ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: The usual suspects. See Part 1.

RATING: NC-17

DISCLAIMER: What Joss said about BtVS and fanfic still goes, so I'm only doing what he wants me to do. But he still owns Buffy and Angel. So do the WB, Fox and Mutant Enemy. No infringement is intended.

NOTE: Okay, I’m all for what Angel told Darla in Dear Boy about how he could never have loved her because he didn’t have a soul. Because, of course, as we all know, the only woman Angel has ever loved in his entire existence is Buffy. However, everyone in BtVS fandom (at least in that portion of it occupied by staunch B/A ‘shippers) also knows that Angelus was in love with Buffy when he made his appearance on the show, even if that love expressed itself in very unpleasant ways. So, I’m resolving this seeming contradiction by taking the POV that as Angel has already fallen in love with Buffy, experiencing love for the first time in his existence, then the demon is able to love her, as he could not have loved Darla, because he now has a point of reference for the whole love thing. Perhaps not the most unassailable POV, but, hey, ya gotta take your denial where you can find it, these days.

WARNING: Some of Angelus’ musings are not pretty. As I’ve said before, Angelus is not a slightly cranky version of Angel. He is a demon, which is to say, evil, with very dark, very violent, very vicious desires. Now, I am not about fic in which Buffy gets abused and humiliated and ends up licking the hand that abuses/humiliates her. Buffy is a fighter, although there are ways and ways of fighting. So, Angelus won’t visit his darkest cravings on Buffy. But he won’t stop craving them, either, and there will be occasional glimpses into his evil heart regarding the subject. Like, now, for instance. To be honest, this chapter went someplace I was not expecting it to go, since the hint of darkness was supposed to end with Angelus’ musings in the first few paragraphs. However, I like where it went, and since it fits in with my Ultimate Plan for TSC (yes, I do have one, long as it is taking me to play it out), I’m going with it. We were supposed to get back to Mai in this chapter, but I think that has to wait until the chapter after this.

Somehow, I don’t think you’ll mind.
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He wasn’t sure what woke him, at first, until it came again: a low whimper from the girl lying asleep beneath him. The sound was so faint, even his keen vampiric hearing could barely perceive it. But it had come from his mate and he had sensed it at once, even in the depths of slumber. Angelus carefully withdrew from his lover’s body, rolling to the side, before gathering Buffy back into his arms. Still unconscious, she burrowed into him, snuggling against his chest.

He liked it. He liked the silken feel of her skin against his, the heat of her human flesh warming the marble chill of his own. He liked the softness of her femininely rounded form under his hands and pressed along the length of him, as well as the unexpected strength belied by that form. And he liked--no he loved, he adored, he craved--the abandon with which she mated him: the champion of good, the Slayer, reveling in a demon’s embrace.

He had known he would enjoy making Buffy his prisoner. What was unexpected was the depth of his pleasure in her, and the breadth of her own response. When he had planned her capture, it had occurred to him that, before his appetite for her was sated, he might fuck her raw, and that he might continue to fuck her until she came blood, might turn her as she bled into his mouth and around his cock. His demonic nature had thrilled to the possibility, hungry for her pain. He had amused himself with that very fantasy on the drive between LA and Sunnydale, picturing her body bleeding beneath his, imagining glutting himself on her rich Slayer’s blood while plundering her near virginal little cunt. The vivid images had given him a raging hard-on, forcing him to pull off the road at one point, quickly jacking off into his handkerchief before he could resume the trip.

Now he was on the verge of realizing the fantasy. Buffy was as helpless against him as he could desire, not only because of her compromised physical strength, but because of her enslavement, both to the sensual delights he was teaching her, and to the love she continued to feel for the idiot soul with whom he had shared his body. She wouldn’t be able to stop him if he wanted to take her again, and part of her wouldn’t even want to.

So, why didn’t he want to?

