naked while she was still in her sweats and that tank top that he’d admired a lifetime ago. She placed her hands tentatively on his hips, capturing his cock between her lips, suckling him deep into her mouth.

“Fuck!” he hissed, pushing her back. His body groaned in protest at the absence of her warm cavern, but if anything, he owed her tonight. “Buffy, god…”

“Spike?”

Buffy was sitting back on her legs, her eyes wide as she met his hungry gaze. That was it. Seeing her there in her simple pajamas, looking at him with burning lust that he was almost certain she was unaware of, and the rest was gone. A low rumble ripped through his throat, and the last grasp on his control snapped completely. He seized her by her upper arms and pulled her flush against him. He tore her camisole from her body, growling again as her breasts spilled into his hands.

“Guh…”

“I’ll buy you another,” he retorted, tugging at her nipples as his mouth dipped to sample a breast.

“Spike…”

“Bloody gorgeous, you are,” he murmured, laving a wet path around her areola. “Drive me outta my mind.”

“You said that already.”

“Still true.” He jerked her sweats and her panties down her legs in one swoop, nuzzling her pussy with a hungry growl. “Smell so sweet. Smell as good as you taste.” To affirm his theory, he plunged his tongue inside her, nimble fingers finding her clit and caressing her roughly. “Buffy…”

“Oohhh…”

Spike’s eyes trailed up her body heatedly. Her head was thrown back, a look of ecstasy on her face. Despite the words between them, he could feel tension that wasn’t at all sexual blazing across her skin. The outside world was shut out, though. He wouldn’t let it inside her room. Not now. He’d believe her, though, if she said she was ready. If she said she wanted this because she wanted it, and not to keep that world from spilling inward.

There was nothing else in her eyes when she looked at him, though. It was just the two of them.

“Mmm,” he purred into her, lapping at her juices as his fingers massaged her swollen pearl. The sounds she made, the little gasps and sputtered confessions of endearment, had his mind in a furious spin. He could’ve sworn his heart was pounding. “Fuck, you’re delicious.”

“Uhhh…” She fisted his hair and held him to her. As though he would wish himself away for anything in the world; as though there was anywhere else he wanted to be. Spike murmured wordless rumbles into her skin, sliding his free hand under her hip to anchor her into his mouth.

“Spiiike…” The grasp on his head nearly became painful, but fuck if he cared. If she kept making that sound, she could do whatever she wanted to him. “God…”

He drew back just slightly, smacking his lips. “Feel good, sweetheart?”

“Oh!”

“Like feelin’ me devour you?” His tongue encircled her clit. “You taste like heaven.”

“Spike…please…I can’t…” Buffy mewled and tugged him to his feet, losing herself in his arms. “Please…I need…”

This was new. All of this was so new. The feel of her nude, trembling in his embrace, the perfume of her arousal teasing his tastebuds…the decades had taught him many things, the most important lessons learned over the course of the past fourteen years—and if he were entirely honest—the last few days. True intimacy was so much more than he had ever before fathomed. And while making love with Buffy promised to be groundbreaking, there was something that moved him so inexplicably about being held by her. With his erection prodding her stomach, her sweet face buried in the crook of his throat, her arms around him. Such simple bliss—there was nothing else in the world like this. Moments like these were too few and far between, and too many people didn’t recognize them for what they were. He did, though. She was letting him tear down that final barrier, and he was doing the same in turn. She was inside him, now. More than blood. More than anything they could obtain physically.

It struck him then out of nowhere. What this meant for him, and for her. Beyond the demon’s need or the pain caused by separation. Beyond anything that made him what he was, or had been before Drusilla brought her into his life.

Buffy didn’t release him as he lifted her off the ground. Rather, her legs wound around his waist and she pressed soft, sweet kisses against his throat as he carried her to the bed. “I love you,” she whispered into his skin. “I love you. I love you, Spike.”

There was something desperate in her voice, as though she was afraid he wouldn’t believe her. Whatever her intent, the words, her urgency, the heartfelt caresses of her hands, completely undid him. “Lay back, pet,” he murmured, grasping her hands and brushing his lips against each wrist. “Just relax.”

Her breathing was labored, her eyes wide, but she did as he asked. His angel, splayed out on her bed. Her body was an offering plate, her blood his holy communion. He released a deep breath and shook the thought away. And for endless minutes, it seemed, he was content to simply look at her. Look at the woman he loved and understand that fourteen years had come to an end in a night that tickled his Aristotelian fancy.

Buffy fidgeted, lifting her hips toward him. “Spike, please…”

His eyes darkened at that and he prowled forward, nipping at her inner thighs. “I love you,” he told her hoarsely.

“I know.”

“Love you,” he murmured again, turning his attention to her mound. “Love this pussy. Love the way you’re always warm an’ ready for me. Love your clit.” He suckled her clit into his mouth. Buffy mewled and thrashed and thrust her hips against his face. He merely grinned and left her with a parting lick. “Love it when you do that,” he continued, crawling up her body. A shrill gasp tore through the comfortable air around them as his erection caressed her sodden folds. “Love the way you look at me,” he continued, dropping his mouth to her neck. “Love the way you love me.”

She giggled and clutched him tighter. The sound inspired a smile to his face. Of the many things he knew he could make her do, tonight of all nights, laughter was not one of them. “Sweet?”

“That’s a country song.”

He smirked. “Well, I don’ bloody well listen to country, do I? How was I s’posed to know that?”

