"I don't see why you think you've got to keep me tied to this bleedin' chair all the time, Slayer! It's not like I can actually *bite* anyone at the -- *ow*! Bloody hell, Slayer, easy!" The irritated blonde vampire yelped as the tiny blonde on her knees in front of him pulled the ropes that bound one of his legs to the chair he was sitting in much tighter than was necessary.

"Gee, I don't know," Buffy smiled up at him as she checked the rope, giving it a sharp experimental tug that he suspected was also completely unnecessary, just because she was the bane of his existence and felt like tormenting him. "Maybe because the last time you managed to get loose, you ran off as fast as you could and I had to track you down all over town?" she suggested, with an innocent smile on her face.

"Well, if you lot were a bit more hospitable...would feed a bloke, not keep him all trussed up all the time...maybe I'd be a bit more inclined to stay!" he shot back in a tone of offended indignation. He paused for a moment, frowning thoughtfully. "No...I take that back...don't think there's enough dosh or blood in the whole soddin' universe to get me to *voluntarily* shack up with you and your bloody Scoobies! *Ow*!” he yelled as she yanked the ropes tight around his other leg.

Buffy sighed wearily before falling back on her old stand by, the words he had come to realize that she spoke when she was too busy or tired or for any other reason could not come up with a comeback.

"Shut up, Spike." She suddenly frowned, muttering as an after thought, "And there will be no shacking up -- voluntary or otherwise. You don’t live here. You don’t live, period. You’re a prisoner, remember?"

"Hard to forget," he muttered resentfully. But then he smirked, catching the slightly defensive note in her voice and deciding to run with it. Why not? It wasn't like he had that much to entertain him these days.

"No, I s’pose 'round here you all like to keep things good and proper and all, don't you? Rather than shack up, you just skip straight to the engagement phase, yeah?"

In spite of himself, an image flew unbidden into his mind...sparkling emerald eyes shining up at him adoringly -- soft, full lips hungrily kissing his -- a lap full of wriggling, bouncing, and enticingly aroused Slayer...

*Bloody hell!* His eyes widened as he glanced down at the lap in question and then back at the Slayer, hoping against hope she would not notice the problem his memories had just created for him.

And of all times, with him tied to this soddin' chair, with not even the slightest chance of escape! He tried to think of a good excuse to get the Slayer to untie him -- if only for a few minutes -- but came up completely blank. What could he say, really?

*Eh, love, mind letting me up for a bit so I can have a quick wank?*

*Slayer, I've just been sitting here fantasizing about you and I've got a bit of a problem, care to help me out with it?*

Not bloody likely. Either way he'd end up dust.

*Infuriating bint!* he thought resentfully. *This is her fault -- all of it. If it wasn't for her, I'd never have come back here, I wouldn't have this bleedin' chip in my head, and I wouldn't have had a soddin' love spell placed on me to where now I can't stop bloody well thinking about her every soddin' minute -- even now that the spell's broken! Gonna drain the annoying little chit dry the moment I get this thing out of my head!*

Feeling a bit better after his internal but satisfying rant, and the decision he had re-made a hundred times since Willow’s my-will-be-done spell had been ended, he smirked at the tense, frowning Slayer, as she tugged on the last rope to be sure it was tight enough, and then stood up in front of him with her arms crossed over her chest.

Oh, well. As long as he was in this predicament – might as well have a bit of fun with it.

"Never figured you for the type to get off on bondage, love," he sneered, curling his tongue behind his teeth in a gesture that was both mocking and suggestive and just so typically -- well, *Spike*.

It infuriated her almost to the point of losing control of her temper.

And other things.

Suddenly, she pulled her attention from that fascinating little motion of his tongue – bringing to mind unbidden memories of *other* rather intriguing things that she had found out he could do with it – when she realized just exactly what he had said.

Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open in shocked indignation – and her heart raced at the images that sprang to her mind at his words. She swallowed hard, trying for the expression of anger that she knew she should be giving him, rather than the slack-jawed, shocked look she feared was on her face.

“I – do…not,” she retorted defensively, cringing at the utter pathetic lack of timing, creativity – and even conviction – behind her response.

*Stupid vampire,* she thought resentfully. Why was it that Spike, of all people, had the power to get her so confused and off guard, to make her feel so vulnerable and exposed. She was the Slayer; she didn’t *do* “vulnerable and exposed”.

Spike seemed to think otherwise. His knowing smirk made her flush with embarrassment even before he said a word – and his words were worse. “You forgot, love. Vampire, here. There’s no hiding things like that from us, no matter how bad you might want to. Not with our superior senses, pet.” He sniffed the air pointedly before giving her a lewd smile. “What *is* that heavenly fragrance you’re wearing, Slayer? Let me guess…essence of – ‘I-deperately-need-a-shag’?”

Buffy felt as if her face was on fire – among other things. To think that he could so easily tell the unwilling reaction her body had had to him was humiliating to her.

And infuriating.

Her eyes smoldered with fury as she took a menacing step toward the bound vampire, who to her irritation did not even appear the least bit unnerved by her sudden approach. He just smiled boldly up at her as she moved closer to him until she was right in his face.

“You’re disgusting,” she informed him in a low, hateful voice.

“And you want me,” he retorted with a smug smile, his triumphant eyes telling her that he *knew* he was right, and was taking extreme pleasure in the power he had over her.

*No, Buffy,* she reminded herself. * *You* have the power here! You’re the Slayer, and he’s a harmless, tied up prisoner of a vampire who can’t even bite! Now remind both of you of that before it’s too late!*

“I *want* to *stake* you,” she corrected him, a cool smiling coming over her lips as she added, “I haven’t, since you’re basically neutered, and it wouldn’t be a very satisfying slay.” She paused, her smile taking on a menacing edge, “But it’s sounding more satisfying by the moment.”

Spike showed no fear at her words; this Slayer *talked* about staking him, but she never had quite managed it – even *before* his chip – and he was beginning to think that she was all talk, at least when it came to him.

And why would that be? he wondered. He knew that she was attracted to him. If he admitted it, he was *attracted* to her too, as Red’s little spell had forced them to find out, quite against their will. But that did not mean that she actually cared at all, even enough to keep her from staking him, no matter how hard he tried to drive her bloody insane.

*If I was her,* he thought with a sense of satisfaction. *I’d have staked me by now.*

The “neutered” comment *was* irritating, however, and his eyes narrowed in anger and triumph. “You’re just *afraid* to untie me – afraid I’ll show you just how *neutered* I’m not!”

“Sounds good to me!” she snapped! “I’d love an excuse to stake you!”

He clucked his tongue at her a few times, shaking his head in a mockingly reproving way. “Such hostility, love,” he remarked with mock dismay. “You know, a good shag *would* help you get that bloody stick out of your arse. What say you let me stake *you* instead, yeah?”


The Scoobies gathered in the kitchen suddenly heard the very distinctive sound of flesh connecting with flesh, more specifically the Slayer’s fist connecting with Spike’s face, followed by an even more distinctive shout of fury and pain.

“*Bloody hell!*”

Moments later Buffy sauntered through the door into the kitchen, closing it behind her with a satisfied smile on her face.

Xander smirked toward the door and the annoying blonde vampire beyond it. “I never get tired of hearing that,” he remarked.

“I never get tired of doing it,” Buffy smiled as she sat down at the kitchen table with the rest of them, trying to put the disconcerting words of the vampire in the living room – and the even more disconcerting feelings they had awakened in her – out of her head. “I swear, he drives me absolutely insane!”

Giles glanced up from the book open in front of him on the table to comment, “I dare say, he has the same effect on me.”

Buffy tried to keep a horrified look off her face that would surely reveal to her friends the nature of the “effect” Spike actually had on her, as Giles went on.

“I *would* like to have my full privacy back again. The unexpected houseguest is getting a bit bothersome.”

“*Getting* bothersome?” Xander muttered. “He’s never been anything but a pain in the butt! I still don’t see why you just don’t stake him, Buff.”

Buffy sighed. *Why *don’t* I?* she asked herself for the thousandth time. Aloud, she stated the chosen answer that was always her response to these words of Xander, which she heard at least several times a day. “He’s got the chip. He’s helpless. It would just be – wrong, somehow.”

“Killing a harmless creature, well…yes, it does seem a bit out of sync with your calling,” Giles agreed, with a sigh of regret, glancing toward the now-quiet living room. “But I can’t see as how babysitting an impotent vampire falls under my calling as a Watcher, either.”

The look he gave her was quickly joined by matching looks from the others, and Buffy suddenly felt defensive. “What?” she demanded.

“You *are* the Slayer,” Willow pointed out hesitantly, a bit apologetically. “If anybody has to look after Spike, it should be you.”

“He’s harmless!” Buffy protested. “Really, I can’t see why we can’t just let him go, in all honesty. It’s not like he could actually hurt anybody!”

“You know, you guys keep saying that,” Anya interrupted suddenly. “And I really think you’re making a mistake.” When all she received was blank, puzzled looks, she went on, “Well, sure, he can’t hurt any living thing…at the moment. But there are ways of getting around that. You really wanna hurt someone bad enough – you’re gonna find a way. Even if you have to get someone else to do it for you.”

At the wide-eyed looks her comment earned her, she added, “What? I *was* a vengeance demon for over a thousand years. What do you think kept me busy, if not the wishes of people who didn’t have the power to carry out their own revenge?” She paused. “Just the fact that he *wants* to hurt us, means that somehow, someway – he can.”

“Like,” Willow nodded slowly, understanding where she was going with that. “if he managed to get the chip out, or it stopped working…”

“Or he could just get someone else to do it for him,” Xander pointed out. “It’s really not that difficult.”

“Okay,” Buffy admitted, a slight pout coming to her lips as she realized that they were right. “We can’t let him go. But – I can’t see staking him. Not when he can’t even fight back. It’s kind of – like – cheating,” she tried to put her thoughts into words, not quite translating them correctly – as usual.

“Well,” Giles muttered, his eyes back on his book. “We need to find *some* solution, because he bloody well can’t stay *here* forever!”

Buffy was a bit taken aback by his words. She had heard Giles swear in British before, but he usually didn’t, not unless he was *really* irritated. She guessed that his patience with the unwelcome guest in the living room was thinner already than she had realized.

Giles’ attention remained on his book, but when the others looked expectantly to her again, she found herself once again on the defensive. “Okay, so we need to find a different arrangement. But I can’t very well keep him in my dorm room, can I?”

“Nope,” Willow replied decisively, her eyes wide at the memory that sprang to her mind of Spike in her dorm room a few weeks before. “Can’t do that.”

“Don’t look at Xander,” Anya announced, before anyone did. “I’m not having Spike watching and listening while Xander gives me orgasms. He’s much too vocal, he’d probably spoil the mood just for the fun of it.”

Xander gave her an incredulous look of horror. “That’s your only objection to Deadboy Junior watching us have sex?”

Anya gave him a blank look and a shrug. “What other objection would I have?” she asked him. “Sex is a natural part of life. It is performed for both procreation and pleasure, and everybody does it.” She recited the words as if from a textbook, then added with a shrug, “Unless you’re old, like Giles. Or too ugly to find someone willing to join with you.”

“Bloody hell.” Giles’ muttered words drew Buffy’s attention with a slight wince. He had not been terribly patient lately, and Anya’s words might have pushed his temper over the edge. He was really making with the British cursing today.

Of course, that might have had something to do with the little glass beside him that he kept refilling with the amber-colored beverage in the refrigerator.

She kept meaning to talk to him about that.

But when Giles looked up, his eyes were wide and astonished, and Buffy recognized the expression on his face with relief. It was not a look of anger, but rather a look that said he had just found something incredible in one of his dusty old books.

Of course, “incredible” by his definition was not necessarily the same as “incredible” by hers.

“What?” she asked him, interested in spite of herself.

A slow, thoughtful smile came over Giles’ face as he replied quietly, “I think I may have just discovered the solution to our problem. What to do about Spike.”

Buffy looked up at her Watcher with hopeful interest, wondering if he had indeed found a solution to the Spike-problem. She desperately hoped so; she was not sure she could take much more of the constant presence of the blonde vampire in her life without breaking her resolve not to stake him as long as he was helpless.

Or breaking another resolve.

*Stupid vampire,* she thought again resentfully. *He’s so infuriating. And sexy. *No*! Just infuriating!*

"You know, I really hope this solution involves Spike-dustiness," Xander remarked, as the entire room turned their attention to Giles, waiting to see what he had to say.

"It does not," Giles informed him patiently, "And I’m not quite certain yet," Giles cautioned them all, his attention focusing on Buffy. "But it could work. I've been doing a bit of research into the behavioral patterns of vampires -- social behaviors, that sort of thing..."

Anya began to speak slowly, "By *social* behaviors..."

"*Please* don't finish that sentence," Xander cut her off quickly, with a wide, overly affectionate smile to soften the words.

"As I was saying," Giles went on, giving them a dark, glowering look for a moment, "I've discovered some interesting things that might be of use to us in this -- intolerable situation." His tone told them all just how intolerable he found it.

"It seems that according to most recorded research, vampires in group settings are by nature, pack animals," Giles went on. "The first vampires who walked the earth existed, fed, traveled, in groups, much like some animals that we're familiar with today."

"Like wolves," Willow noted with a nod, her best teacher's-pet face in place.

"Or pirahnna," Anya agreed matter-of-factly.

Giles opened his mouth to go on, but suddenly stopped, looking at her aghast.

When Anya realized that everyone was staring at her, she said defensively, "*What*? It’s a very valid comparison! What with the sharp little fangs and bloodthirstiness…”

“Oooh!” Willow put in suddenly with a nod of agreement, “And they don’t breathe!”

