She turns away from him and in that moment, he hates her.He supposes it’s the lack of a soul; he won

She turns away from him and in that moment, he hates her.He supposes it’s the lack of a soul; he won
She turns away from him and in that moment, he hates her.He supposes it’s the lack of a soul; he won
She turns away from him and in that moment, he hates her.He supposes it’s the lack of a soul; he won
She turns away from him and in that moment, he hates her.He supposes it’s the lack of a soul; he won
She turns away from him and in that moment, he hates her.He supposes it’s the lack of a soul; he won
She turns away from him and in that moment, he hates her.He supposes it’s the lack of a soul; he won
She turns away from him and in that moment, he hates her.He supposes it’s the lack of a soul; he won
She turns away from him and in that moment, he hates her.He supposes it’s the lack of a soul; he won
She turns away from him and in that moment, he hates her.He supposes it’s the lack of a soul; he won
She turns away from him and in that moment, he hates her.He supposes it’s the lack of a soul; he won

She turns away from him and in that moment, he hates her.He supposes it’s the lack of a soul; he wonders if Angel would navigate these waters better. All he knows is that he’s drawn to her, like a moth to a flame, and she is, more than Cecily, more than Dru, effulgent. He loves her fire and he loves her pain and he loves, he loves, he loves her and how she fights and how she cries and above all how she suffers. He likes to see her cry, he’ll admit it. Those big green eyes and her quivering lip and the look on her face like she’s shocked, again and again, that this is the world and these are the choices and the whole of it rests on those thin shoulders and that golden head.It’s the demon in him, he’s sure, that likes to watch her pain and does what he can to help cause it. (He doesn’t know what it is in him that wants to comfort her, and it’s not in his nature to wonder.) The more the girl suffers, the better she smells; he wonders what it does to the way she tastes. The more the girl suffers, the closer it brings her to him, and to the darkness, to the place where if she doesn’t watch her step, he’ll snatch her, and keep her, and reign with her forever, not his dark goddess, but his golden, twisted queen.This is the part of him that makes her sure she could never love him. You shouldn’t want to see your lover cry. But he and Dru? They used to love to torture each other. And he knows she loves it, too, this golden girl, this young thing, this flower made of glass, of steel, of wood and sinew and the salt of a thousand tears. He remembers her with Angel, when Angel was Angelus again. He knows what kind of girl she is; she’s drawn to the darkness, to the pain and danger, to the things that break her heart. It could be good between them, he knows it, but she’s got her damnable pride, and her morals, those things that cling to her like cobwebs, obscuring her light, her heat. Always brave, and kind of righteous, she sang - kind of! he snorts. He could slay a legion of vampires with the stick she insists on keeping up her ass, and still she wouldn’t touch him. He knows some part of her still likes to think she is the golden girl, some hero, the Watcher’s pet, a silly cheerleader, someone normal and whole and good. That’s boring. She’s not. He knows it, and somewhere secret and sacred and hidden, she knows it too. She’s a hero, he’ll give her that, she is to her marrow a warrior for the light - but she is the most delectable kind. She is the broken kind, with a rage and a pain so deep she practically vibrates with it, it’s like poison in her veins, it is what he would demand for his very last meal.She’s thinks he’s beneath her, like she could do better.You couldn’t get it as good as me, baby, he thinks. -- source link
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