“You could listen to country behind my back. You could be a secret country-fan.” She grinned. “You could be cheating on me with a man who thinks he has a sexy tractor.”

His eyes narrowed. “Doubtful, pet.”

He would do nothing to discourage her, though. Seeing mirth in eyes that had been filled with grief just hours before made him thoroughly warm. He thought for the hundredth time that she was so much older than she had been earlier tonight. Since she collapsed in front of a church. He loved her girlish innocence, but this womanly knowledge became her nicely. There was something to be said for that.

He wanted to show her so many things.

It only took half a minute or so before she was serious again, her hands flying to his upper arms, her nails digging into his skin. “Spike, please.”

He nibbled on her ear, the head of his cock caressing her opening sensually. “Please what?”

“I need…”

“Tell me what you need.”

“You. Inside me.”

He shivered. Her words were tame compared to a lifetime plus of experience with Dru—the years that he wanted to erase. However, her small, loving voice did more for him than anything he had experienced before. He released a steady breath and kissed her forehead, reaching between them to position himself.

“Buffy. Buffy, look at me.”

She did. Her eyes stole the unneeded air from his lungs.

“Keep looking at me. Don’ look away. This is gonna hurt a bit.” He swallowed hard. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

She nodded, her nails digging just a little deeper into his forearms. Good. He’d know how badly she hurt by how hard she gripped him. Even if she couldn’t manage the words, he’d know to stop.

God, he hoped so. He hadn’t been inside a woman’s body in over a decade. And never had he made love like this—with someone who loved him, with someone that was truly his. With someone he loved without reservation, without pain, without any of the hurt that had painted his weary existence.

Granted with Dru, he doubted he’d ever made love at all. The suggestion of that had shattered right along with her, and good riddance to it. Good riddance to anyone who tried to mimic the purity of what Buffy gave him. The simple beauty of what they had.

His body trembled as he began to slide into her. Her heat enveloped him wholly. The slightest touch, the barest hint, and he was swallowed in warmth. Completely lost. He felt he would combust with the feel of it. She was tight—tighter than he’d ever imagined. And Christ, so hot. His skin was surely peeling from the heat of her pussy. Her walls strangled him, clenched and squeezed and inspired a symphony of fire through his cold blood.

“Buffy!” he gasped, resting his brow against hers. He arrived at her barrier. That precious gate that he had killed to preserve. His now. Everything was his. “Oh God…”

She peppered his face with small kisses. “You okay?” she asked, her voice strained.

He nearly laughed at that. Of the two of them, he was definitely more the believable virgin. Her heat nearly convinced him that every sexual encounter in his past had been nonexistent. This was it for the first time. It was real at last.

“’m fine,” he told her, kissing her mouth. “Hold on tight.”

Then he slammed into her to the hilt. Like taking off a Band-Aid, or so he’d been told. Pain flashed across her face and she clutched at him tighter, but she didn’t moan in complaint, didn’t tell him to stop, didn’t voice her pain beyond what her eyes told him. He stayed still for long seconds, though he truly didn’t know for whose benefit. He felt he’d kissed the sun, only it was sweeter than he could have ever foreseen. He’d opened his arms and faced the heavens, and for once, they had not rejected him.

“You okay?” he asked her, unbothered by the irony.

She nodded. “Oh yes. Good…”

“’m gonna start thrusting now. Tell me if it’s too much, yeah?”

That was more for his benefit than hers. He feared dispelling the myth of vampiric stamina if she so much as wiggled.

Buffy opened her eyes and looked at him. “It gets better than this?”

Spike grinned at that and kissed her, withdrawing from her heat only to slide inside again. God, he would almost be sorry when her innocence was all used up by his ravenous passion. “Oh sweetheart,” he murmured, “you really din’t learn anythin’ in sex-ed, did you?”

“Sex-ed? They teach us about girl parts, not boy parts.” She threw her head back and moaned when he began moving within her. “A-a-and they didn’t t-t-tell us about…how to have…sex.”

“’Course not,” he agreed, mouth dropping to her neck. “Then it might’ve been fun.”

“Spike…”

“They tell you that holdin’ hands results in pregnancy? That’s one of my faves.”

She giggled again and his heart sang. He kissed the pulse in her throat and began moving in slow, tempered strokes. Allowing her to adjust to the rhythm of their bodies moving together, of the feel of him inside her, betraying his innate need to slam into her hard and fast and send them both over the top before his mind could catch up. She was honeyed bliss. He knew then, if he’d never known before, that the eternity he had with her would never be enough. That he could wake up with her every morning and fall asleep with her in his arms every night, and he would live to want more. More time with her. More of that awed look on her face that made him more a saint than a sinner in her eyes. That made him anything other than what he was.

“You feel so good,” he murmured. It was the understatement of the century. If he ever found a way to articulate just how she felt around him, he’d have to put it in a poem somewhere. Open up another wound from the past and give it more fuel, but he was too lost to give a damn. Her vaginal walls tightened around him, encasing him in warm velvet. She was a wet inferno.

“Ohhh, good,” she agreed throatily. “Spike. Oh my god.”

“So fuckin’ good,” he gasped rapturously. He couldn’t stop watching her face; looking at every shade of euphoria that flashed across her eyes, every pleasured gasp that tore through her throat. He bade worship to her body, suckling at her nipples, kissing the skin that mapped the valley between her breasts, murmuring how wonderful she felt into her ear as his mouth journeyed and played. Her juices coated his length, her pussy swallowing him over and over again. The slippery dance between their bodies sent him spiraling down a new path of discovery. He’d never known it could be like this.