“Could we please *try* to stay on the topic?” Giles interrupted them in a tone of intense exasperation, rolling his eyes and reaching for his glass.

“Yes, please,” Buffy agreed with him, reaching over to intercept the glass before it reached his lips and placing it on the other side of her, out of reach. When he frowned at her and tried anyway, she just gave him her best Slayer glare.

He backed down. “Yes,” he continued distractedly, focusing back on the matter at hand. “Well, as I was saying, these vampire packs would stick together…feed together, defend and protect each other, work together as a unit to survive.”

Buffy frowned; the thought was strange to her. But just as she was wondering why she had never seen that sort of behavior from vampires before, she thought of Drusilla, and how faithfully Spike had tended her, even when she had been utterly insane and running around behind his back like a little ho-bag.

Angel had told her very little about his life before his soul, and his vampire family – but from what he *had* told her, it seemed that they had been a very tight-knit group at one time. And in the high school on Parent/Teacher Night, she remembered Spike mentioning how Angel had been a mentor to him.

She had never thought that vampires were capable of that sort of bonding, but perhaps that was the sort of behavior that Giles was talking about, she thought.

Giles was *still* talking, she reminded herself, trying to focus. “These packs operate in very specific ways. There is a single ‘pack leader’ to whom the others all turn for – direction. Leadership. They submit to the decisions of the leader. What he says goes.”

“Or she,” Willow pointed out, glancing at Buffy with a smile.

An odd little smile came over Giles’ face at her words. She did not realize it, but Willow had accidentally hit on the very direction of what he was saying. “Indeed. As may very well be appropriate in this situation.” Before anyone could ask him about the cryptic statement, he went on.

“On occasion, one of the group, or even one outside the group, vying for mastery of the pack, might challenge the pack leader. According to this text, they would then,” he placed a hand on the thick old book as he glanced down at it before looking up at Buffy again, quoting exactly from the text, “ ‘meet in a battle of wills, climaxing in an act of dominance by the winning party’.”

“If the challenger won,” he went on, closing the book, “he would assume leadership of the pack, and the previous pack leader would submit to his leadership. If he lost, on the other hand, he would become one of the pack, and submit to the pack leader. From that point on, he would be under their control.”

Buffy felt an uneasy feeling, as she began to put together what Giles was getting at. “Okay,” she said slowly. “So…you’re saying that what Spike needs is…”

“A pack leader,” he finished the statement for her, meeting her eyes appraisingly.

“Gee,” she said, her tone flippant. “Wonder where we’re gonna find one of those?”

“Buffy,” Giles said in a voice of quiet rebuke. “I believe you understand what I’m getting at.”

“Good for Buffy,” Xander said. “Now what about the rest of us who are completely and totally in the dark still?”

“So you’re saying,” Willow began slowly, figuring it out as she went along. “that if Buffy can beat Spike in a fight – he’ll submit to her and he won’t be a problem? Like – he would just – not want to kill her anymore?”

“Oh, I quite believe he would still want to,” Giles corrected, a look of slight amusement in his eyes. “But he would not be able to. His very nature would prevent it, once he had been made to recognize her authority.”

“Okay, the only problem with that…” Buffy began, pausing with a frown before she amended, “One of *many* problems with that – is that I’ve already kicked Spike’s butt across Sunnydale and back on more than one occasion. And he’s still the same annoying, smart-mouth pain in my butt that he’s always been. And he would still try to kill me the first chance he gets.”

Giles shook his head. “No, Buffy. It’s not just a matter of winning the fight. Every time you’ve fought him before, your goal has been his death – not his submission to you. As I understand this text, you must dominate him in the fight, and make him actually verbally accept your authority.”

“Okay, big problem number two…let’s face it. That’s so not gonna happen,” Buffy stated matter-of-factly. “He would disappear in a cloud of dust still kicking and screaming and calling me nasty names in British before he would *ever* submit to me.”

“Okay, question here,” Xander interrupted, holding up a hand for Giles’ attention. “What about the chip? I mean – don’t get me wrong. I’m all for further humiliation of the bleached menace in there. But – isn’t he about as dominated as he can get? He *can’t* fight her, anyway. So…how’s she going to do the whole fighty thing with him?”

Giles frowned thoughtfully. “That, actually, is the biggest flaw in the theory.”

“No, that is *not* the biggest flaw in the theory,” Buffy corrected, shaking her head emphatically. “The biggest flaw in the theory is the idea that I should perform some ancient vampire ritual, just so I can have a neutered vampire follow me around for the rest of my life because he thinks I’m his boss or something.”

“But that is entirely the point, Buffy,” Giles explained. “He won’t have to follow you around. He won’t have to be supervised at all. You’ll merely have to give the order to leave us alone – not to attempt to harm us or anyone else – and he’ll be bound by his very nature to obey it.”

Xander’s eyes lit up. “Hey! Could you like – order him to walk out in the sunlight or something?” He was surprised by the shocked, indignant looks cast his way by everyone else in the room. “What?” he said defensively. “It was just a joke!”

“The entire point of this effort is to *avoid* having to destroy him, seeing as he *is* fairly harmless,” Giles reminded him. Then he frowned thoughtfully, “But to answer your question…I’m honestly not sure. According to the text, it does seem as if he would still have a choice in the matter, at least to some degree. It’s really – really not clear.”

“What a surprise,” Buffy muttered, her mind racing with what Giles was suggesting. It seemed simple enough. Best Spike in a fight, force him to say uncle and admit that she really *was* bigger and badder than he was, and then order him to reform -- and to get out of their lives for good measure, if she chose to. She could be rid of his confusing presence without the guilt that would come with staking him.

But something deep inside her, some niggling feeling warned her that there simply had to be more to it than that. Somehow, she just *knew*.

And did she really *want* him out of her life?

“And as to the problem of the chip,” Giles went on, and she forced herself to pay attention. “Well – that *is* a problem. The thing is, as long as he is virtually forced to submit anyway, by virtue of not being capable of fighting you – anything you would do to him would be – well, futile. In order for the act of dominance you perform to have any effect – he must actually have the ability to resist it.”

“Oh, well,” Buffy said lightly with a shrug. “There goes that theory. Anything else?”

“I think…” Willow began hesitantly. “I think I know a spell…” Buffy gave her a vicious glare, and the little redhead visibly wilted. “Well, I do,” she said defensively with an apologetic look. She looked back to Giles, who was watching her hopefully. “It would just kind of – scramble the signal on the chip. Just for a little while. So that it wouldn’t go off if he tried to hurt you.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Xander broke in, a note of anger beginning in his voice. “I’m not liking the way this conversation is going. We’re talking about disabling Spike’s chip? Every time he’s been around Buffy before he got the chip, he’s tried to kill her!”

“In this case,” Giles said softly. “I dare say that’s rather the point.”

Xander shook his head emphatically, “No. That’s too dangerous, Buffy! You’re talking about *deliberately* disabling the only thing between Captain Peroxide and a major killing spree!”

“I think you’re forgetting the other thing between him and mass murder,” Buffy reminded him, a note of irritation in her voice. When he just gave her a blank look, she sighed and rolled her eyes as she clarified, “Me! Slayer, remember?”

“So,” Willow began to recap slowly. “The basic idea is, we do the spell to disable the chip, you fight Spike and do the whole dominance thing, and once he submits to you, he’s under your control. So we don’t have to worry about watching over him every single second to be sure he doesn’t hire a hit vamp to kill you or anything like that.”

“We think,” Buffy clarified flatly. “We’re still not totally sure that this whole thing is even gonna work like we think it is. I mean,” she looked at Giles, “you said he may not *have* to obey what I tell him, even then. So – it might be an awful lot of work and danger – for nothing.”

“At the very least,” Giles argued quietly. “resistance to your leadership and trying to do anything to hurt you or those in the ‘pack’ would be very difficult for him. It would be like – trying not to feed. He *could* do it – but it would only be to his detriment, and completely against his nature.”

Buffy’s eyes widened as she considered that. Okay…so maybe it was more of a sure thing than she had thought.

She glanced around the room, taking in the expressions on the faces of the others. Xander was obviously very unhappy with the idea, and was shaking his head slightly, just in case the others were not yet aware of his disapproval. Willow had a thoughtful look on her face, obviously already thinking about what she would need to perform the spell, and getting excited about the idea of using her newly developing powers.

Giles clearly wanted her to do it. The hopeful, expectant look on his face told her that much. He was certain that he had found a solution to the problem, and wanted her to accept it and carry it out.

Anya – Buffy frowned. As she looked at the pale, wide-eyed ex-vengeance demon, she realized suddenly that Anya had not said a word since Giles had brought up his idea. When Buffy looked at her, she gave her an exaggerated and very obvious shake of her head, pulling a finger across her throat in a gesture that said clearly what she thought of the idea.

She was certainly very emphatic about it. And she *was* a centuries-old ex-demon who probably knew quite a bit about ancient rituals and such.

“What do you think, Anya?” Buffy asked suddenly, surprising all of the others. Buffy frowned. Did they all really think so little of the girl that they should be so surprised? Really, Anya probably knew a lot about the sort of stuff they dealt with on a daily basis. She made a quick decision to show a bit more respect to the girl, as she waited for her response.

“Um – I think – I – think I need to talk to you privately for a moment, Buffy,” Anya finally said, a huge, fake smile on her face. “Okay?” she practically chirped, rising from the table and taking Buffy’s arm, pulling her toward the door.

“Wait a second,” Xander protested, not liking the idea of not being in the loop.

“Yes, Anya,” Giles agreed with the boy for once. “I believe we could all hear what it is you have to say.”

“I believe you don’t want to,” Anya shot back immediately before looking back at the Slayer. “Buffy?” she said expectantly, releasing her arm, but walking toward the door – expecting her to follow.

Buffy glanced back at her friends for a moment, a bit uncomfortably, before following Anya out of the kitchen and into the living room. Casting a glance at the bound vampire watching them, Anya nodded toward the front door, suggesting that they go outside to talk.

“Done talking about me, are you?” he smirked, and Buffy gave him a startled look, wondering if he had somehow overheard their conversation.

After looking at him for a moment, she decided that it had probably just been an assumption on his part, due to the fact that they had pointedly had the conversation outside the range of his hearing. She returned his smirk, putting a bit of sly menace into her smile just for the fun of it.

“Hardly,” she replied, following Anya out onto the porch.

“Hey!” she heard him yell indignantly behind her. “You mean you *were* bloody talking about me? Hey, now, get back here! *That’s* not right!”

Ignoring his protests, Buffy closed the front door firmly and turned her attention to the anxious girl in front of her. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Buffy,” Anya shook her head slowly. “I’m familiar with this ritual – to a point.”

Buffy raised her eyebrows questioningly.

Anya shrugged. “In a thousand years, yeah, I’ve dated a couple of vampires. You pick things up.” She shook her head in dismissal and went on, “Anyway, Giles is way off about the ritual.”

“About what part?”

Anya took a deep breath, hesitant to respond, and looked away for a moment. “Buffy,” she said finally. “what he thinks you have to do – well – the ritual doesn’t just require – fighting. Let’s just say that the, um – the act of dominance you have to perform?”

Buffy nodded slowly, frowning, still not quite following her.

“It’s not – just -- *physical* dominance.”

Buffy was very confused by this point, shaking her head slightly. “Then – what kind of dominance is it?” she asked, a bit impatiently. She was completely unprepared for the answer, as Anya took a deep breath and blurted out her response.

“*Sexual* dominance.”

Buffy just stared at Anya for several extremely long, excruciating moments, a blank look of utter disbelief on her face as her mind frantically tried to reject what she had just heard – followed by an expression of panic as, against her will, the words sank in anyway.

“*What*?” she demanded furiously, her voice hushed, although no one could possibly overhear them out here on the porch. Buffy suddenly felt very exposed and self-conscious.

Anya nodded with a little understanding grimace. “Sexual domination, Buffy. You have to have sex with Spike, and you have to…”

“*Stop*!” Buffy insisted, her hands rising to her temples and sliding back through her hair in a gesture of helpless anxiety and denial. “No, I do *not* want to hear this!” She stood there for a moment, before she suddenly looked at Anya again, curious in spite of her horror. “I have to *what*, exactly?”

Anya took a deep breath. “Okay – Giles didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. Here’s the way that the ritual *really* works. He challenges you – but since he’s not likely to do that in this case, you can challenge him. They way it works, as ‘pack leader’,” Anya put finger quotes around the words. “if you think he’s causing trouble for your pack, stepping on your turf, so to speak…”

“Which he *so* is,” Buffy muttered resentfully.

Anya nodded as she went on, “Then *you* can challenge *him*. Like basically saying, ‘I’m the boss of you, and I say you’re gonna behave yourself. What are you gonna do about it?’”

“Gee, *that* will go over well,” Buffy muttered.

“No, it won’t,” Anya argued, apparently oblivious to her sarcasm. “Which is completely the point. Once you’ve made the challenge, he has to fight you for control of – well – him. That’s the ‘battle of wills’. The fight. And once you overpower him, you – well – you initiate sexual intercourse.”

Buffy cringed at the blunt way Anya stated it, her sexually naïve mind balking at her matter-of-fact openness. Her body, however, was having a very different reaction to the mental images conjured up by Anya’s words.

“That’s the act of dominance,” Anya explained. “It’s like saying, ‘I won, so now you’re gonna do what I say whether you like it or not. I’m in charge, and you’re gonna fall in line and submit. And the first thing you’re gonna submit to is my screwing your brains out.’”