A low growl rumbled through him as he considered the question. Buffy shivered and began to move away. He stopped growling, and tightened his arms around her, whispering soothing nonsense into her ear. When he realized what he was doing, he almost started to growl again.

He was not in love with her, he reassured himself. She was simply too lovely a possession, too much of an erotic delight, to mistreat. Yes, that was all. The truth was, humans were so damned fragile, and with the drugs he had been feeding her, even his Slayer was not capable of enduring all the things he wanted her to endure.

But he wasn’t ready to turn her yet.

Angelus smirked down at his sleeping beauty, her full lips slightly parted, her long lashes fanned against cheeks flush and rosy from slumber, her arm flung heedlessly across his chest, to keep him close. How trusting she was, the angel sleeping in the embrace of her demon lover. Of course, she was right to trust him. He enjoyed her too much to hurt her, and anything or anyone who attempted to bring her harm would find themselves learning in excruciating detail just how Angelus had earned his Scourge of Europe sobriquet. But only, of course, because if Buffy were hurt, his own pleasures would be sacrificed. What other reason could there be?

He would turn her, eventually. When she had ripened into the full bloom of womanly beauty. At eighteen, she was already far lovelier than she had been when, at sixteen, she stole Angel’s heart. By the time she was twenty, she would be glorious; by the time she was twenty-five, incomparable. He might even allow her to live until she was thirty, when human women hit their prime.

Until then, he would have to pace himself. Compromised abilities or not, she was still his match, his mate, and she could still handle far more than a normal human victim could.

The main problem was the very thing he enjoyed most about having her: Buffy had been a virgin until she lay with Angel, and Angelus himself had only recently finished her complete defloration, breaking through the vestigial barrier Angel hadn’t quite removed. She was new and untried, and while she more than made up in passion what she lacked in experience, her body needed time to adjust.

He was an idiot, he reflected as he settled back to sleep. The Lamia venom had made him reckless, and now he was going to pay for it. Buffy had pushed beyond the limits her body, still new to intercourse, had, and they were both going to regret that.

But not completely. There were, after all, some rather amusing alternatives . . .

Smiling, Angelus drifted off into a pleasant slumber.

Buffy woke the next morning to the delicious aroma of fresh brewed coffee, and found Angelus wheeling a serving cart into their bedroom.

"This place has room-service?" she asked, as he brought the cart to her side of the bed. She stretched and sat up, demurely pulling the sheet up with her and tucking it under her arms to cover her breasts.

"Why wouldn’t they?" Angelus asked as he leaned over, pulling the sheet down and fastening his mouth over one dusky nipple. She gasped, arching into his mouth. He chuckled, and, after a few loving flicks of his tongue, let her go, tucking the sheet back into place. She looked at him warily from beneath those lovely long lashes.

"So, what’s on the tray?" she asked. He obligingly lifted the cover to reveal a large pot of coffee with a sterling silver creamer and sugar bowl. Instead of mugs, there were china coffee cups, and china plates on which the rest of breakfast could be served. And quite a lot was available to be served. In addition to a basket of baked goods--muffins, croissants, sliced breads and small pastries-- and a platter of fresh fruit, there was a dish of shirred eggs, a bowl of some sort of porridge, and a second platter holding various breakfast meats. A carafe of passion fruit juice completed the banquet. "Trying to keep my strength up?" she said, before reaching for a croissant.

"Not a bad idea," he said lightly, pouring them each a cup of coffee. Disdaining sugar, cream and the saucer, he took his cup and settled himself on the bed next to her.

"Then you might think about stopping the drugs you’ve been feeding me," she said sweetly, before biting into her breakfast.

"While we’re on the island, you don’t have to worry about them. It really isn’t practical, here."

"And the damned things take so long to wear off, it isn’t like two days really matter," she said bitterly.

"When I’m ready to stop them, they’ll stop," he answered coolly.

"And when will that be?" He said nothing, but smiled wickedly. Giving it up as a lost cause, Buffy stopped trying to bait him and returned her attention to breakfast.