“Harder,” Buffy whimpered, squeezing him for everything he was worth.

“Oh my God,” he gasped, plunging into her with newfound desperation.

“Harder!”

Spike groaned, helpless to deny her. He was drowning in her scent, drunk on her taste, his senses overwhelmed with the feel of her. His thrusts grew needy; desperate. The demon had started its wail. Blood, now. He had her body, now he needed her blood. He needed to make her his wholly. He needed it like he’d never needed anything.

“I’ve never felt anythin’ like this,” he panted, tugging at her nipple with his teeth. His other hand had wheedled between them, massaging her tenderly where they were joined. “Never felt anythin’…”

Her eyes went wide. “Spike!”

“You like that?”

“What…oh my god!”

He was bruising her with his body now, slamming into her so hard, he’d be feeling the echo for days. The mattress squeaked noisily, the headboard beating recklessly against the wall. He’d lost all concern with gentility. She was so tight, so hot and wet. So bloody perfect. Her pussy squeezed him into a new life with every plunge. His fingers fondled her clit as his mouth worshipped her nipples, his eyes never leaving her face.

“Buffy,” he gasped, lips abandoning her breasts, his fangs calling him home. “My hot, fiery goddess.”

“Ohhhh…”

“I love you. Christ, I love you so much. You feel so good. So fucking tight. God, you’re gonna burn me up.” His fingers were stroking her clit speedily now, her pussy growing tighter and wetter with each drive. He could taste how close she was. God, he could taste it. And he needed it now.

His fangs had already decided. His face shifted and his incisors burst through his gums. “Buffy!”

Her eyes shone with understanding and something else. Something feral. “Do it.”

“Oh God…”

“Make me yours, Spike. Please.”

That was all he needed. He lowered his face to her throat. “I love you,” he told her, licking her pulse point sweetly. “I love you.”

“Love you.”

Then his fangs sliced into her skin, and her blood spilled into his throat. The demon roared and the man fell to his knees, and he was home. His body thrust madly into hers. Her warm essence flooded him wholly as she shuddered into release. There wasn’t anything he didn’t feel. She was coming hard, sobbing into him as he feasted on her. Holding him to her body, as though her skin wanted to swallow his so they would truly be inside each other.

He retracted his fangs with some difficulty and brushed a kiss over her bloodied skin. “Mine,” he whispered into her. “You’re mine, Buffy. My girl. My Slayer. My mate.”

A shudder ran through him. “Yes, yes,” she gasped. “Yours.”

That was it. The skies parted and he was bathed in light. Every severed connection in his body was made right again. Every wrong, every stupid mistake, every flaw corrected. Every incomplete thought completed. He touched the sun but did not burn. He was swallowed in vigor, made whole, broken, and whole once more. The lines of right and wrong meshed, his nerves tingled and his insides sang. The dead blood in his veins surged with new veracity. His. God, she was his.

But there was something else. He needed to be hers, too.

“Buffy…you gotta—”

She was already there. Her teeth clamped into his throat, biting him hard enough to draw blood, and his body exploded into hers. “Mine,” she gasped, suckling at the mark she’d given him. “Mine.”

“Yours.”

That was it. The ceiling fell and the room no longer existed. He felt blood wash off his hands, the past full of errors forgiven. It was a ritual cleansing, and he felt it with everything he was. The death that had followed him for a century was replaced with life. Knowledge that he’d carried transformed into wisdom. He felt her essence, felt her beyond the body he could touch, the eyes he could see, the skin he could taste. Felt her inside him, around him, over him. It was a plane of existence he’d never known before—something he hadn’t believed in. As though the errors of the world had come full circle, and he was beyond it now. He could see without looking. Every vibration that rang through her body was shared by him. Every shudder. Every sigh. With her words came darkness, the earth, the moon; full absorption. It meshed with the light and created something new. Something he understood, as though he’d been gazing at it for years but only now truly recognized.

Her presence tingled through his body. Christ, he really could feel everything.

When he opened his eyes, he felt as though he’d lived with them closed. The world was made new. The room he returned to was not the same one he’d entered. He saw the stuffed pig that he’d given her forever ago resting on her dresser. He felt her trembling beneath him, her body cradling his. And when he finally met her eyes, he found hers full of tears.

“Buffy…”

“I…” But there were no words. She just shook her head and cried.

He hadn’t known this was going to happen. He didn’t even know what this was. Only that it felt he was alive all over again, but not the way he had been—he’d been given something new. She was inside him in ways she couldn’t have been before. He felt her as vibrantly as if he were in her skin.

“I love you,” she cried.

Spike smiled. He would never tire of those words. Never. “I love you.”

“Spike…I feel…god, I feel…”

“I know, sweetling, me too.”

“I can’t…” Buffy willed her eyes closed. “I didn’t…oh god.”

He eased himself out of her body, earning a moan of complaint that he was certain she wasn’t even aware of.

A ritual joining. Yin and Yang met fully. His body tingled with awareness that hadn’t existed before. His mind was swarmed with implications, but he was too tired to think them through. Instead, he welcomed Buffy into his arms and kissed her soundly.

“Everything feels different,” she whispered into his skin. “Everything…”

“Yeah.”