“Oh my God!” Buffy whimpered, putting her hand over her eyes. “I’m *so* not hearing this!” The hand over her eyes did nothing to block the mental pictures of Spike – and her – his submitting to her while she…

*No! Bad Buffy!* she sharply reprimanded herself. *Stop thinking nasty thoughts about the vampire sexual ritual that you are *so not* going to be doing!*

“You’ve beat him every other time you’ve fought, right? So this shouldn’t be too hard to win…”

“Whoa,” Buffy said with a nervous little laugh that sounded just a little panicked. “I am *not* going to do this, Anya!”

The ex-demon looked down for a moment before looking the Slayer in the eye and saying, “Then you’d better stake him, Buffy.”

Buffy opened her mouth to respond, to object – but all that came out was a weary sigh. “Anya…”

“Seriously, Buffy. He’s just going to keep trying to find a way around the chip to kill you, and a way to get the chip *out*, period, unless you do something to stop him,” Anya went on. She paused, then added emphatically, “And Giles is sick of him being here, and he will *not* rob Xander and I of our special orgasm time! You have to do *something*, Buffy!”

Buffy winced at more unwelcome mental images, but was quiet as she thought about what Anya had said. “There’s no guarantee that this will even work,” she argued, but her tone was not as certain as it had been before.

“Yes there is,” Anya told her in a knowing voice. “Another thing that Giles was just a little bit off on about the ritual. There’s an awful lot of power behind it, Buffy. Once you’ve made him accept your authority through the act of domination, resisting you wouldn’t be like Giles said, like his trying to feed.”

She paused, her tone one of quiet intensity as she looked Buffy in the eye and said, “It’d be more like you trying not to *breathe*. Buffy, he *could* do it – but not for long, and it would be almost impossible. Like trying to fight an instinct that you just can’t help. He might,” she paused, correcting herself, “no, he *will* still disagree with you on most things, and argue back and all – but if you give him a direct order – he’ll be pretty much bound to obey it, eventually – even if he fights it.”

Buffy’s eyes widened at the thought of what Anya was suggesting – absolute power. The thought was a very conflicting one to her, as she considered its staggering implications. There was a tiny part of her that thought the whole idea sounded just – wrong. And not just in the category of wrong that sex-with-Spike always fell into.

She did not think that she should, or even wanted to, wield that much power over anyone – least of all a master vampire who despised her – who took every opportunity to insult her at every turn – who would absolutely hate the idea of being forced to obey her…

As Buffy’s thoughts went around that particular bend, a slow smile spread across her face, as she thought of all the hateful, insulting comments that he was always so inclined to throw her way – the way they always managed to strike their target dead on, infuriating her, but leaving her no good response.

To have the power to say, “Shut up, Spike,” – and have him *actually*…*shut*…*up*!

Her smile became a calculating smirk as she thought of finally being able to make the annoying, infuriating, cocky vampire pay for all the trouble he had given her over the past few years. She could already think of a few rather humiliating commands that she would just *love* to give him.

Yes, she realized as she thought it over. The *results* of the ritual were definitely very desirable.

It was the ritual itself that was the problem.

She looked up at Anya, a frightened expression in her wide green eyes. “But – Anya – I don’t know that much about – well, I mean – I’m not that experienced – how in the world am I ever gonna….” Her voice trailed off as she shook her head, simply at a loss.

It was not the thought of the actual act of sex that bothered her so much. She had had sex before. But neither of her experiences had been exactly confidence-inspiring.

She had lost her virginity to Angel, and it had lasted all of ten minutes, during which she had not done much besides just lie there and let him take the lead. It seemed to be what he wanted, and while it had not been all that pleasurable for her, besides the feeling of just being close to him, at that time, she had wanted noting more than to make him happy, and had contented herself with the thought that she had done so.

“Making him happy” had turned out to be the biggest mistake of her life, when he had followed up what she thought was a beautiful, once in a lifetime experience with cruel words telling her how terrible she had been as a lover – not to mention the whole trying to kill her and all those dear to her thing.

Then there had been Parker. She could clearly see now that Parker had been able to easily take advantage of her on the rebound from Angel’s abandonment of her that summer. She had been lonely and hurting, and had wanted more than anything, just for someone to care.

Parker had not turned out to be that someone. He had used her and then ignored her – once again making her doubt her own worth, not to mention her abilities as a lover. No, neither of her first two experiences with sex had led her to believe that she was in any way capable of being “dominant”, sexually speaking.

And then – there was the vampire in question.

Spike had attacked her mere moments after Parker had smashed her self-esteem to bits, mocking her and taunting her, insinuating that she was a slut, reminding her of her failures with Angel, and how Angel had told him that she was “not worth a second go”.

Her eyes narrowed in hurt and anger at the memory. She did not know why his cruel words had surprised her. After all, he was her mortal enemy, and had been trying to kill her at the time. Of course, he would do anything in his power to throw her off her game. But somehow – after everything that had happened between them to that point – she had expected more of him than that.

She knew it was foolish – knew that she shouldn’t have – but she had.

“Buffy,” Anya said with a warm, sympathetic smile, her tone one of motherly patience – though if Buffy’s own mother could have heard the matter they were discussing, Buffy would have been utterly mortified – “it’s not that big a deal. Me and Xander play bondage games all the time. I could give you some pointers.”

When Buffy stared at her, aghast, she shrugged. “Well, if you have to perform an ancient vampire ritual including violence and sex with your mortal enemy – might as well have some fun doing it!”

Anya had such a startling way of putting things – but she *did* have a point.

The more Buffy thought about it, the more appealing the whole thing began to sound to her. It couldn’t be *that* difficult, especially if she had already beaten the crap out of him before they ever got that far – and she had no doubt that she could easily kick Spike’s scrawny white bum halfway to China.

As for the rest – the idea of his reaction alone, when he realized what was about to happen, made it almost seem worth the uncertainty and self-doubt she was going through now.

“I don’t know, Anya,” Buffy still hesitated. “Giles will freak out when he hears…”

“He doesn’t have to hear,” Anya interrupted. “Why do you think we’re out here?” She paused, giving Buffy a moment to take that in, before going on, “I really think this ritual is your best bet at keeping Spike from being a danger without having to stake him.
But there’s no way that Giles is gonna let you do it. Not to mention Xander for that matter.”

Her voice took on a note of hurt insecurity as she added, “I think he’d let *me* sleep with Spike before he’d let you.”

“Neither one of them is going to ‘let’ me do anything!” Buffy declared, too focused on her own dilemma to really notice what Anya had said or how she had said it. “It’s *my* decision to make, not theirs. We could just set it up so it’s completely private. Just me and Spike alone somewhere – and they’d never have to know what happened. I mean, if this works, me and you and Spike would be the only ones who’d know – and I could just make him keep his mouth shut.”

She paused, thoughtful for a moment. “That alone is incentive enough to do this thing.”

Anya nodded, refocusing on Buffy’s situation, “That’s what I was thinking,” she nodded. “The boys would never have to know at all. We’ll spare them the conniption fit.”

Buffy was quiet, thinking again. “It all *sounds* like it would work – but Anya…” Her eyes were more serious – troubled – as she looked anxiously at the girl. “To *sleep* with him – when I don’t love him – I don’t even *like* him – it just feels – wrong. Not to mention the very important factor that this is going to be *against his will*, Anya – which just adds a whole new level of ‘ick’ to the whole thing.”

“The thing you’ve gotta remember, Buffy,” Anya objected, “is that this is an ancient and revered ritual among vampires. It’s not even *about* the sex – it’s about power.”

“You know what else they say that about, Anya?” Buffy asked her darkly, this new line of thought bringing with it a whole new set of uncomfortable worries.

“It’s not like that. If he fights you in a challenge for mastery,” she paused, her voice quiet and loaded with meaning. “he knows what to expect if he loses. It’s just a part of the ritual, and he’ll submit to it – because that’s the way the ritual is done.” She paused, hesitating over her next words. “And Buffy,” she finally went on, cautiously, “If you fight him – and *you* lose – you should know what to expect, too.”

Buffy’s eyes widened as she realized exactly what Anya was saying. This was some serious business she was getting into, she realized. If she *did* lose to Spike – she would have to let him…

*I just won’t lose,* she told herself firmly. *No matter what, I can’t let him win this one. And if I don’t,* she added to herself with a smirk, *screw the time-honored, ancient vampire ritual – I’m not letting him *touch* me!*

If she was going to have sex with Spike – it was going to be on *her* terms.

“So you see,” Anya went on. “It’s not really forced – because you both know what you’re getting into from the start.”

Buffy nodded slowly, beginning to understand – and inching ever closer to the decision of actually going through with it.

“And besides,” Anya went on, her voice suddenly lighter, a conspiratorial and appreciative smile on her face, “Spike is *really* hot!”

“*Spike*? Ew!” Buffy answered almost automatically – and much too emphatically. Anyone with more experience than Anya in reading human behavior would have immediately known that she was over-covering for her true feelings about the blonde vampire.

The truth was – he *was* really hot.

She kept insisting that she hated Spike – that he disgusted her – but still, she could not stop thinking about those few and fleeting embraces, kisses they had shared while under the influence – but not the *complete* control – of Willow’s spell. She would not have admitted it to anyone, but she *did* find him attractive, and had for a long time – long before Willow’s spell, truth be told.

Maybe that was why his post-Parker taunting had hurt her as badly as it had.

She looked up at Anya suddenly, decisively. “Okay,” she agreed, surprising the ex-vengeance demon with her unexpected certainty. “I’ll do it.”

Her eyes narrowed and her mouth set in a grim resolve as they headed back into the house.

*Not worth a second go, huh?* she thought.

She would make his first “go” with her one to remember!

As Buffy and Anya walked back into the living room, headed toward the kitchen, the anxious blonde vampire tied to the chair tried to get their attention.

“Hey! If you’re gonna be bloody well talking about me, you ought to at least have the decency to stand where I can hear you! For all I know, you could have been out there plotting my bloody death, and I’d never know it!” he pointed out in a heated tone of indignation. The Slayer’s parting words as she had walked outside had worried him more than he wanted to let on.

But he had never been any good at hiding his true feelings about anything.

Buffy just smirked at him as they reached the kitchen door. “For all you know, we were,” she agreed in a cool voice of amusement that made him suddenly apprehensive. “Keeps things interesting, doesn’t it?”

“Now wait just one soddin’ minute!” he demanded, his unease translating into anger at its source – the Slayer. “I haven’t done a bloody thing to you since I came to you of my own volition, in a gesture of good faith, and all you’ve done is treat me like a soddin’ prisoner, which I’ve done *nothing* to deserve, so if you’re going to threaten my unlife, the least you can do is do it to my face!”

“The only reason you haven’t done anything to us,” Buffy reminded him as her hand came to rest on the kitchen door, “is because you can’t. You’ve been – neutered.” She smiled as she said the word that she had chosen only because she knew it would get to him.

“Not as much as you’d like to think,” he countered with a smirk, quite successfully covering just how much the use of the word *did* bother him. “But apparently *you* should be! Got more bloody *energy* than you know what to do with, don’t you, Slayer? I know your type.” His tone was smug, knowing, and he watched for her reaction, knowing that she knew he meant something else entirely by “energy”.

Buffy felt her face flame with embarrassment that he had commented on her attraction to him, even in such a veiled fashion, in front of Anya. She was furious with herself more than anything, that her own arousal that had been building during the – intriguing – conversation with Anya had given her away.

Still, she was determined to ignore him for now, just to get into the kitchen and away from his too-perceptive senses – not to mention his words.

But then – he spoke again, his voice low and mocking. “Like a puppy,” he mused with a smirk. “Enthusiastic – but a bit clumsy.” As determined as she was to ignore him, he was to not let her.

It worked.

Buffy froze in the doorway, her back still turned to him, and he felt a sense of satisfaction that he had managed to get to her, finally. Then, she turned to face him, her eyes narrowed and with a dangerous light in them – and satisfaction was suddenly replaced with apprehension.

As she slowly approached him, a small, predatory smile on her face, he tensed in instinctive preparation to react, though he knew that there was really nothing he could do. The Slayer’s eyes flashed fury as she leaned down in front of him, her face inches from his, meeting his eyes intently.

“First of all,” she said in a tight, angry voice that told him she was trying very hard to restrain her anger. “You have done *everything* in your power to deserve the way we’ve treated you, and worse. You’ve tried to kill me countless times, kidnapped my friends, and generally just annoyed the hell out of me. And as for your little ‘gesture of good faith’?” she sneered with a derisive little laugh, “it was more like a gesture of ‘I’m so pathetic that the only one I can turn to for help is my worst enemy’. *And*, by the way, you only found out that you needed that help while trying -- *again* -- to kill my best friend. And, considering that you’re tied to a chair in my Watcher’s living room, and couldn’t actually hurt me, even if you weren’t – I think I’ll threaten you to your face, or behind your back or anyway I damn well please!”

His patented smirk remained in place throughout her little speech, which left him mostly unconcerned. When it came to him, for some reason, the Slayer was really mostly bark, very little bite – unless he somehow managed to get her *really* pissed off.

Apparently – she was really pissed off.

It caught him by surprise when a small, strong hand shot out to grab a handful of his hair, pulling his head back in a gesture that was more threatening than painful. She was using very little of her actual strength; they both knew that she was strong enough to snap his neck with one quick movement if she wanted to.

And they both knew that she wouldn’t.

His smug smile faltered for just a moment as she gave his head a quick, sharp little tug backward, but was immediately back in place, mocking her even through the discomfort, unwilling to show her that her actions had any impact on him at all.