Angelus watched her eat for a while, drinking his coffee. Though human food had its charms, he’d had more than enough the previous evening. But he liked watching her. Buffy was a healthy girl, a predator in her own right, and predators used a lot of energy stalking, hunting, and fighting their prey. He had diverted Buffy’s energy to other purposes, but she still required quite a bit of it. So, he was unsurprised to see her demolish, in addition to the croissant, half the platter of fruit, a generous portion of the eggs, and a sizable helping of porridge.

"This is good," she said spooning up another portion of the mixture onto her plate. "What is it?"

"Poi, I imagine," he said, amused, as she enthusiastically tucked in. Buffy wasn’t particularly interested in the sausage or ham, though, making do with one thin strip of bacon. When she seemed to have gotten halfway through her meal, he left and started the water running in the bath. He returned just as she piled her empty plates back on the serving cart, and leaned back, replete.

"That was lovely," she sighed, stretching with feline grace. "I think I need a nap to recover, though."

"Nap later. Bath now." he said, pulling the covers off of her and scooping her into his arms. She was surprised, but not upset.

"Okay," she said agreeably, fastening her arms around his neck.

It wasn’t until he set her down on her own feet, leaving her in privacy for a few minutes so that she could use the facilities that she realized there was a problem. It manifested itself the first time she tried to take a step.

She hurt. As he walked the few yards between the door and the sink, she found that the lovely soreness between her thighs from Angelus’ vigorous attentions was no longer quite so lovely. Whatever he had taken, whatever he had given her, she was now paying the price of it. But would Angelus be willing to pay his share of the costs? Buffy wondered uneasily if he would leave her alone long enough to heal, or if he would force matters. She shivered. Angelus had been very tender with her, but he was still a demon. His tenderness was simply a mood. If he wanted to take his pleasure with her, her own pain would be less than nothing to him, might even add to his own enjoyment.

And in her current, debilitated state, there wasn’t a thing she could do about it.

Buffy got a grip on herself. Yesterday had been a fluke, an excess of erotic indulgence fueled by who knew what drug or magic potion. Perhaps he would be less interested in making love to her today. Then she remembered how she had felt when his mouth had fastened on her breast, the flooding desire which had risen at once in response to even so casual a gesture. Male hungers were notoriously more easily aroused than female hungers. Or, at least, that was what everyone said. And vampires were nothing if not creatures of appetite. If her own arousal was still so keen, it was likely that Angelus’ was even more so. How long would it be before he wanted more than a fleeting touch?

When Angelus returned to the bathroom, he found Buffy standing stiffly by the sink, brushing her teeth. He checked the water in the tub, then returned to her, picking her up in his arms almost as soon as she set her toothbrush down.

"Hey! Stop sneaking up on me like that!" Buffy was a little nervous, wondering if she were about to find out just how little of a fluke yesterday’s events had been.

"But, darling, you’re so delicious when you’re startled," he said as he carried her over to the tub. "Your eyes get huge, and your lovely nipples harden into peaks--"

"--and I get ready to stake your ass," she grumbled, his words reinforcing her concern.

"Don’t say things you don’t mean, lover," he cautioned, walking down the steps into the full bath.

As the warm water lapped her body, and as Angelus didn’t move to do anything but hold her, Buffy sighed and relaxed, giving up her grousing. Despite his crude words, he wasn’t doing anything she needed to worry about. Angelus would never be a gentleman. He would make vulgar remarks, and intemperate demands, ignoring how she felt about things. Until she was in a position to back up her threats, she really shouldn’t be trying to piss him off.

"Okay, how about I just say that this is lovely. The water’s perfect."

He cocked a brow at her seeming capitulation, but he was pleased, and bestowed a smile on her. It wasn’t quite like Angel’s smile. It lacked gentleness and warmth. But it wasn’t one of his nasty smirks, either. It was rakish and devilish and she realized she could learn to enjoy that smile, could strive to bring it to his face more often.