“Spike…” She shivered against him. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

He had no idea what she was thanking him for, but he hadn’t the heart to question her. Instead, he kissed her forehead, then her cheek. “That was amazing,” he told her. “I’ve never…I’ve never felt anythin’ like that. Never.” He tugged her closer. His mate. God, she really was his mate. In name, in blood, in spirit, in everything. Her blood was his blood. The demon was at peace. His mate was in his arms. “You’re a goddess.”

“Ohh…”

“You’re all right, though, right?” He drew in a breath, searching her eyes for truth. “I din’t hurt you, did I?”

“No. That was…I…” She shook her head. “No, you didn’t hurt me.”

“Thank God,” he murmured, burying his face in her hair. “Wanted so much to make it good for you.”

“You did.”

“Really?”

Buffy looked up, kissed him, then snuggled into his arms. “It was perfect,” she said. “Better…so…it felt…” Her voice began to crack and tears filled her eyes again. The night had been hell on her—an emotional rollercoaster if he’d ever known one. Demanding this of her now was unfair. “I never…”

Spike smiled and coaxed her head to his shoulder. “Okay, kitten. You jus’ rest.”

“Stay…”

As if he could do anything but. “Never leave you,” he promised. “Never.”

She needed her sleep. He knew it. Her body was warm and satisfied, the ache in her soul calmed for now. The night had been endless and tomorrow there would be truths greeting them in their wake. And despite his own fatigue, he wanted to keep her up for hours. He wanted to explore this connection. The richness of something he had thought truly couldn’t get better, despite what the romantics of his kind said. He was feeling sensations that no book had even alluded to. Feeling things beyond the convention of a claim—it was a step above existence.

The starving ache in his body was gone. There was nothing but peace.

In a night of bloodshed, he’d found peace, and given it back in spades. He felt purified thoroughly. The past was gone; forgiven. His hands were no longer stained. That was over. That life was over, but more than just a simple statement or an understanding.

The claim had changed things he hadn’t anticipated. The claim had washed away the sins of his colorful past. He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew. This was a new order. This was a new everything. The world was bright and dark, soft and harsh, cold and hot all at once. He felt more connected to the earth than he ever had before, and where his skin touched Buffy’s, he reveled in absolute peace.

There would still be blood on the church tomorrow, but the hands of the demon were clean.

For the first time in a hundred and twenty years, his hands were clean.

He belonged. He was in the bed of his mate, of the woman he loved, and he belonged.

Peace. For now, for a few hours, she needed the comfort of sleep. The fight wasn’t over. They still had the reality of the night’s sins to face. But not now. The philosopher within him retreated. While the town came back to life, he and his mate would rest.

Curled in each other’s arms in a world made new, they would rest.

She felt she slept forever. It had been so long since she’d seen the sun that even the hint of morning light fighting her blinds made her wince. The room was otherwise dark—the door closed needlessly, as they were alone in the house. However, for whatever reason, the notion solidified their privacy. The real world did not exist beyond these walls. The world that waited for their return. The world of death and destruction and blood and crucifixions against church doors.

A thousand years or more had passed since then. She felt so far removed that it was hard to envision the girl that had wept so hard the night before. There was something strong rooted in her blood now; something that didn’t question as much as it answered, didn’t frown as much as it understood. If it was possible for her to age as much as she had the night before, anything else was possible as well.

The place that had hurt, though, was gone now. Not drowned to apathy, not discarded; rather her eyes opened that morning and she saw everything as she never had before. As though besieged by sudden wisdom and the answers of the universe locked resolutely in place. It had happened last night, too. As Spike thrust into her body, his fangs in her throat, and the agony her psyche had suffered through over the past few days fell to silence, she felt the most startling peace wash over her. She thought it was him; thought it was the simple solace of being his.

No, it was something else. Something more. Her soul was no longer breaking, her world was set right. And while the thought of her dead friend inspired her being with sadness, there was acceptance there as well. Not in the manner of her death, but in death itself. Willow had been released. She was somewhere now where no harm would come to her ever again; Buffy was sure of that. Whether or not it was the conventional Christian ideal of Heaven—something she personally rejected—or one of the thousands of heavenly dimensions Giles had told her about, she knew that the soul did not die. It didn’t with vampires, so it couldn’t with the very best of people. She wasn’t trapped in the Ether, though—she was free. She was out of harm. Wherever she was, she was out of harm.

Funny. She’d been told that a thousand times as a child. When her grandmother died, it was because she went on to a better place. When she killed her goldfish by accident, her mother had taken her in her arms and whispered that there was a heaven for fishies, too. When she staked vampires or slayed demons, she was under the impression that she was sending them back to Hell, where they belonged. If there was a hell, there had to be an equivalent place of good, else there would be no basis on which to judge Hell.

She understood now. Everything was different, and she’d been graced with wisdom. She would miss Willow, avenge her killers, but she would not mourn. No, Willow would not want that.

Buffy drew in a breath, her hand dancing drawing artless patterns into Spike’s chest. He was still asleep, his arms holding her tightly to his body, her head pillowed at his shoulder. He’d shown her another form of paradise last night. After the suffering and the pain, she found rapture when she least expected it. He’d run away from her, but he came back.

No, she thought. He didn’t run away. He just needed time.

There were things she would never understand about vampires. Never. However, she knew that the sire connection was potent, oftentimes illicit, and that in her mate’s case, he’d confused it with love. She knew that. She also knew there was a paternal connection between sires and childer that went beyond blood. The fact that Spike had pushed her away had hurt, yes, but she understood. She understood as much as she could. They’d both crossed their personal thresholds. The die had been cast. He needed to reach his understanding before he brought it home with him.