“And by the way,” she added, lowering her voice slightly and giving him a calculating smile of triumph that made him feel terribly uneasy, in spite of himself, “you might wanna be careful what you say about me, Spike. I just might have to prove you wrong!”

She released him as suddenly as she had grabbed him, standing up straight and turning to leave – gritting her teeth at the sound of his soft, derisive laughter behind her.

“You’d love the chance to try, wouldn’t you, love?” he goaded her, his cocky smirk unaffected by the little encounter.

This time, Buffy forced herself to ignore his comments, reminding herself that after the ritual was over, she would not longer have to put up with his constant mockery. If her sexual abilities did not shut him up – a single order from her lips would.

As the Slayer and her friend disappeared into the kitchen, Spike muttered under his breath, “Bitch.”

He hated the way she had of acting with him, all high and mighty, proud and self-righteous, as if she was the defender of all things good and pure against all things dark and evil – and he was good enough to fit in neither category, in her eyes – relegated to a status not unlike that of the dirt beneath her feet.

The overwhelming blow that his pride had taken with the helplessness that the chip had introduced to his life, was intensified every time she spoke to him, with derision and disgust, making it abundantly clear that she despised him completely.

And yet – he knew that his senses did not lie. The Slayer was attempting – and failing – to hide a powerful attraction to him. In fact it hardly seemed that they were ever in the same room lately when he was not aware of her silent desire for him.

And what was even worse, was the response that intoxicating desire created in him.

He tried to deny it; he insisted that he *hated* her – wanted her dead, and wanted to be the one to make her that way. Yet, in the end, he could not deny that what his body was screaming out every time he was anywhere near her, was the truth.

He wanted *her*, too. And that was the most frightening thought of all.

*Infuriating bint!* he thought resentfully. *When I get this bloody chip out – the Slayer’s gonna see how bloody neutered I am! She thinks she knows a thing or two about a thing or two, eh? Well I’ll be glad to teach her a long, thorough lesson before I drain her dry!* he smirked. *Then *she’ll* be the one tied up and helpless, and we’ll see how *she* likes it!*

Now there was a nice little thought – the Slayer in chains, at *his* mercy, unable to resist him as he made her eat the words she had just spoke, pleading, begging him for just a little more…

*More*? He suddenly snapped out of his reverie, wide-eyed in horror. Where had that thought come from?

*No! Not begging for more!* he corrected his fantasy quickly. *Begging for *mercy*! ‘Oh, please, Spike, I admit you’re a master vampire, and stronger and smarter and all round better in every way than I am, and in no way weak or unmanly – and bloody sexy – please – touch me again…’*

*No!* he snarled at himself in near panic as he realized the turn his thoughts had taken again. *She’s the bloody Slayer! You’re not supposed to want to shag her senseless, you’re supposed to want to kill her dead!*

Spike leaned his head back with a weary sigh, closing his eyes for a moment, before looking back up at the door, his sharp blue eyes narrowing in anger at the thought of the girl just beyond it who took so much pleasure in every moment of his humiliation.

When the chip came out, he told himself, a bit too emphatically, the annoying, vicious little blonde was going to pay for the wreckage she had made of his life – because she *was* responsible. For everything that had gone wrong over the past few years. It was all her fault.

It was the Slayer who had ruined everything for him, beginning when she had paralyzed him in the church that night. If he had not been confined to that bloody wheelchair, he could have defended his rights against Angelus when he had made his appearance a few months later – which was also Buffy’s doing, by the way!

Drusilla’s unfaithfulness with Angelus had been the beginning of the end for his doomed relationship with his Dark Princess. After that, she had never seemed to regain any amount of respect for him, and had become more and more unfaithful, and more and more blatant about her infidelities, until finally, she did not even bother to try to hide them anymore.

She had blamed it on him, claiming that he was the one who had changed – that he was not really hers at all anymore – that he was obsessed with…

No…he did not care to think about that right now.

But he had only come back to Sunnydale in the first place because Drusilla had left him, and he had blamed the Slayer and Angel for her loss. Deep down, he had thought that he could win her back if he killed the Slayer, to prove to Drusilla that he was hers alone. But he had ended up getting side-tracked with the soddin’ love spell business that had gone so badly, and failed to accomplish his original goal – killing Buffy.

But while he was there, he *had* heard the rumors about the Gem of Amara. And it was when he had come back for the gem that he had had that disastrous battle with the Slayer. A bloke had nothing if he didn’t have his pride, right? Couldn’t just let it go at that. He had to stay and avenge his reputation of the Slayer.

And it was because of sticking around Sunnyhell to kill the Slayer that he had been captured by the commandos and had the soddin’ chip stuck in his head.

So it was really all very clear. Even a bloody child could see it.

It was all Buffy’s fault.

Yes, he thought, glaring at the spot where she had disappeared a few minutes earlier. One way or another, he was going to find a way to get the chip out of his head. And when he did, Buffy was going to pay.

William the Bloody was going to kill his third Slayer.


“Okay,” Buffy announced as she closed the kitchen door behind her. “Let’s do it.” She looked expectantly at her Watcher, waiting for his response.

Giles was startled by her sudden surety. “You’re – quite certain, Buffy?” he asked cautiously, though his face made it obvious that he was pleased with her decision. He wanted her to go through with the ritual.

Had he know all that it would involve, Buffy thought grimly, he would likely have felt much differently about it.

She nodded decisively. “I’m sure,” she declared.

“Buffy, I don’t like this,” Xander said quietly, sounding very unhappy. “What if something goes wrong? What if he overpowers you, while his chip is down?”

“He won’t,” Buffy said simply. “I can beat Spike easy. He’s never really beaten me…”

*You’ve never really beaten *him*, either.* The thought made her uneasy, so she put it out of her mind. This time – she would.

She had to.

For the next few minutes, Buffy and her friends discussed the particulars of the ritual – though not nearly in as much detail as she and Anya had discussed it. At first, Giles and Xander were both adamantly against the idea of her being alone with Spike to perform the ritual. They wanted to be sure that she was safe, shoe start to get the upper hand.

Buffy did not say what she was thinking – that there would be little that either of them could do to help her against an unchipped master vampire like Spike. But even had the ritual not been of such a personal nature, and the safety of her friends not an issue, something inside her balked at the idea of having anyone else around for this occasion.

Some deep down part of her seemed to recognize that this was going to be a profound, personal sort of thing – powerful rivals locked in battle for mastery – and although she could not explain it, she knew that even if she were to be losing, if she found that she could not defeat Spike on her own – she would not want anyone to intervene.

The thought just seemed – wrong…unfair, somehow.

This was going to be between her and Spike. No one else.

After lots of discussion, and some downright arguing, they finally came up with a basic plan of action. Buffy finally thought of the ideal place to set this epic battle, and they worked out the timing for Willow’s spell, and the time they would carry out the plan.

The next night, at 8:00 pm – when Buffy would be at her peak performance level – Spike’s chip would lose its signal, allowing him to fight her freely. It would stay down, Willow had said, for approximately six hours. During that time, Buffy knew that her fate and that of the blonde vampire who had crossed her path so many times would once more intersect, in a battle that would change both of their lives in a dramatic and profound way.

But she really had no idea just *how* important this battle was going to turn out to be.

After the next night – her life would never be the same again.

“Oh, God,” Buffy whimpered, pacing the floor of her bedroom with an almost frantic speed, letting out a little moan of frustration and anxiety as her eyes fell on the alarm clock on her night stand. “I don’t think I can do this, Anya.”

It was 7:15.

“Well, it’s a little late for that now,” Anya pointed out to her in a matter-of-fact tone that was ironically calming, the voice of reason in this insane situation that she had somehow managed to get herself into. “The spell’s already done, it’s just a matter of waiting for it to kick in. And if Spike’s chip is gonna go down, you’d *better* go ahead and fight him!”

Buffy had to admit that she was right. “Well, I guess we’d better go,” Buffy muttered, and Anya thought that she would have sounded more excited about facing a hundred regurgitating Frolox demons than the one, currently chipped – but soon to be not – master vampire that she was about to face. “We need to get Spike over there before the spell kicks in.”

It was a little after 7:30 when they arrived at Giles’ apartment.

Buffy took a deep breath before reaching to open the door. When they entered the living room, the feeling of tension was almost palpable. Giles was sitting at the counter that made up the border between his living room and tiny kitchenette, a full bottle and an empty glass of some kind of liquor in front of him. As she entered, he gave her a flat, unhappy look and refilled his glass, shaking his head and muttering to himself.

He wanted her to do the ritual, but he was not very happy about the idea of her being alone with Spike to do it.

Anya was acutely aware of the resentful looks that Willow kept shooting her out of the corner of her eye. Buffy’s reasoning that the red-headed witch needed to get the spell done, so Anya should be the one to help her get ready, hand the ring of an excuse to Willow’s perceptive ears, and she was clearly jealous that Anya should have been chosen instead of her to help her best friend prepare.

What bothered Anya even more was the much milder, but very similar look that Xander was giving her as well.

“Slayer!” Spike immediately said when he saw Buffy come in, and there was no mistaking the agitation in his voice. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but am I ever glad you’re here!”

Buffy raised one eyebrow, her mouth quirking slightly up on one side as she gave him a questioning look. She was quite certain that in a very short time, he would not feel that way anymore.

“Your little witch over there has been working her bloody mojo on me, and wouldn’t even tell me what it was all about, and the Watcher and the boy keep giving me looks like they wanna stake me right now…and I swear I haven’t done a bloody thing, Slayer! I’ve spent the whole day tied to this soddin’ chair!” Spike pleaded his case, looking up at Buffy with wide, angry eyes that betrayed a bit of his fear, in spite of himself.

As he spoke, Willow stood up from the couch and walked to Buffy, placing something in her hand. Spike did not notice what it was until the Slayer moved slowly toward him, raising it in both hands toward his face. It was a thick, black cloth – and he suddenly realized with indignation, and greater fear – she meant to blindfold him.

He jerked his head back, protesting, “Now wait just a bleedin’ minute, Slayer! You’re not gonna…”

His words cut off in a little yelp of pain as she gripped his hair and yanked his head back forward, leaning in close to speak softly, her eyes focused on his in a penetrating gaze. “I’m not?” she asked with a little smirk. “Wanna tell me just how you’re gonna stop me?”

He had absolutely no response, and they both knew it. She watched as his jaw set with anger at her, and at his own helplessness. After a long moment, he said in a low, dangerous voice of barely suppressed rage, “I can’t stop you. Not now.”

She released her grip on his hair, satisfied that she had made her point.

“But when this chip comes out, Slayer,” he went on, meeting her eyes with blazing fury and defiance in his own. “I’m going to show you just why they call me what they do.”

“William the Bloody?” she frowned, confused.

With menace shining in his narrowed eyes, the words coming out razor sharp, he corrected her, “Slayer of Slayers.”

In a reflex reaction to the chill of fear his words invoked in her, Buffy lashed out, backhanding him hard with her fist, nearly toppling the chair with the force fo the blow. She caught it before it fell, leaning in to place a heavy hand at the back of his neck, pulling him in close to her as she spoke softly, right in his face.

“I look forward to the day when you try!” she informed him with an angry challenge in her eyes – but her fear was also obvious, and he took what satisfaction he could in the knowledge that he *had* gotten to her. “But until then,” she went on with a cold smile, “you can’t lift a finger against me – so why don’t you just be a good little neutered vampire, so I don’t have to kick your ass -- *again*. Okay?”

He closed his eyes, swallowing hard in a mixture of fear and fury at her completely unwarranted treatment of him.

Fury, that she should dare to treat him with such utter disrespect, as if he were nothing more than a pathetic irritation to be smacked around and manhandled as she saw fit, rather than the powerful master vampire who had claimed the lives of two of her sister Slayers – the powerful master vampire that he still was, only temporarily restrained by the chip in his head.

And fear, because something was clearly wrong with this picture. In all the time he had been in the Watcher’s house, Buffy had hardly touched him – well, with the intent of hurting him, anyway, he amended, thinking again of Red’s spell. She seemed to be of the opinion that it was wrong to hit him when he couldn’t hit back, and she hadn’t – much. Once or twice she had punched him, but it had only been if he had tried to hit her first.

Now, the combination of the odd demeanor of her friends, with her own more-aggressive-than-usual behavior, and the strange, calculating light in her eyes, worked together to convince him more and more with every moment of one thing – he was in very real danger.

And that was not even considering the added evidence of the blindfold that the Slayer was bringing toward his face again.

He glared at her in hatred at being forced to submit to it as he muttered out a low response to her words. “Until then,” he agreed, with a deadly promise in his words. He would do what he had to in order to survive – and when he managed to get the chip out, the “good little neutered vamp” would vanish, and the master would take his vengeance.

As Buffy tied the dark cloth firmly around his eyes, he fought back a sudden sense of panic, at being suddenly just that much more helpless, unable even to see what they were doing around him – or to him.

“Buffy!” he heard Willow hiss in a loud, urgent whisper, and he suppressed the urge to laugh at the girl’s apparent belief that he could not hear her. He could have easily heard her even had she been actually whispering, and her voice was louder than she had intended in her anxiety. “What are you doing provoking him? In a few minutes…”

“Will!” The Slayer’s voice was sharp as she cut off her friend’s words.

“Oh.” Willow’s voice was small and sheepish, and he realized with disappointment that the Slayer had called her attention to the fact that he could hear her. “Sorry.”

*In a few minutes -- *what*?* he wondered almost frantically.