"There are some herbs in the water," he told her. "You should find them . . .soothing." It was her turn to arch a brow.

"Soothing? Really?" she drawled.

"You’re very new to all of this, darling," he said, with just a trace of possessive pride. "And, while I’m delighted that you saved yourself for me, your inexperience does have some consequences." His crack that she had deliberately kept herself from other men for his sake hit her hard, reminding her of his belief that her love for Angel had been ordained not as an end unto itself, but to lead her to her true destiny: Angelus. Somehow, that corrupted and tarnished her love for Angel in a way not even sharing Angelus’ bed had managed to do. Buffy gave a soft gasp of distress and tried to pull out of his arms. He was having none of it.

"Easy, Buff. I’m not saying anything we both don’t know."

‘You needn’t be so . . .gleeful . . .about it." she told him. "I wasn’t saving myself for you. I was saving myself for Angel." Angelus’ smile hardened. He had spent most of the past week tutoring the girl in his arms in the ways of fleshly delight. He had unfailingly brought her to orgasm, had nurtured her sensual proclivities, and indulged her appetites. He needn’t have done so. He would have enjoyed her just as much if she had been screaming in pain when he took her. And what was his reward for his extraordinary indulgence, his unwonted restraint? The woman who had clearly been born for him continued to deny his claim on her, preferring the pale, spineless shadow of himself, weighed down with that useless soul.

"We’ve been through that, my love," he said lightly, holding back his temper. "Angel isn’t the man you were meant for: I am. The sooner you accept that, the happier you’ll be."

Buffy laughed mirthlessly. "Oh, yeah. That’s what you want. My happiness."

Angelus bent low, to whisper in her ear. "Do me the justice to admit that at the very least, I want your pleasure."

Buffy stopped struggling and looked up at him from beneath her long lashes. Her pleasure . . . Angelus had indeed been extraordinarily attentive to that. Inexperienced she might be, but not ignorant. She knew that even when a woman had a patient and considerate lover, her sexual fulfillment wasn’t guaranteed. Vampires weren’t exactly long on either patience or consideration, except when their own self-interest was involved. So, there was some truth to his claim. Angelus had given her limitless, unstinting, unrelenting pleasure, in ways that Angel had never had the opportunity to do. But admitting the truth of Angelus’ remarks somehow seemed disloyal to the man she truly loved. She couldn’t quite bring herself to do that, just yet. "You only want my pleasure when it leads to your own," she temporized. "You’ve already told me how much you enjoy my pain."

"So I do, my love," Angelus agreed pleasantly. "How foolish of you to remind me." He abruptly removed the arm that had been supporting her knees, so that, gasping in surprise, she flailed for a moment before finding her feet. No sooner had she managed to stand than Angelus pushed her against the tiled wall of the bath, eyes flashing dangerously amber as he slid into gameface. "Because I’d been forgetting. I’ve been having so much fun enjoying the way you moan when I’m inside you, and the way you rub up against me like a cat in heat when I’m giving you what you want, and the way you use your tight little cunt to squeeze me until the only thing I can think about is how good it feels to bury myself within you, and the way your bare your throat to me and offer me the only blood worth having . . . I’ve been so busy enjoying those things, darling, that I really had been forgetting the other things I like about you." He ground up against her, his erection rubbing forcefully against her clit. Oversensitive from his earlier, ruthless attentions, it throbbed painfully under his assault, and Buffy couldn’t suppress a whimper.

"That’s my girl," Angelus crooned to her, before pressing his fanged mouth against hers so hard that he drew blood and made her whimper again. He tightened his grip on her upper arms until she could almost feel the bruises forming under his fingers, as he deepened the kiss, forcing her mouth open under his. Buffy wanted to deny him, but knew, instinctively, the he was not in the mood to respect a show of strength. Now was the time for yielding. So, she did. She forced herself not to resist his painful hold on her, or refuse the demanded entry to her mouth. Instead, she opened for him, and if she was still too sore to answer the rhythm of his hips against her own, she didn’t further enrage him by trying to pull away.