What he’d done to her afterward…even in her wildest fantasies, she’d never imagined anything like that.

The night had presented incredible loss and momentous gain in the same package. She could feel his love for her in every nerve of his body, as though they lived under the same skin. The claim was electric. When she touched him, she felt his pleasure. It was as though some broken part of her was finally righted, and she was a woman made whole. This was the way it was supposed to be. Always.

Buffy smiled and ran her hands through his hair, kissing his brow.

“Mmmphfff,” Spike moaned.

“Okay, sleepyhead,” she told him, brushing another kiss across his forehead. “Just stay there.”

A hand clamped around her wrist and he tugged her back to him before she could wiggle out of bed. “Where do you think you’re goin’?”

“The bathroom?”

Spike wedged an eye open. “Oh. Hurry back.”

She arched a cool brow. “Look who’s bossy in the mornings.”

He grinned. “Jus’ don’ particularly wanna let you outta my sight, pet.”

A shiver ran through her body at the look in his eyes. Her nerves burned with intent. “Me, neither,” she said, kissing him thoroughly. “But I don’t think you wanna follow me into the bathroom.”

His eyes twinkled challengingly. “Y’don’t know that. Human functions are a novelty to me.”

She scrunched up her nose. “Eww. You know, maybe we should’ve gone over our respective ‘sick fetishes’ before making with the forever thing.”

He held up a hand and counter off. “Kidding,” he said, “An’…you have sick fetishes?” His brows waggled. “Feel free to tell me everythin’…in graphic detail.”

Buffy laughed shortly and hopped out of bed. “Later, maybe,” she said. “Right now, nature calls.”

It was somewhat disconcerting how she could feel so radically different and the house had remained the same. She didn’t know what she’d expected, but the normalcy of her home threw her off. It was quiet. Her mother’s room was vacant. Her things were in the bathroom as they’d been yesterday—from shampoo to tampons—and the bar of soap next to the sink had settled into a cozy nest of soapy goo. Little things she never thought of were the same, and everything else was different. Willow was gone. Drusilla was dust. The Order could be dead, too, for all she knew. She was the mate of a vampire. She was no longer a virgin. Her legs were sore and her throat was still parched from the previous night’s tears. But the sun had still come up, her house was the same, and the world had not changed in the face of unmoving adversity.

Buffy didn’t return to the bedroom immediately. She stole one of her mother’s bathrobes and headed downstairs. She wanted to see the paper. See if anything of last night had made it, despite the late hour. If the town had realized what had changed.

How so much could have happened in such a short time, she didn’t know.

She thought of her grandmother again. When she’d died, Buffy distinctly remembered feeling guilty for being alive for days after the funeral. She’d felt guilty for thinking of anything not related to her grandmother, because her grandmother wasn’t there to worry about school or boys or what to wear to the mall that weekend.

With Willow, the sadness was there, but the guilt was gone. And she didn’t feel monstrous for it. She had Spike’s blood in her system now—perhaps that had cushioned the blow. Perhaps being immortalized gave her new perception on life. Perhaps the claim had given her something she hadn’t prepared for. While changed, she similarly felt purged. Felt as though she understood life and death thoroughly; even if she couldn’t explain it should someone ask.

The only thing she felt guilty about was the lack of guilt.

The paper had Willow all over it. She read the synopsis of the story with disgust and threw it to the ground before returning upstairs.

“Long bathroom break,” Spike commented as she removed the bathrobe and sat on the edge of the bed, facing away from him.

“I wanted to see the paper,” she said.

He sobered. “Red…”

“They’ve already determined that she was raped. Some people are speculating that it might’ve happened post-mortem.”

Spike rose slightly and brushed a kiss against her arm. “Sweetheart—”

“I know. There was nothing…we didn’t know to go for her. I couldn’t have done anything.” She sighed. “Everything feels different.”

“Yeh.”

“I mean…not just Willow.”

He nodded and urged her to turn around so that he could see her eyes. “I know,” he said raggedly, his eyes trailing down her body. “You all right?” he asked softly. “You’re not sore from last night, are you? I wasn’…”

She smiled. “No. Last night…god, I never thought it could feel like that.” She shook her head and kissed him. “I’m just…I’m so sorry it took me so long. I can’t imagine not feeling like this now, and it’s only been a few hours. I…” A deep shudder ran through her body. “I wanted so much to…”

“Shhh,” he cooed, drawing her into his lap, settling against the headboard.

She enjoyed the comfort of his embrace for a few quiet minutes before heaving a deep breath. “I feel guilty,” she said.

“Don’t,” he replied quickly. “None of what happened was your fault.”

“I know. It’s not that. I feel guilty for not feeling guilty.”

He released a deep breath and kissed her brow. “Then we’ve come full circle,” he said. “When I left you last night…it wasn’ because I was upset about killin’ Dru…it was because I wasn’t, an’ that bothered me. I know she never loved me, an’ I know now that whatever I felt for her wasn’ love, but it seemed like there should be somethin’, an’ there wasn’t.”

Buffy just looked at him, astounded. “Oh.”

“I din’t think how it’d look, I really din’t. I jus’…even now, after everythin’, it takes me by surprise.” He paused. “But somethin’…somethin’ else happened last night…when I claimed you.”

She flushed. “That was amazing.”