Buffy released a slow breath of relief that she had stopped her over-anxious friend before she had given anything away. They had all decided the night before that it would be best not to let Spike know anything about what was going on until he and Buffy were alone at the site for the ritual. But Willow, not as aware of vampires’ heightened senses as Buffy was, had almost given it away ahead of time.

The Slayer felt very conflicting emotions about the whole situation, as she regarded the tense form of the bound vampire in the chair, clearly afraid – and clearly determined not to show it. She had intended by her harsh treatment to shake him up a bit, throw him off his game. And yet, she found herself oddly pleased when his reaction was anger and defiance, as opposed to the breaking of his confidence that she had thought was her goal.

Something in her recognized his courage and strength with admiration, pleased to find in him a worthy opponent.

Of course, she reminded herself, she had already known that Spike was a more-than-worthy opponent; he was the only one of all the enemies she had faced that she had failed to truly defeat. It was that fact more than any other that kept her from staking him, now that he was defenseless. It seemed so unfair, and even – sad – for him to go out that way, after coming through so many battles so impressively.

The truth was – she simply had too much respect for him to stake him now.

But at the moment, she had no intention of letting *him* see that.

She laid a frighteningly strong hand at the back of his neck again, tipping his head forward as she leaned in to speak close to his ear, feeling him tense under her touch, at her sudden nearness, as she said softly, “We’re gonna untie you now. And you’re not gonna try anything – are you? Cause I’d hate to have to hurt you.”

She was surprised – and a bit disappointed – when he shook his head, indicating that he would obey. Then, he replied in a voice of quiet mockery, “No, I rather think you’d bloody well love it, pet. But I think I’ll wait ‘til I can hurt you back!”

Buffy was surprised at the relief – and almost…*affection* -- that she felt at his continued courage in the face of her power over him. Honestly, she had not expected any less from him.

She kept her oppressive grip on the back of his neck as Xander reluctantly untied the ropes that held him to the chair. Once he was free, she pulled him up to his feet, reminding him quietly, “You can’t get away. Don’t even try it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of giving you the pleasure, Slayer,” he smirked, in spite of the fear rising up inside him.

He was absolutely, utterly helpless against her. He knew he couldn’t fight her; that would only result in further pain and humiliation when his chip fired. He would never get in a second blow. And the way she was behaving was leading him to believe that whatever she had planned for him for this evening, it was *not* going to be pleasant.

He was caught off guard when she grabbed his arm and shoved him into the wall, not very hard, but with enough force to remind him who was in control at the moment.

“Don’t move,” she ordered, and he didn’t, as his arms were pulled behind his back by someone else’s hands – until he felt a metal ring close around one of his wrists, and realized with a sense of panic that he was about to be bound again.

His mind raced with the implications. He had been loosed from the chair, but he had been blindfolded and now they were chaining him up again. They meant to take him somewhere, and did not want him to be able to offer any resistance or even know where they were going.

That could only mean that the Slayer intended him serious harm once they got there. And it had to be more than a staking – which would have been bad enough – because that, she could have done here, which a lot less trouble. He had no idea where they planned to take him.

All he knew was that he could not let them take him there.

He suddenly jerked his left wrist out of the grip of the person behind him, who let out a startled little cry and staggered back a step or two, as he simultaneously slammed his elbow into the ribcage of the Slayer at his side, causing her to release his arm and double over in pain. At the exact same moment, he spun around, swinging the handcuffs hanging from his right wrist with flawless aim, catching her in the face, sending her stumbling back a couple of steps with a little gasp. He reached for the blindfold that covered his eyes, heading already toward the door.

And in that moment, the chip caught up with his lightning fast movements.

A powerful jolt of fiery agony punished his defiance, tearing through his head with vicious intensity, and he dropped to his knees with a moan of pain, holding his head, the blindfold, his desperation for escape – forgotten, swallowed up in agony.

Buffy straightened up, holding her bruised ribs with one hand, her other rising to wipe the blood from her face where the handcuffs had cut her, staring at the blood on the back of her hand in surprise, as a slow smile spread across her face. If Spike could do this much damage while chipped…

This was going to be quite a fight.

She frowned, puzzled. *And why does that seem like a *good* thing to me?*

Xander, stunned and outraged by the unexpected violence from the supposedly harmless vampire, started toward him with a bitter, angry look on his face, drawing back his foot to aim a vicious kick at his ribcage, heedless of the fact that he was still reeling from the pain of the chip.

Buffy noticed just in time, her eyes widening in alarm, and pulled Xander back before his foot could connect. “Xander,” she said quietly. “no.”

“He hurt you, Buffy! I thought the whole reason you were letting this worthless little piece of shit live was because he *couldn’t* do that!” Xander spat out the words in hatred, glaring down at the helpless creature with a vindictive rage in his dark eyes.

“*No*,” Buffy repeated again firmly, a warning in her voice as she pushed her friend gently behind her, away from Spike, before crouching down beside the suffering vampire, helping him carefully to his feet.

He was still shaking, gasping for unnecessary breath through the pain, as Buffy pulled his wrists behind his back and locked them into the cuffs, not wanting to risk another incident like the last. This time, he did not resist, still weakened and disoriented by the aftershocks of the chip’s assault.

He had completely missed the little exchange that had passed between Buffy and Xander, but he could smell the powerful aroma of the Slayer’s blood – knew that he had somehow managed to hurt her – and expected her own punishment to follow at any moment.

He was surprised when her hand touched him, not in violence, but as a steadying support under his elbow, as she led him toward the door. “I guess I don’t have to tell you how very *not* smart that was, do I?” she said, and there was an odd gentleness to her voice.

It only added to his anger with her. “I’m going to make you pay for this, Slayer,” he informed her in a low growl.

He could hear the surprised indignation in her voice as she replied, “Hey! That was *not* my fault! You’re the one who decided to go all kamikaze on me, so don’t blame me!”

“I *do* blame you, Slayer,” he said in a quiet, deadly serious voice, as they stepped out into the night air.

He wondered briefly if anyone was around, knew that if there was, he could cause the Slayer a hell of a lot of trouble by calling attention to the fact that she was leading a man about bound and blindfolded against his will. But then, he thought about the potential negative effects of that sort of action, if there did *not* happen to be anyone around to help him – and decided it was not worth the risk.

And then, he understood the reason for the blindfold.

“For what?” Buffy demanded, her voice rising slightly in pitch on the last word, in a way that made her sound very much like a petulant child.

To her surprise, the vampire laughed – a soft, bitter sound – before he replied quietly, “Everything.”


“Buffy, are you *sure*?” Giles turned around in the driver’s seat to face his Slayer, who had ridden in the back with Spike.

After all, car doors were not human, and kicking one out would not activate Spike’s chip. They both knew that the vampire could easily survive a tumble from the car, if he should choose to take that route.

Buffy figured it was better not to give him the option.

“I’m sure, Giles,” she said impatiently, as she got out of the car, pulling Spike along after her, helping him to get out of the vehicle. “You can go, Giles!” she urged him when the older man did not seem inclined to move the vehicle. “We’ll be back later.”

The implication of the words was not lost on the attentive vampire. She had said “we” – so she did not intend to dust him, then. He was not sure if that was a relief or not. He *did* feel a sense of relief at the knowledge that it was just the two of them. No paranoid, over-eager Scoobies to get him unnecessarily hurt. Just him and the Slayer. And Slayers, he could deal with.

At least – he could have – before the chip.

He heard the sound of a door being opened, and suddenly his sense were assaulted by the powerful, familiar smell of -- *family*. He thought hard, trying to figure out where he was, what place they could be that would smell so strongly of…

Suddenly, his attention was focused on more important things, as he felt the Slayer’s hands on his wrists, turning a key in the cuffs, and the next moment – he was free. He felt her hands suddenly near his face, though he couldn’t see her, and he jerked back instinctively, fighting off panic when his back encountered the wall. He knocked her hand away from his face when she reached for him again, wincing at the small current that shot through his head in warning response to his small act of violence.

“Easy,” she said softly, soothingly, as she reached up again to remove the blindfold from his eyes, and this time he did not resist. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

He scoffed at her as he opened his eyes, allowing them to adjust to the dim light. “Like you’d bloody ca…” His words trailed off as he realized where they were.

The old mansion, where he had spent so long, with Dru – and Angelus.

He looked back at her with suspicion. “What is this, Slayer?” he asked quietly.

She shrugged, with a small, nostalgic sort of smile. “Just thought this might be a good place to do this.”

“To do *what*, exactly?” he slowly asked her, searching her guarded eyes.

She was quiet for a moment, looking down, before she suddenly met his eyes again, an odd little smile on her face. "You've caused quite a bit of trouble for me and mine, Spike -- and I don't intend to tolerate it anymore."

A smirk crossed his face as he looked up at her, derisive despite the fact that he knew he was defenseless against her. "So that's it, then? You mean to beat the bloody daylights out of me and hope I fall in line? Not bloody likely, Slayer!"

"*If* I beat you -- you *will* fall in line," Buffy corrected him, a certain hardness coming into her eyes that sent a chill down his spine. "I'm challenging you, Spike. I believe you know how it works. If you can beat me -- well -- then I'm pretty much screwed," she said with a small smile, which faded as she added, "But if I beat you -- then *you* will submit to *me*, Spike."

His eyes widened in recognition at her words, a sick feeling settling over him as he realized the ritual that she was talking about. How the bleeding hell had the *Slayer* found out about it? But that was a soddin’ foolish question – from the Watcher, no doubt. He’d have to think of a special way to *thank* old Rupes for contributing that little piece of information, later.

Providing he didn’t become a bloody slave to the Slayer tonight.

“But,” he began cautiously, hating the uncertainty in his voice. “the ritual can’t apply in this case, Slayer. Because I can’t fight you. So – you can’t technically challenge me.”

Her knowing smirk, not at all surprised by his words, made him feel even sicker as she took a step toward him, effectively eliminating any distance between them. She glanced down at her watch speculatively for a moment, before she looked back up at him appraisingly.

“Hit me,” she said softly.

He stared at her for a moment in silence before speaking slowly, cautiously, as if afraid she had lost her mind. “Come again, love?”

“Hit…me,” she stated slowly and emphatically, her eyes shining with a secret triumph.

Thinking he understood, he averted his eyes, angry and embarrassed. “Now, that’s just bloody cruel, Slayer. You know bloody well I can’t, if you’re trying to prove a point, trying to say how much of a true vampire I’m *not*, well you’ve made your bloody point, now if you’d kindly just sod off and…”

“Spike,” she interrupted him sharply, and he realized with alarm that that strange hardness was back in her eyes. “I’m not kidding. Hit. Me.”

Bloody hell, but the Slayer was a sadistic bint! he thought as he took a deep breath.
She knew very well that what she was asking would cause him extreme pain. But they both knew that she could cause him worse pain than the chip would for a simple light blow, with no real intention to hurt her at the moment.

After all, the more he hurt her, the more he hurt himself.

Reluctantly, he complied with her order, half-heartedly slapping her arm, wincing automatically at the expected jolt of pain from the chip – his eyes widening in disbelief when he felt nothing. He glanced quickly at her, cringing exaggeratedly with a hand to his head, thinking it might not be wise to let her know just yet what he had just discovered.

She laughed softly. “I know it didn’t hurt you, Spike,” she informed him. “So you can drop the act.” She paused. “I *made* it so it wouldn’t hurt you.”

He stared at her, uncomprehending, shaking his head slightly.

“That was the spell that Will did.” She laughed again. “Oh, it’s not permanent…that’s for sure. But for the next six hours or so…you’re chipless.”

He looked away from her for a moment, trying to wrap his mind around the impact of what she was saying, as she went on talking.

“I knew I couldn’t challenge you if you couldn’t fight back. So I made it so you *could* fight back. And if I win – the chip won’t matter, anyway. Because you won’t be doing any killing or anything like that, with or without the chip. So – do you accept my challenge?”

She looked at him expectantly, waiting as he stared off into space for a few moments, still trying to take it in. Slowly, his head turned and his eyes focused back on hers – and a slow, predatory smile came over his face, his eyes glittering with evil delight, tiny flecks of gold sparking through the crystal blue.

Without warning, he drew back his fist and struck her such a powerful blow that she found herself staggering back up from the ground several yards away, trying urgently to regain her bearings.

Before she could shake off the dizzy feeling enough to even know where either of them were, she heard a chilling triumphant laugh, much closer than she had expected, whirling around to see Spike standing behind her, stalking slowly toward her again.

“Yes, Slayer,” he said softly with a cold smirk. “I accept.”

A cold chill of fear swept through the Slayer’s heart at the look on Spike’s face. For the first time in years, she felt like the prey instead of the predator. As the vampire master that she had deliberately enraged and unleashed – why, again? – began to slowly circle her, a feral gleam in his glittering golden eyes, she began to wonder if she had made a terrible mistake.

*Get it together, Buffy!* she snapped at herself almost frantically. *It’s Spike. You can take him. Just Spike. ‘Chained to Giles’ bathtub’ Spike – ‘helpless, harmless chipped vampire’ Spike – you can do this – you can do this!*

But her desperate self-directed pep talk lost some of its impact at the predatory glint in the eyes of the powerful, confident vampire who was currently stalking her, looking more like “I’ll kill you on Saturday” Spike than any of the other versions she could remember. She had made the mistake of forgetting just how dangerous he could be, and he was clearly as deadly as he had ever been.

She watched him carefully, turning with his movements, well aware that she had worked him into an even greater determination to beat her than he had already felt, and that if she was not careful, she could find herself fighting not for her freedom, but for her very life.