But he wasn’t yet appeased.

"I love your pain, babe," he said between brutal kisses. "You’re gorgeous when you’re weeping, and so deliciously vulnerable." He nipped at her mouth, licking at the droplets of blood. "All I have to do is lift you against the wall, here, and I could fuck you until you bleed. I could make you scream in pain, darling, and then I could make you come despite that pain. You know I could." Another brutal kiss. "Don’t you know that? Tell me . . ."

"I know you could," Buffy whispered tremulously. A rumbling purr greeted her words.

"I like the sound of that, lover. But I’m not sure I’m convinced." Buffy stared at him wide-eyed, confused, and beginning to be frightened.

"Do I need to prove it?" Angelus smirked down at her. The tears he wanted were suddenly in her eyes as the fear inside her blossomed.

"Please, Angelus," she found herself saying softly.

"Please what, my love?"

"Please don’t . . .what do I need to do to convince you that I know what you could do to me?"

Angelus tilted his head, as if subjecting the matter to his most thoughtful consideration. "Hmm. What could you do to convince me? Oh, a thousand things, lover. Tell you what. I’m going to leave you alone in the bath, let you finish up. I’m going to go back to the bedroom. In half an hour, you’re going to come in, and demonstrate why I don’t need to prove that particular point, all right?"

Buffy swallowed. What was there to say? "All right," she agreed. Angelus smirked, and dipped his head for one final, brutal kiss, before letting her go.

A half-hour wasn’t a lot of time, Buffy thought grimly. She was furious with herself. She had known that Angelus’ moods were mercurial, his temperament unstable. She had been lulled by his unwonted consideration last night and this morning into forgetting how vicious he could be. Well, she was about to get one hell of a reminder.

She allowed herself a good ten minutes to soak in the soothing, herb infused water, and to finish cleaning up. As she walked up the steps out of the tub, she was relieved to find that whatever herbs Angelus had put in the water had done some good. The soreness between her thighs wasn’t entirely gone, but it had been reduced to an occasional twinge instead of a raw chaffing that grew worse with each step she took. She spent two minutes checking the cabinet to see if there were any lotions or infusions that might further speed her healing. She found moisturizers, hand-creams and body oils, but nothing that seemed safe for intimate use, and she didn’t dare waste more time looking around. Ten minutes to towel off, moisturize, and then blow dry her hair while the curling iron heated up. That left a scant eight minutes for minimal make-up and very rudimentary styling. She was satisfied with her final appearance--artfully artless, her eyes merely accented with mascara and liner, while her lips were just touched with color from a berry flavored gloss, and her hair fell in soft waves about her shoulders--but her satisfaction wasn’t really the point, she reflected bitterly.

Only his mattered, right now.

She turned off the curling iron and headed back to the bedroom, not wanting to be a minute more than the half-hour he had specified. Taking a deep breath, she entered the bedroom--

--and let the breath she had just taken leave on a soft, dismayed, gasp.

Angelus was not naked, as she had thought he would be. And he was not reclining on the bed, as his words had led her to expect, either. He was sitting in a chair near the curtained window to the right of the bed. And he was fully dressed.

The Italian silk shirt was black as his sins, and it was open to reveal the smooth surface of his chest. The shirt was no blacker than the leather pants slung low on his hips, and these, in turn, were no blacker than the leather riding boots into which the pants were tucked. But none of them possessed quite the shade of pitch that had been achieved by the smooth, worn object in Angelus’ hands, with which he was toying when Buffy entered the room, the object which had stolen the breath from her lungs and which threatened to stop the beating of her heart in sheer terror.

A particularly vicious looking braided leather whip.

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