Spike grinned. “Yeh, it really was. But I…you felt it too, din’t you? It was…god, I’d never felt anythin’ like it.”

“Like everything was okay?”

That was the extremely abbreviated version, but she had absolutely no idea how to put it into words. Which was evidently fine with her vampire, because he looked to be struggling with it, as well.

“Yeah,” he agreed.

She nodded, brushing her lips against his. “I felt it, too.”

“Mmmm…” Spike tugged her closer, capturing her mouth again, his hands sliding down her arms. “Buffy…”

Yearning swelled her insides. His kisses were addictive; the feel of him caressing her skin sent shooting sparks directly to her core. The slightest touch had her coming apart at the seams. Never in her wildest had she imagined the claim doing more than ridding her of the ache that attacked her whenever they were apart, aside giving her a sense of peace and belonging. How gullible she’d been. How incredibly naïve. The claim was so much more than a safety-net; and yes, while she would have taken offense to such a casual brandishing before, the truth had the ability to wound.

“I love you,” she whispered against his lips. “I love you so much.”

God, she hadn’t even been saying that for twenty-four hours. Funny how people measured time.

She was immortal now; did that mean she wasn’t human? Was that the cause of her calm reasoning? The grounds of this higher plane she had seemingly reached over night?

Spike shivered beneath her touch. “Love you, sweetling,” he murmured, a hand sliding between them. Nimble fingers cupped her pussy, stroking her gently as his eyes watched her with tender veneration. “So warm. You’re so bloody warm.”

“Ohhh…”

“So wet.” He licked his lips. “I din’t hurt you last night?”

A smile itched her lips. He kept asking, and she found it unbearably sweet. Even as he drove her mad with his hand. “No,” she replied breathlessly. “No…the…it was wonderful, Spike.” She gasped loudly when he sank a finger inside her, his eyes swallowing her with heat. “Oh God.”

“You’re so gorgeous.”

“Spike…”

“Never felt anythin’ like that before,” he whispered, his gaze soaking her up. Another finger slipped inside her, and she grasped his forearms with a heavy breath. “Never.”

“You’re just saying that,” she managed with a weak, albeit teasing smile. “It’d been how many years since you had sex?”

“You’re tellin’ me I don’ mean it?”

“I’m just saying…I could’ve been anyone.” She didn’t believe that, and she knew that he knew that she didn’t believe it. However, the possessive darkening of his gaze was not a pleasure she was soon to deny herself. Even as she moved in time with his thrusting fingers, her skin feeling on fire for the sensations he inspired her body to feel.

“If you were anyone,” he sneered, “I wouldn’t be here.”

“Better not.”

“An’ you oughta know that by now.” He kissed her fiercely; easing his touch from her body, despite her mewls of protest. “Shhh, baby. Let me take care of you.”

The swell of his erection caressed her backside and made her heart jump. “Spike…”

“Lift up jus’ a bit.” He helped her maneuver, his eyes darkening with passion as his head brushed against her folds. “Mmm. Feel like Heaven, you do.”

“Uhhh…” He was driving her mad. Her head dropped to his shoulder, a hand wheedling between them, grasping his cock. “I want you,” she said, positioning him at her opening.

He stopped her before she slid down. “You’re sure I din’t hurt you?”

For a split second, she thought she’d scream. Then she saw his eyes. The concern was gone, replaced with humor, his hands holding her just above him now, preventing his own entrance. “You suck.”

“Very well,” he agreed.

“Get inside me.”

“So bossy.”

“Spiiike!”

“Jus’ like seein’ you like this, pet,” he murmured, easing her over him, sighing heavily. “Like coming home.”

A long moan tore through her throat, her muscles constricting around his cock to hold him there. There was nothing more sacred, she thought, nothing more precious than the feel of him within her body. Just holding her now in solace before pleasure. Being one with him, emotionally and physically.

There was every possibility that she was just a romantic, but the claim told her otherwise.

“Kiss me,” Spike urged, and she did. His mouth worshipped hers as his hands rested on her hips, easing her off him just a bit before encouraging her to sink down again. “That’s it, kitten.”

“Ohhh…”

“You got me. Move jus’…oh yeah…”

“I don’t…” His hips surged forward, striking her hard. Buffy cried out and squeezed her eyes shut. “Oh God.”

“It’s a dance, baby,” he murmured, wandering mouth finding her throat, tongue laving the proud claim mark on her skin. “You know how to dance. Move with me.”

Buffy released a long sigh and experimentally rose off his lap. She gasped at the feel of his length sliding within her, slick with the juices of her body, leaving her until just the tip of him remained. She was bereft and elated at the same time. “Oh my God.”

“Guh.”

He threw his head back and whimpered. She opened her eyes and smiled at the look of desperation that had replaced the cool collectiveness of just a few seconds before. It shook her that she had the power to do that. More so than when she went down on him—manipulating his body with hers so that they were eye-to-eye, seeing each other, was more erotic than she could have imagined.

“Buffy!”

“Now look who’s being bossy.”

He opened his eyes and scowled at her. She merely grinned unrepentantly.

Then she sank down again, and they sighed together.

“That’s it,” Spike murmured encouragingly, mouth returning to her throat. “Ride me jus’ like that. Ohh, pet. So fuckin’ good.” His teeth traced her claim mark, inciting a symphony of sensation across her skin. “Do you have any idea how good you feel, baby?”