She was beginning to regret pushing and goading him earlier that evening. She had wanted to provoke him into being a greater challenge to her – but she had a feeling now that he would have been a difficult enough opponent if she had left well enough alone.

Why hadn’t she left well enough alone? she wondered desperately.

“So it’s just not enough for you that you’ve destroyed everything that was important to me, everything that was ever good in my bloody unlife, is it, Slayer?” Spike laughed harshly, bitterly, as he edged ever nearer to her, tightening the circle he was pacing slowly around her. “You got the notion in you head that you’d like to make me your soddin’ slave as well, is that it? Well, think again, love! It’s Never. Gonna. *Happen*!”

On the last word, he feinted in toward her, and she ducked back, nearly stumbling over the ruins of some ancient furniture behind her. He laughed again, and she cursed her too-obvious fear, her heartbeat racing as she fumbled -- *fumbled*! – in her waistband for her stake. That was not what she wanted – not what this was about – but if it came to it, she would stake Spike before she would let him kill her.

Or enslave her.

“Is that *another* new fragrance you’re wearing, pet?” he asked her suddenly with an almost pleasant smile – as pleasant as his terrifying demonic visage could ever appear. There was a mocking light in his eyes as he said conversationally, speculatively, looking up toward the ceiling as if in thought, “Smells a bit like – oh, I don’t know…”

His fierce eyes focused back on her as he finished in a deadly soft voice, “Absolute terror.” The smile slowly came back into place as he added, “Love it on you, love…bloody wonderful.”

He paused in his smooth, predatory movements to offer a little shrug. “Personally, I *still* think you desperately need a shag. Wouldn’t hurt you to learn a thing or two – at least from what *I’ve* heard.” He gave her a suggestive smile as he added, “And I’m gonna bloody *love* teaching you – after I thoroughly kick your bitchy little arse!”

The fear in the Slayer’s eyes was suddenly consumed in flames of fury. Her sexual skills – or lack thereof – was quite a sore spot for her lately, and Spike’s bold declaration of his plans for her once he defeated her, in combination with his insulting, derisive words, drove her over the edge.

She lunged at him with a sound that was almost a growl, a primal cry of fury, her stake raised, forgetful of her purpose. He easily dodged her over-extended assault, his laughter only incensing her further as she came to a stop and spun around several yards past where he had been only moments before.

“Now, now, love,” he chided her with a smirk. “Mind your temper. Didn’t think you wanted to dust me. I know I don’t wanna kill *you*.” His smile quirked upward wickedly as he added, “I’d much rather make you do my bloody bidding for the next – well…” Another careless shrug. “…rest of your life.”

She stood there, breathing hard, preparing herself to attack again, and was caught off guard when she saw him slowly morphing out of game face, his hands held up in a gesture that clearly said “wait a moment”.

“I’ll drop mine,” he said in a quiet, serious voice that was all the more dangerous for its softness. “if you’ll drop yours.”

Her eyes widened for a moment, surprised that he would make such an offer. She *was* a bit more of a threat with her weapon in hand, she knew that. But so was he, with his full vampire strength behind his attack. She slowly lowered the stake, suppressing a smile. Without his being in his true form, she knew she was much stronger – and he was out of practice.

Besides, she only needed the stake if she planned to kill him. Which she didn’t.

“Fine,” she said shortly, dropping the stake and allowing it to roll unheeded a few feet away.

He watched it for a moment, bemused, before looking back at her and shaking his head slightly, laughing.

“What?” she asked, irritated, assuming a battle stance, on guard for his next attack – which she was certain she could take. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing much,” he chuckled, still shaking his head. “Just this…” His smile faded as his features suddenly shifted back to reveal his true vampiric nature. “I lied.”

Her eyes widened in disbelief, as self-directed fury came over her that she had been foolish enough to trust him, and she darted down to reach for her stake again, noting with dismay that it was just a bit out of reach.

Before she could get to it, the lightning fast vampire was blocking her path, a smile of triumph on his face. She took a step backward warily as he walked slowly toward her, unhurried. “Big mistake, Slayer,” he said softly. “Dropping your weapon. Mine’s a lot easier to get back than yours is.”

“I’m gonna make you pay for that, Spike,” she practically spat out at him, still backing away, glancing about her for anything that she could use as a weapon. “You tricked me! Even if you do beat me – you’ll always know that it wasn’t a fair fight.”

“Well, what can I say, love?” he smirked. “I’m evil.”

Buffy found suddenly with dismay that her back was to the wall. She knew he was at least nearly as strong as she was, and better armed at the moment, but her only choice was going to be to fight her way back out of the corner and somehow get to her stake. Even if she didn’t actually use the stake, it would at least even the playing field again, giving her a bit of protection if she needed it.

She lashed out with a rapid fire blow to his stomach, doubling him over slightly, and followed up by aiming a second blow at his face. But he once again employed his vampire speed, and caught her wrist before the blow could connect, pinning it back against the wall, raising his other fist to smash down into her face.

He released her wrist, raining down more and more powerful blows upon her, before she could even recover from the first one. He paused, breathing hard, standing over her with an almost jovial smile that said how much pure pleasure he was getting out of the act of beating the crap out of her, and watched as she shook her head, gasping for breath, trying to struggle to her feet.

“You know where I think you made your big mistake, Slayer?” he mused, with a thoughtful little frown, though his eyes still danced with laughter. His smile gradually faded to a serious expression as he answered his own question. “You forgot who you were dealing with.”

Buffy managed to make it to her feet, though she was still winded and battered – and scared out of her mind. She had barely managed to get in a few good blows – and he was ready for more again. “*That* won’t happen again!” she said in a defiant near-whisper of fury, glaring at him with disgust.

“No,” he said softly. “I don’t believe it will. In a few minutes, pet – you’ll be well aware for the rest of your life just who I am – your master.”

The words set her heart to pounding with terror – and she felt a new surge of adrenaline pumping through her. That could not -- *could not* -- happen! He watched in pleased surprise as she steadied herself, eyes flashing deadly fury focused on his. She was weak, and weary – but she was far from giving up.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” she said, her voice lighter than she actually felt, spinning suddenly to catch him in the side with a kick that was more powerful than he had expected, and actually managed to knock him down. “But you’ll have to find someone else to be your little servant and do every little thing you say.” Before he could rise, she pressed her slight advantage, slamming her fist into his face as he rose to his knees, knocking him back again.

“Oh, wait!” she corrected with a frown of mock concern, that quickly turned to a smug smile. “Never mind. You’ll be too busy doing every little thing *I* say!”

“Not bloody likely, pet,” he muttered, staggering to his feet and backing quickly up a few paces, hurrying to put a little bit of distance between them to give him time to recover. It seemed that the Slayer, caught off her guard the first time, was getting her second wind. “You’ll have to dust me first.” He shrugged. “Not that that’s gonna happen, either.”

“We’ll see,” Buffy mused. “Not exactly what I had in mind…but you never know. Keep pressing your luck. You might not end up at my beck and call after all.”

“I’m counting on that,” he shot back, feinting in to the left and then surprising her with a sharp blow to her right that sent her staggering back toward the wall again.

He moved in quickly toward her again, repeating what had worked the first time and not giving her a chance to recover. The blows fell too quickly for Buffy to keep count as she was pressed back again against the wall. One powerful punch knocked her head back against the wall, and she struggled to hold her head up, on the verge of blacking out.

When she managed to open her eyes, Spike was gazing into them, fierce golden eyes searching hers with what looked a bit like – concern? No, she scoffed at her own ridiculous thought. Idiotic delusion brought on by too much trauma to the head. She was suddenly very much aware of how close he was to her, standing in front of her so near that their bodies were almost touching.

She struggled to move away from the wall, needing to put some space between them, and realized that he held her wrists, pinned to the wall on either side of her head. She fought to pull out of his grip, but she was beaten and weary, and he was still strong, having suffered little actual damage in the fight so far.

“Let go of me!” she snarled at him helplessly, though she knew he would not. Her heart sank with despair as she realized how thoroughly he had her, but she tried hard not to show it.

His perceptive eyes took in every detail of her demeanor, her expression. He could hear her heart racing, the intoxicating call of her blood beckoning him from the places where his blows had broken her skin. He could smell the fear radiating off of her, knew that she knew she had lost – and yet, she stared back at him with bold defiance, her mouth set in a line of determination.

If she was going to lose – she was not going to do it crying or pleading or uselessly trying to get away.

She was the Slayer.

There was only dignity for her, even in her defeat.

He found himself suddenly feeling a sense of awe as he stared into her emerald eyes, shining up at him with no lack of fear in their depths, but with a courage that was stunning to him, considering the fate that lay before her. He imagined breaking that courage, beating and humiliating it out of her, forcing her to obey his every command until one day, that confidence, that inherent power – shattered under his will.

It was a sickening thought.

*Bloody beautiful,* the thought came to him unbidden, and his eyes widened in surprise that he should be thinking that about his mortal enemy, now fallen into his hands.

But then, why should he be surprised? he reminded himself, his mind going back to Red’s spell, and how desperately he had wanted Buffy then – the feel of her soft, silky skin beneath his hands, her soft warm kiss on his lips, those defiant, vibrant eyes gazing at him in adoration.

Those eyes widened suddenly, and he realized suddenly the effect that the sight of her, the memories of touching her, were having on him. They were standing so close together that she could not help but feel the pressure of his swelling erection against her thigh.

He watched with a bit of embarrassment – which irritated him, because he was a bloody vampire, damn it! He shouldn’t have been embarrassed! – and then surprise as various emotions passed through her eyes. Surprise – indignant anger – and then, a certain softening in those fathomless green eyes – followed by – longing.

He was stunned when suddenly the fragrance of the Slayer’s arousal came to his senses, unexpected. He held her very life in his hands; the fact that he wanted her in this way would have horrified and sickened many girls, considering his intentions for her.

And yet, the Slayer, his mortal enemy – wanted him back.

*Focus!* he reminded himself suddenly. *Focus, Spike! This is your victory, now take it! Take it now!*

He forced a careless smirk to his lips, shrugging his shoulders as he said, “Well, that didn’t last long. Bloody unsatisfying if you ask me. But it looks like I win, pet.” He lowered his mouth toward her throat, intending to savor the taste of his prize.

Suddenly, the Slayer’s head dipped down with his, her mouth darting into his path, catching his lips with hers in a bold maneuver that stunned him and took his breath away. At first he pulled back a bit, not sure how to respond, but when the Slayer’s hungry mouth only moved forward with him urgently, he found himself responding, leaning further in to deepen the kiss.

His hands left her wrists and went to her waist, pulling her in closer to him, relishing her gasp at the sensation of his bulging desire pressed against her still-covered center. Her hands went around him as well, one at the back of his head, urgently pressing them closer, the other around his waist, moving rapidly up and down his back as they kissed.

Finally, when she was breathless and desperate for air, they separated, staring with a sort of shock into the other’s eyes. He had no bloody idea what was happening here – what sort of a turn this whole thing had just taken – and his eyes searched hers uncertainly.

“Buffy,” he whispered, shaking his head. “What…”

She was staring up at him earnestly, wide-eyed with seeming surprise at her own actions. He watched again as the expression in her eyes changed gradually, running a gamut of conflicting emotions – desire, need for him – followed by a sobering realization of what had just happened between them – shock…and then…

She looked down, breaking the connection, her hands which now rested at his waist slipping back around in front to rest between them at the top of his jeans.

“Spike, I…” she whispered, shaking her head, not looking at him. “I…” She moved one hand to brush lightly across his cheek as she slowly raised her eyes to his again, once again earnest and searching, though somehow – different – than before…

And suddenly, her hand flew back, forming a fist as it did and slamming into his face hard, knocking him a few steps back, and she took her opportunity to spin away from the wall, a soft little laugh humming in her throat, not fully released, as she shook her head with a slow, triumphant little smile, just before she softly finished her statement.

“…can’t believe that actually worked.”

Buffy watched, her heart pounding with adrenaline, her fear swallowed up in the triumph of her trick, as Spike righted himself from the dizzying blow, all the more impactful as it was completely unexpected. She mentally congratulated herself as he stared at her incredulously, the expression in his eyes shifting as she watched, from confusion -- to shock -- to disbelief -- and finally, rage.

"You bloody *bitch*!" he roared at her, lunging for her in his fury.

She easily side-stepped him as he had done to her before, trying hard – and mostly successfully – to keep her mind on the battle at hand, and not on the brief but amazing interlude she had just shared with her opponent. She had been surprised by the evidence of his arousal, as he had held her pinned to the wall -- but even more surprised by the responding desire it had awakened in her.

In that moment when she had realized that he wanted more than her blood or her defeat, her mind had flooded with memories of previous kisses, embraces, all taking place while under Willow's spell -- and then, as his mouth had descended toward her throat, without really knowing why she was doing it -- she had kissed him.

Yes, she knew that she did not want him to bite her, and kissing him made for a very good distraction. But she could just have easily “distracted” him with a knee to the groin, instead of the tender kiss she had chosen. She was trying to keep from admitting it to herself, her mind racing with wonderings even as she kept her eyes focused on her enemy, but the truth was, she had kissed him -- simply because she wanted to.

Afterwards, she could hardly believe what she had done. She felt a sense of shock at her own boldness, as well as at the feelings that that single kiss had evoked. But the fact remained that she was still face to face with a master vampire whose ultimate goal was to make her his submissive little slave -- never mind the fact that the whole thing had been initiated by her to begin with -- so she had taken the opportunity that had presented itself -- and pretended that she had planned it all along.

