Reunion

'You asked if I wanted you. Why should I want the canvas once the paint has dried? I freed you to go and make your own art on the world.'

'And I have.'

'You began to sate your lust for power immediately after my passing. I would hardly call that making a mark.'

'I went looking for closure. Now, I see that was utterly pointless.'

'Nothing is pointless, my mishka.'

'I'm not your little mouse anymore.' Her voice dripped with venom.

'Aren't you?'

Suddenly, quicker than thought, his hand fisted in the hair at the nape of her neck and brought her in close. His presence was overwhelming. She felt herself tremble.

'That's what I thought.' His lips brushed against hers. The fight bled out of her bones.

'No.' she murmured against his lips.

He pulled away, hand still tangled in her hair, angling her face up to his.

'What was that?'

'You're trying to distract me. It won't work.'

'Won't it?'

She placed her hands on his chest and shoved him. He stumbled backward, one, two steps. Pure shock hung on his face, slack and mute.

'The only weakness you left in me is the ache I'll always have for you, and I hate you for that. Almost enough to drown it out entirely.'

'Almost?' His grin grew wicked. Hellfire burned in her eyes.

'There were things you gave me that no one else can. You're my last addiction.' She looked away, into the burning lights of the city below.

'I left you so that you would overcome that. So that you would be truly perfect.'

'So, perfection means not being able to love anyone? Not finding satisfaction with anyone else? That's not perfection. You broke me, remade me, and left me broken.'

His eyes blazed. He strode forward, reaching for her again. She caught his wrists, and he yanked them back, pulling her to crash against his chest in an almost mockery of the way she had done that first night. When she lost her balance, he pulled his hands from her grip, grabbing her wrists tightly.

'The artist isn't to blame for making use of a substandard canvas.'

She looked up into his eyes, body burning with rage.

'So you admit that you failed with me. But I lasted longer than any of your other creations. Why not take me back for some finishing touches? Maybe the excitement of finally finding something durable enough to withstand your creative process made you rush. Maybe it's not my fault, but yours.'

She felt the familiar pain of shifting bones as she spoke. His grip tightened with every word, and she was sure her wrists would have amethyst bracelets from the shackles of his hands the next day. As badly as it hurt, she ached for more.

He was silent. Something beyond rage, beyond hate, beyond insult, roiled inside of his soul. She could feel him considering her words against the counsel of his narcissism and ego. If she struck at the right time, she could have him back. She could suffer sweetly again for him. He may even love her again.

Just as his expression started to calm, she twisted in his grip, trying to pull away. She checked her force at the last second, using just enough to show him that she had grown stronger, but not enough to show him the full extent of her power. His hands tightened, cracking bones in her wrists and pulling her close once more.

'Is that what you want, Mishka? You want me to finish what I started?'

'More than anything, Sir.' Her voice was breathy, shaky, sincere.

'Get in the car.'