Her eyes widened and she shook her head. The steady slide of his cock from her body was driving her into a steady madness. His gaze burned her alive—he looked at her with such adoration; with feelings that should no longer take her by surprise, but did anyway. Her muscles contracted around him with every thrust, her heart singing at each little moan he rewarded her in return.

“You’re so warm,” he gasped, cupping her breasts. “So hot. You burn me with a touch.”

“Ohhh…”

“So soft.” His head dipped, his tongue wrapping around one of her nipples, his eager fingers pebbling the other. “Your skin’s like silk. You feel so good. So hot an’ tight around me. Drenchin’ me.” He nipped at her breasts, his hand gliding down her stomach and caressing her softly where they were joined. “I could drown in you.”

“Spike…”

Her thrusts were becoming more demanding. The more of him she had inside her, the more she wanted. His sharp blue eyes darkened in passion as she moved over him. It felt as though he was striking a new angle within her with every plunge. As though he was discovering hidden facets of her body that she hadn’t known could exist. Sweat lined her brow and a low burn was spreading through her. Building to that ultimate release. Drawing him as deep within her as possible.

“Look down, sweetheart,” he cooed encouragingly. “Look at us movin’ together.”

She did, and the sight of his cock, glistening with her juices, gliding in and out of her pussy sent shivers through her system. It made the act seem even more explicit, adding sight to sensation. A low, shaky breath rushed through her lips.

“You’re beautiful,” Spike whispered, thumb finding her clit and stroking her softly. Buffy gasped sharply and tore her gaze away from their union, finding his eyes again. “So beautiful.”

“Guh…”

“You’re close, pet. I can feel how close you are.” Something feral flashed across his face, then his fangs descended and her heart skipped a beat. “You’re so tight. So perfect.”

“Beautiful.”

He grinned. “Bloody gorgeous.”

She shook her head, moving frantically now. The fire burning within her was roaring to an explosion. “No,” she gasped. “I meant you.”

A look of sheer delight shone behind the vampire’s yellow gaze, though she suspected she wasn’t supposed to see it, as he immediately berated her for challenging his manliness by calling him beautiful. There was something about seeing Spike so unraveled that did it for her every time.

“Squeeze me tighter, baby,” he murmured, lowering his mouth to her throat, fangs pricking at the mark he’d given her. “That’s it. Ohhh, fuck, that’s it. That’s perfect, right there. My sizzling li’l Slayer. God, I love you.”

“Ohhh…”

“So hot.” His hand was bucking against her pussy now, fingers stroking her clit furiously, his mouth working up and down her neck. “Mmm…”

Her skin was burning. “Spike!”

“Need to taste you.”

“Do it!”

For a second, she thought he was going to deny her; tease her, make her beg for it, but he didn’t. He looked up and found her eyes and held for a minute, watching her reverently as she bounced on his cock as though he thought she would vanish. Then he dipped his head again, favored the claim mark with a long lick, then drove his fangs home.

Buffy cried out and exploded, triggering her mate’s orgasm. Spike growled into her throat, suckling her up, murmuring sweet nothings that offset his ferocity between swallows of blood. Time seemed to suspend. The world she’d buried herself in was becoming real around her, and her vampire was there to catch her when she fell. There to give her a softer place to land. However, with his arms around her, despite the harsh reality surrounding them, she felt she could face anything.

He gave her peace before anything else. Hell had broken loose, and he was there to give her peace.

Tears welled in her eyes for no reason, and she sniffed, irritated with herself for being so quick to cry.

Spike held her sweetly as she came down, encouraging her head to rest at his shoulder as he fell against the headboard, breathing harshly. “’S’all right, luv,” he murmured. “It’s all right.”

But it wasn’t all right, and they both knew it. She didn’t want to think about it, though. Didn’t want to think of the wealth out there that made the all consuming whole anything but all right. Therefore, she merely sighed and pressed a kiss to his chest.

“I love you,” she said.

He smiled. “Love you.”

Buffy closed her eyes and shifted slightly. He was still inside her—she didn’t want him anywhere else. The connection they maintained drew her breath away. The wondrous feel of being one with him wasn’t anything she was eager to forfeit.

But at the same time, she couldn’t allow herself to get lost in sensationalism. Her faults had already cost her enough. As lovely as it would be to lie in bed and forget all the bad in the world, there were some harsh truths to face. Other than hunting down the Order, presuming they survived the fire—and she was certain they had—she needed to talk with Giles. She needed to make sure Oz was all right. She needed to speak with her mother. Needed to tell her…oh God, everything.

“God, how am I even gonna begin to explain this?”

“Sweetheart?”

She looked up. “My mother doesn’t know anything about my secret life. She’s coming home soon…and I tell her, what? ‘Hi Mom, hope your trip was all right. By the way, have I ever mentioned I’m a vampire slayer? Oh, and this is Spike, my mate. He and I save the world together while we’re not having dirty sex just ten feet from your bedroom.’” She sighed. “And then Willow…I can’t even imagine…”

“We’ll tell her together, pet.”

“’Cause something tells me you’re not gonna wanna stay here.”

“Don’ think I’d be the most welcomed houseguest.” He tugged at her earlobe with his teeth. “I’ll start lookin’ for a place for us, yeah?”

She smiled. “My own place. God, that sounds so weird.”

“Oi. It’ll be my place, too.”

“Yeah, but you’ve had your own place for a bajillion years. You’re ancient.”

“Such romance,” he chided, though his eyes were twinkling.