And now, invigorated by her small triumph, she was in full-on slay-mode, her mind racing several steps ahead in the fight, shrewd and calculating – she felt absolutely unstoppable. However accidentally the situation had come about, she was beginning to think that she could make pretty good use of the situation, after all. Spike seemed to be every bit as angry as she had been before, over his insulting sexual comments -- too enraged to concentrate fully on what he was doing.

And she fully planned to use that to her advantage, and press it as far as she could.

"What did you expect, Spike?" she sneered. "That I would just fall at your feet? 'Oh, yes, Mr. Big Bad Evil Vampire! I'd *love* to be your simpering little sex slave!" She scoffed at him. "Right! Like that'd ever happen!"

The furious vampire came at her again, incensed by her mockery of how he had fallen for her ruse. There was a low, menacing growl deep in his throat as he spoke in a voice that still trembled with anger, but was a bit more controlled than moments before.

"Bloody right it wouldn't! A sex slave has to have at least some idea what she's doing; otherwise she's not worth it. And *you*, Slayer," he sneered. "are *not* worth it!" He paused. "No," he went on. "I don't think I'm going to waste my time. I think I'm just going to drain you dry!”

Buffy felt her temper rising, but this time she knew what he was doing, and she fought it back. She had learned her lesson the hard way, and she had no intention of letting him get to her again like he had before. No, at the moment she was all about making *him* lose his cool -- and make a crucial mistake.

“Maybe you’d better wait to make any judgments on that until you can speak for yourself,” she suggested with a predatory smile. “Just give me a few more minutes,” she shrugged, her eyes glittering dangerously in the dimly lit room. “and you can tell me yourself whether or not I’d be a waste of your time!”

Her sudden burst of confidence was vaguely unsettling to Spike. He could see a difference in the way she was fighting, speaking, responding to his barbs. It was as if she realized that she had underestimated him to begin with, but now she was doing battle on a whole different level, anticipating his movements more quickly – using every bit of the skill and power of the chosen warrior that she was.

He realized that this made things considerably more difficult, and he would have to be at his best as well if he wanted to get out of this free and undead, but he still determined not to let her see that she was getting to him.

“Right,” he drawled with a derisive smirk. “I think I can live without knowing, pet. Honestly, I’m really just not that interested. No, I still think killing you is my best option.” As he spoke, he lunged at her again, aiming a fist for her face.

"I don't think you've *got* any options, Spike," Buffy laughed as he lunged at her again, and she dodged out of his way at the last second, causing him to pass her, grabbing his arm as he did and using his own momentum to sling him into a pillar a few yards away.

She kept her own movements calm and even as she sauntered toward the slightly disoriented vampire who was pulling himself to his feet, bracing himself on the pillar that she had so thoughtfully positioned behind him. "Pretty soon," she went on with a smirk, "your only option at all is going to be to make -- me -- happy!"

With those words she came at him again before he had time to recover, attacking him with a series of powerful punches, keeping him trapped between her and the pillar, and not giving him enough time to get in any blows of his own. He felt a rising sense of alarm at the fury and power of her assault, which seemed to be increasing with every blow.

When she stopped, he was holding one arm across his ribs, struggling to straighten back up. She did not give him time to, moving in quickly with a brutal backhand punch that knocked his head back into the wall, followed by a roundhouse kick to his stomach that dropped him to the ground, breathless.

"Guess I picked up a trick or two from you, after all, Spike," she smirked, a strange almost feral gleam in her glittering green eyes. "Don't give your opponent any breathing room. Thanks for the lesson."

He came to rest on his knees for a moment, still dizzied by too many blows to the head, and watched her warily as he struggled back to his feet as quickly as he could, only to lean back against the pillar for support, gasping for breath. She moved in closer, her eyes narrowed with a dangerous, predatory light as the Slayer closed in on her prey.

"My pleasure, pet," he gasped out finally, giving her a cool smile in spite of his apparently bad situation. "Got one more lesson for you, though."

"Oh, yeah?" she smiled coldly, her expression and tone saying that she was quite confident by this point in her ability to end this fight quickly. "What's that?"

Instantly his breathless gasping ceased, and he raised his head, meeting her gaze with a sharp, predatory smile. "I don't *need* breathing room," he informed her softly, delivering a lightning fast punch to her face that knocked her back a bit, then moving away from the pillar and spinning around to land a vicious kick to her back that dropped her to the ground on her stomach.

Buffy fought off panic, allowing her deepest instincts to take over, rolling onto her back with her arms out defensively in front of her, her fists ready, just as Spike leapt upon her, struggling to pin her to the ground and subdue her.

It was the thought of submission that infuriated her on some deeper level. She was more than just a girl being attacked; she was the Slayer, the Chosen One. She was strong, powerful, and more than capable of defeating any enemy that came her way.

With these thoughts that flew through her mind, and a fresh surge of adrenaline born of her desperate situation, she suddenly felt a rush of primal power coursing through her body, and she knew -- *knew* -- that she could win this.

Spike was laughing, holding her arms down across her chest, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. Her eyes widened when she realized that the fight had him more aroused than ever – and then narrowed in outrage and defiance. He saw her reaction, his eyes narrowing with satisfaction as he slowly ground down against her once, leaning down to whisper near her ear.

“Still think I’m bloody neutered, Slayer?”

She gasped at the sensation of her body’s automatic reaction to his touch, and the low, seductive tone of his voice. Once again, she was stunned at how badly she actually *wanted* his touch.

And yet, she felt an overwhelming sense of rage overcome her, her inner Slayer rebelling at being touched in such a dominant, overtly sexual way by the demon that she had come here to wrestle into submission.

With a quick upward thrusting motion, she slammed her elbow up into Spike’s chin, snapping his head back and making him loosen his grip on her, and then took her advantage to reverse their positions, straddling his hips and gripping his wrists, pinning them over his head.

He fought to free himself from her grip, finding it difficult with the lack of leverage, but his wrists still edging up from the ground in her hands as he tried, their arms locked together trembling with their combined effort. Her face was mere inches from his, her sparkling green eyes narrowed in a calculating look, somewhere between menace and seduction.

When she thought back on it, Buffy would not immediately understand what had possessed her to do what she did next. She was not even aware that she was going to do it as she went into action, her body moving with the impulses of her inner Slayer, as opposed to those of the naïve, self-conscious girl that she was most of the time.

Much to the surprise of her opponent beneath her, Buffy began to slowly bear down in a circular motion on his bulging erection, some powerful, primal instinct telling her that this was the way to overcome the creature she was striving with – to place him at her mercy.

She smiled in sly satisfaction when he gasped, throwing back his head involuntarily, his struggles against her restraining hands weakening for a moment and his wrists falling back to the ground – as the Slayer in her had known that they would. “Hmmm,” she murmured, a throaty sound that was almost a purr as she leaned down so close that her lips brushed his ear. “Maybe not.”

“I – don’t…” he gasped out, trying to come up with a coherent statement, stunned and overwhelmed with feeling as the Slayer brought his wrists together over his head, holding them with one hand, freeing the other to slip down to the front of his jeans, slow, expert fingers rubbing around the head of his erection, driving his desire even higher.

Spike struggled to make himself think through the powerful sensation of the Slayer’s hand and body against his, moving not like a self-conscious, inexperienced college girl, but like the most dangerous siren he could imagine. He knew she was luring him to his doom.

Still, he could not resist her.

Still – he tried.

“No,” he whispered. “Stop…”

Instantly Buffy ceased all motion, raising her hips up off of her rather incapacitated quarry, resting on her knees, hovering over him, moving her hand up to grip his wrist again, as she leaned up close to his face, kissing his throat a couple of times, slowly, seductively.

She pulled back, her voice a low husky murmur, to whisper, “You want me to stop?”

His body ached with the loss of her touch, which had both eased the agony of his need and driven it deeper into him. “No,” he gasped almost without meaning to. “No…don’t stop…”

The Slayer’s low, predatory laugh sent both chills down his spine and a rush of heat through his body, at the intentions that that laugh betrayed. Her hand obligingly returned to his aching erection, stroking him firmly through his clothes, and he left out a low moan of pleasure. There was a reason why he wasn’t supposed to be enjoying this. Why wasn’t he supposed to be enjoying this?

It did not seem to matter. He closed his eyes, losing himself in the sensation.

Buffy leaned down close to his ear, her hot breath sending a shiver down his spine as she whispered in a gloating tone of triumph, “You are making this so…easy…”

His eyes suddenly snapped open, her words bringing the gravity of the situation back with blinding clarity. Buffy realized her mistake when his struggles renewed in earnest, and he managed to jerk one arm free, backhanding her off of him with a powerful blow and landing quickly on top her again.

His eyes were still hazy with his need for her – but he did not mean for that to be a problem for long. His slow smirk spread across his face, even as he tried to catch the breath he did not need, looking her in the eye to say softly, “You almost had me there, Slayer.”

She smiled back up at him lazily, her demeanor unshaken by the reversal of their positions. “Who says I still don’t?” she countered.

“Gotta say,” he said with a little half shrug, gripping her wrists in a mimickry of the position she had held him in. “You’ve just about changed my mind pet. Don’t know if you’re worth a second go – but I’ll take a first.”

The Slayer’s smiling eyes narrowed and darkened dangerously, and she raised her knee quickly between his legs – not too hard; after all, she didn’t want to ruin the rest of her plans for the evening – but enough to be painful against his over-sensitive manhood. He gasped in pain, and she felt his grip loosen on her.

It was enough for her to break it, slamming her fist across his face again, and toppling him back off of her. She grabbed him again, pinning him down before he could recover, and then rubbing her thigh roughly over his erection, causing him to groan with mingled pain and pleasure at the contact.

She leaned in close to whisper in his ear, seeing the effect she was having on him and taking her chance, “Had enough?”

He fought to open his eyes, gradually bringing them to focus on her in a lascivious grin as he gasped out, “Hardly, love.”

The Slayer felt a surge of anger at her power being defied, and increased the pressure slightly, watching as his eyes rolled back slightly just before he closed them. “I think you have,” she smirked. “You know you’ve lost. I win. Just say it.”

He did not open his eyes, light-headed, panting for breath by now, but his smile still returned as he whispered, “Never, pet. Sorry. And you can’t win – if I don’t – say it.” His words came out in gasps for air, but still held an infuriating note of triumph.

She knew he was right – and it enraged her. The main point of the whole exercise was for him to acknowledge her authority. She could beat him and screw him six ways to Sunday, and if he refused to acknowledge her – it would be meaningless.

“Well, then,” she said with a cool smile. “I guess you’d better start talking, hadn’t you?” As she spoke, she applied more pressure with her knee, eliciting a soft moan that could have been of either pleasure or pain – or both. “Say it,” she whispered in a harsh, demanding tone by his ear, jerking her knee up harder, while still careful not to do any *real* damage. “I win – right?”

She was surprised – and elated – when the vampire beneath her nodded slowly. She froze, her eyes widening in disbelief. Was he really conceding defeat? Had she really won so easily? “Right?” she repeated, wanting to be sure it was not just a fluke.

“Right,” he whispered, nodding again. “Right.”

The stunned, elated and disbelieving college girl came to the forefront for a few moments in Buffy’s excitement, still not comprehending completely what had just happened, only that she seemed to have come out victorious.

*I won? I really won?* she thought with joyous disbelief, as she backed up and climbed off of her conquered foe…

Completely missing the almost imperceptible soft smile that crossed his lips.

Spike kept his eyes closed for a few moments as the Slayer slowly backed off of him, his mind racing, trying to decide exactly what to do next. She had caught him off guard, with the sudden power of her attack, gaining the upper hand, and preventing him from getting it back by employing the very sexual skills he had taunted her about, claiming that she lacked.

Apparently – he had been wrong.

It had not taken him long to realize that if things kept going the way they were going, he was going to lose himself to the Slayer – in more ways than one. If she kept insisting that he concede defeat, using the techniques she had been using, he was not sure how long he would be able to hold out.

He had used the vague, half-hearted agreement to her demand in an attempt to gain a little space, half-expecting it to fail, and for her to immediately demand a more complete answer. After all, she should know that he had to give her more than the “right” he had given her, in order for the ritual to be effective. He had to actually accept her authority over him.

It would not take much. A simple “you win” or even a “yes”, in response to the right question from her – but it had to be a clear and direct acceptance of her victory.

Apparently, the Slayer did not know the ritual as well as she thought she did.

This could work out well, he began to think with cautious optimism. If she thought that she had won already – that he was already under her control – she would let her guard down in some way, and he would be able to take back the victory. All he had to do was play along until she did.

He slowly opened his eyes, looking warily up at her as he raised his body up on his elbows, trying very hard to keep any trace of laughter from his expression at her wide-eyed surprise. She had to keep believing that he had already lost to her.

*Now how would I react if I’d lost to the Slayer?* he wondered.

That thought was certainly no help in the straight-face-keeping department. He almost laughed out loud -- *Like *that* would ever happen!* -- and that would never do. He knew beyond all doubt that of all possible reactions, that would be the least convincing.

“What’s funny?” the Slayer suddenly demanded, a cold, soft sound to her voice that sent an odd shiver through him as he looked up into suddenly blazing emerald eyes, glaring down at him fiercely with a penetrating gaze.

The naïve girl, surprised at her sexual victory, had vanished. In fact, he had never seen the Slayer look quite like this before. Everything about her exuded power – and desire. There was a smoldering look of intense arousal mingled with the triumph in her eyes – and it only made him want her more.

As he watched, she arched one brow in a dangerous question, reminding him that he had yet to answer her.