She smirked but continued. “And I need to talk to Giles,” she said. “About the Order…Willow…about the mating.” At his look, she drew in a breath and clarified, “I need to know why I feel this way.”

“What way?”

“Like…my guilt over not feeling guilty. And…what happened last night…to my best friend…how I could look at that and not have it kill me?” She shook her head. “I feel barely human.”

“Oh pet…” He brushed a kiss over her brow and sighed. “Well, you’re not human anymore.” She squirmed at that. “Ah, ah, ah,” he berated, tightening his grip on her. “Jus’ hear me out. You’re not human, but you’re not soulless. You’re just immortal, an’ humans by definition can’t be immortal. An’ it’s not that you’re apathetic…claimin’ you relieved the burden of fault. Of your need to dwell on matters of life an’ death. You’ll always miss her, yeh, but living isn’t betrayin’ her memory.”

“It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours,” she argued. “I’m living pretty well.”

“Buffy, I was with you when you found her. There was nothin’ inhuman about what you did last night, or what you’re doin’ now.” He held up a hand. “An’ no, I’m not jus’ sayin’ that. Last night when it was over, I…” Spike glanced down. “I felt it, too. I don’ know what I am anymore. I’m not a demon, but I’m still a vampire. Maybe you jus’ din’t feel it as richly as I did because you don’ have near as much to atone for as I do. But everythin’ I’ve done…I can’t even tell how I know this, but it’s all right. All my sins are gone.”

“Like…you’ve found Jesus?”

He snickered. “Hardly. That’s what I mean when I say I can’t explain it. It has bugger all to do with religion, pet. It’s almost…bloody hell, it’s indescribable. It’s not a soul…I remember what that felt like. It’s somethin’ I’ve never had before. It’s acceptance…an’ knowledge. An’ things that are beyond me, but I know it ‘cause I feel it.”

She sighed, relief coursing through her body. She didn’t understand it, but his words inspired comfort. Perhaps it was just her need for consolation, or the reassurance that she wasn’t alone anymore. Spike’s experience was so extensive that perhaps he felt it more richly than she did. Perhaps he knew what it was and how to deal.

Perhaps a million things.

“We’ll go see your Watcher later,” he told her. “There’s more that he needs to know.”

“What?”

“Dru mentioned Asmodeus last night.”

She had. The insane vampire had said the same thing in her dream, as well.

“What’s an asmodeus?”

“A nasty bugger, if memory serves. But I wanna go over it with Rupert before anythin’ else. Could be all for bloody nothin’.”

She didn’t think so. Angelus had already mentioned an apocalypse, and she wasn’t one to take that sort of threat lightly.

“In the meantime…” Spike kissed her lips and coaxed her off his lap, his cock sliding out of her. She grunted a complaint and he smiled wryly. “You need to eat breakfast.”

Buffy pouted. “I’m not hungry.”

“You need to eat, pet.”

“Speak for yourself.”

He glowered at her for a minute, then his eyes sparked mischievously and he ran his gaze down her body, licking his lips in appreciation. “Mmm…all right.”

The next thing she knew, her vampire had tackled her back to the mattress and was nuzzling her breasts, his hands exploring her skin as his mouth suckled at her nipples.

“Spike!”

“I’ll eat my brekky now,” he said, winking before sliding southward, dropping kisses along her stomach as he went. “Then we’ll go downstairs an’ make yours.”

“Ohhh…oh!” Buffy fisted the bed-linens and thrashed. “I…you still like doing that?” she demanded. “Even thought we’ve…now that we’ve…”

Spike arched a brow, tongue curling around her clit. “’Course I still like doing it, you silly chit. I’ll never tire of your taste.”

“I just thought…maybe you didn’t…”

“I’m a vampire, baby. I live on indulgencies. I savor life through taste, an’ you’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever had, or will ever have. The flavor of you drives me wild. Now you taste like me, too. You taste like us. You’re perfect. If anythin’…” He plunged his tongue inside her for a few quick, ardent laps before drawing back. Her body positively hummed. “Tasting you is my way of bein’ selfish.”

“Uhhh…wha?”

“We’ve already established that I love your taste…but that’s only the tip of the sodding iceberg. I love watchin’ you moan an’ writhe. I love making you come.” He nibbled on her folds. “I do it because I love doin’ it, not because I was jus’ waitin’ to take you conventionally.”

“Because you’re selfish.”

He grinned, sinking his tongue inside her. “’S right.”

“I…I think I can deal with you being selfish.”

“Yeh? You’re not mad?”

“Nooo…you’re a guy…a-and guys are allowed to be selfish…once in awhile.”

“Ahhh, pet, you’re too good to me.”

“I try.” She fisted his hair and anchored his mouth back to her pussy. “Go back to being selfish.”

He chuckled, and the vibrations felt so damnably good that she didn’t care that he was laughing at her. Hell, she was hot just thinking of what else he might do out of selfishness. Spike defied convention. She would never know how she ever became so lucky to have a man in her life like him—one that she loved with all she was, one that understood her, one that would never, ever leave.

“Perfect woman,” he said, pinching her clit. “Accepts me for all my flaws.”

“Ohhh…”

“An’ selfishness.”

“Yes, yes!”

“Love you, Buffy.”

She was positively elated. “Love you.”

Of everything around her that was changing, she had the consistency she needed to keep from falling.

As long as he was with her, she felt the world could throw anything her way. She’d hurt, she’d bleed, she’d cry, but she’d survive.

He’d given her forever, and she would fight to keep it.