“Nothing,” he said, breaking eye contact, not wanting her to read anything suspicious in his gaze – and not really remembering what had been funny now, anyway.

He slowly started to get up – and was instantly slammed back down on his back by a powerful foot on his chest, pinning him down. He looked up at the Slayer again in surprise – and his jaw went slack at the sight of her long, shapely leg, leading up to her very short, very tight red leather skirt. The sensation of desire he felt for her deepened as the scent of her arousal came to him that much stronger from between her parted legs.

“Did I tell you to get up?” she asked in a soft voice, and he looked up to see a smirk turning up the corner of her mouth, her eyes dancing with amusement, but hard with power.

Defiance swept through him, but he struggled to hold it back. After all, at the moment, she held all the good cards in her hand – but he *did* have a plan. He did not want to act rashly and ruin it. If he attacked now and she managed to get the upper hand again, all would be lost. She had already proven at least once in this fight that she would not fall for the same trick twice.

And he had already proven that he would.

He looked away, shaking his head, trying to appear submissive and contrite. “No,” he whispered.

He felt the pressure on his chest relieved as she removed her foot and said in that same unsettling voice of soft authority, “Get up.”

Breathing hard with a strange mixture of fear, anticipation, and desire, he climbed slowly to his feet. There was no denying it; he wanted her desperately by this point. But he knew that she wanted him to. And if he played his cards right, he could go along with what she thought was the symbol of her victory, right up until the very end, and then turn the tables on her when she would be at her weakest, in the throes of passion.

He would bring the Slayer to her knees.

But it was a dangerous game he was playing, and he knew it. There was a very strong chance that the very same desire he saw in her eyes, the weakness that he planned to use against her, could be *his* downfall instead.

He just had to keep a certain measure of con…

*Bloody hell!*

Without warning the Slayer quickly closed the distance between them, shoving him forcefully back against the pillar behind him, one tiny hand moving between them to stroke slowly up and down the length of the swelling bulge in the front of his pants.

He gasped at the sudden contact, feeling his legs go weak at the overwhelming sensation of pleasure caused by her touch, so much stronger and bolder than any mortal woman’s should have been.

She smiled at his reaction. There was none of the self-doubt or insecurity in her eyes now that he had seen when he had mocked her earlier. The Slayer knew that she was the one with the power now. “You like that?” she whispered in a low, seductive voice.

He was not acting when he nodded quickly, breathless. “Yes,” he whispered. “Yes.”

A quiet voice in his head – quieter by the moment – warned him to caution. *Careful what you say, mate – mind your words – the wrong one could lose you the bloody game in an instant.*

But “yes” in response to what she had just asked him was okay, he reassured himself mentally. It was safe. He was still in control. All she had said anyway was -- *what* had she asked him again? he wondered, as her fingers slid as far beneath his erection as the taut fabric of his jeans would allow, and he let out a low groan of pleasure before he could stop himself.

The Slayer’s low, throaty laugh only intensified his need, as she put her other arm around him, pulling him into a kiss as she pulled him away from the pillar and started backing him up across the room, her hand still working at the front of his jeans, expertly driving him to a greater intensity of desire.

*Gotta stay aware – gotta stay in control…* he reminded himself, as she steered him toward her destination, unknown to him. But he did not open his eyes, just returned her kiss urgently, unthinkingly, as they moved through a doorway into the next room.

He felt the backs of his knees hit something soft but unyielding, struggled for a moment to stay upright, but then fell onto his back as the Slayer pushed him down. The kiss momentarily broken, he glanced around quickly and saw that he was lying on the old iron-wrought four post bed in the master bedroom, though the Slayer had made the bed up with fresh silk sheets for the occasion.

The very bed he had once shared with Dru.

Before she had abandoned and betrayed him, for his “emotional unfaithfulness”.

As he looked up into the Slayer’s glittering green eyes, narrowed and almost feral in their lust for him – he wondered if Dru had not been right all along.

Suddenly, the unexpected loss of Buffy’s touch drove all thoughts of Dru from his mind, as he let out a soft warning growl that was almost instinctive, calling her hands back to their work – and was immediately alarmed when he realized what he had done. Would that give away to Buffy that he was not really under her control?

The Slayer did not seem surprised by his reaction, but she shot him a hard look through narrowed eyes, and he almost could have sworn that he heard an answering growl low in her throat. Either way, the menace of her reaction was enough to silence him for the moment, as Buffy’s hands caught his wrists, raising them above his head.

He did not realize what she was doing until he felt cold iron lock around one of his wrists, and looked quickly above him with alarm. She already had him bound to the bed at one wrist, if not completely restrained. Getting the upper hand again would be impossible if he did not have the use of his hands at all!

Of course, she already thought she had won, so he knew that at any rate, he would not be in any danger of being forced into submission to her, as long as he watched his words carefully – but he would not be able to truly bring *her* into *his* power, either, if he did not have the freedom to overpower her at all.

Buffy saw the look of near-panic on his face as his wide eyes met hers again – and froze. He could tell immediately that she had misread the reason behind his reaction to the chains – fortunately – as he saw a sick, uncertain look come to her face for just a moment – the girl overpowering the Slayer briefly.

He was surprised by the horrified realization in her whispered voice as she said, “You don’t want this. Me. Do you?”

The fact that she was even asking was a wonder to him in itself. The girl had initiated a bloody vampire dominance ritual, for Pete’s sake! Did she think it *mattered* what the loser wanted in a situation such as this? It didn’t make any difference – and that was kind of the point. She was kind of *supposed* to force her will on him – though she did not know that she wasn’t forcing him, not really.

But the look on her face made it clear to him that the thought of forcing herself on him was repulsive to her.

Up until this point, he realized, his obvious desire for her had kept it from sinking in for her just exactly what it was she was doing. His fear at the introduction of the chains, however, had brought reality back to her with startling speed.

But the truth was – he *did* want her. His body was crying out for her touch, begging her to finish what she had started. Not to mention the fact that getting her in the throes of passion was his best chance to actually *win* this soddin’ showdown. No, the actual sex with Buffy was not the problem for him – not at all.

It was the bloody chains that were the problem.

“Yes,” he admitted in a whisper. “Yes, I – I want you…”

She frowned slightly with further understanding, her eyes falling on his manacled wrist. “Just – not the chains,” she realized.

He swallowed hard, realizing that the outcome of this little situation depended very much on his words, and her response, right now. He shook his head slowly, averting his eyes. “No,” he whispered.

She studied his face for a moment, clearly torn. He waited in silence, thinking that he knew what she was thinking. If she had already won, then the chains were really unnecessary, weren’t they? After all, he *had* to submit to her. The act they were engaging in was really only symbolic, according to what she had been told – so she did not need to restrain him, and he would still submit – especially since he wanted her anyway.

He breathed out a soft sigh of relief as she reached above his head and unlocked the cuff around his wrist, then reached her hand back down toward his jeans. This Slayer was turning out to be even more of a pushover than he’d thought. This was going to be a bloody piece of…

His thoughts were cut off as she suddenly took his throbbing member in a grip of iron to rival that of the chains she had just discarded, giving a sharp little tug that made him moan in mingled pleasure and pain.

Not loosening her grip, her thumb pressing in a small, circular motion on the underside of his sensitive manhood, she leaned down close to his ear and whispered in a possessive tone, “Mine!”

He bit his lip to keep from responding, a very dangerous thing at this point. Her touch, the possessive growl in her voice, made him want her so much, it was almost second nature to respond. But even the slightest whispered, “yes” or even worse, “yours” at this point would be to forfeit the game completely.

On the other hand, a complete failure to respond might arouse her suspicions – also very dangerous, with him in this very vulnerable position. He figured that a simple nod was safe, as they Slayer did not seem to understand that it was only valid if he actually spoke the words aloud.

She smiled, a slow, predatory smile, as she continued the slow circular motion with her thumb, increasing the pressure and squeezing slightly with her hand.

“God – Buffy..” he gasped, his arms rising instinctively to go around her.

“Don’t,” she ordered sharply, ceasing all motion of her hand as she did.

He froze immediately with a little whimper at his loss, his hands slowly lowering back onto the bed, his body shuddering with the need she had created, and then withheld from him. He felt an overwhelming sense of frustration as she released him completely, her hands moving slowly to close around his wrists on either side of him, slowly raising them over his head again and holding him there as she whispered,

“Do you want to touch me?”

He nodded urgently, gasping for breath, more desperate by the moment for contact as she slowly raised her body up off of his, hovering over him, so near that he could feel the intense heart radiating off her body, but only actually touching him at his wrists, and where her knees touched his sides.

She looked down to whisper tauntingly in his ear, so close that he could feel her smirk against his skin, her hot breath sending shivers down his spine, “Too bad. You don’t get to touch me, Spike. Not ‘til I say so.”

He was well aware that the situation was quickly spinning out of his control completely. She had driven him to a point of need from which he could not turn back, and yet was holding herself at a distance, not allowing him the use of the only weapon at his disposal at the moment – touch.

He knew that if he could touch her, he could reduce her to a quivering heap of begging, desperate desire in minutes – if she would only allow him the chance. But if he fought her at all now, gave away that he was not under her control, she would know that she had been tricked, and they would be back to fighting again.

And something told him that at the moment – she would have a decided advantage.

Besides, truth be told, ritual or no – he was beginning to think that she already had more control than was good for him. He wasn’t sure he could have resisted her had he tried, at the moment.

“You want me to touch *you*?” The Slayer’s low, seductive voice cut through his thoughts again, sending a rush of desire all through him at her offer – which a part of him was already sure she intended to extend – and deny, again.

Still, he whispered desperately, “Yes…yes…”

She laughed softly, a wickedly gleeful sound, as she brushed her body down slowly across his swollen erection, sending a shock of sensation from his sensitive manhood, all through his entire body, and he shook at the touch, gasping out, “Buffy…God, Buffy…” Without conscious thought he found himself thrusting up toward her, desperate with need for deeper contact.

Instantly the Slayer withdrew herself completely, rising up again, out of his reach, fixing him with a steely glare. “No,” she snapped, and he immediately froze, not daring to move again.

He knew it was just an act, and he was not under her control – well, no more than any man would have been in his position – but there was something in her cold, authoritative tone; in her narrowed eyes, nearly feral with lust for him, that spoke of pure, primal power, older than either of them – some deep thing inside her born of her calling, a power that she could not have comprehended, although she was consumed with it.

“I didn’t say you could touch me!” she informed him in a severe voice that made him flinch in spite of himself.

She paused, then – and her next actions surprised him. She leaned down slowly to kiss his neck, moving slowly inward toward his throat, her head gently pushing his back, leaving his throat bared to her in that most primal of gestures of submission. The hot, most ouch of her lips to the sensitive skin of his neck was driving him wild with need for her – and yet she kept all other contact from him.

“Please,” he found himself whispering, “Please, Buffy – please…”

He felt her lips form a soft smile against his skin, just before she pulled back to look him in the eye. “Please what?” she whispered, teasingly, dipping down just once, allowing her center to brush slowly against the very tip of his erection again.

“Please…Buffy….please…” he gasped, barely able to think for the power of the sensation of her touch.

“What do you want?” she pressed in a whisper of breath near his ear, rising up off him again.

“God, *you*, Buffy! Please! Please, Buffy, I need you! Please!” he babbled almost incoherently, in fevered need for the touch she was tempting him with, but withholding.

Then, slowly, holding his gaze intently as she did, she finally *did* grant his plea, lowering her body slowly down onto his, sheathing him inside her, inch by inch, as she moved her hands down from above his head, pulling his arms around her before wrapping hers around him – unspoken permission to touch.

Touching her…his hands…free…there was a reason why…why that was important…if only…if only he could think! He needed to be able to touch her…because…because… touching her was…

Precisely what he needed to win.

It hit him again, and he gasped as he remembered where he was, what was happening – and what he had to do now. The Slayer only smiled, thinking his reaction was to her touch.

*And now,* he thought through the haze of desire that surrounded him, trying to make his mind focus again on his original goal. *Let’s show the little bint how the game is played!*

Spike wondered through the haze of desire that surrounded him where the young Slayer had learned the incredible moves she seemed to be coming up with so quickly. Oh, he had taunted her, tried to insinuate that she was easy, a slut, with too much experience for her own good. But he knew that in reality, Buffy was anything but that.

Angelus had made no secret of the fact – in fact, had considered it a matter of pride for him – that he had been the first for the innocent, virginal girl that the Slayer had been at the time. And as the Slayer had foolishly tried to keep up that doomed relationship, until the point when the Great Poof had left town over the summer – well, Spike was no fool.

He had enough experience in relationships and reading people to know that the college boy who had recently deceived and hurt her had been nothing more than a rebound weakness from the pain of Angel’s leaving. He highly doubted that the Slayer had any sexual experience at all beyond those two clueless wankers – and those experiences had clearly been less than confidence-inspiring.

So where in the bleedin’ hell was *this* coming from?

The Slayer had stunned him by taking charge the way she had, grabbing him and throwing him down on the bed, forceful and confident in a way he had never imagined that she could be. Of course, she was under the mistaken impression that he was completely under her power already, and could not resist her if he tried.

That alone would inspire extra confidence in most people.

But there was a primal grace in her every move, a sense of power that seemed to go beyond either of them personally, to something deeper, some inherent part of her nature that she had probably not known even existed before today.

His demon recognized the power that was not Buffy’s alone, but had belonged to every Slayer before him, as the predator pinned her prey down beneath her, and he realized that his situation was far more dangerous than he had previously thought. It was a powerful, breathtaking, terrifying sensation, that loss of control…

And also exciting, arousing, intense…

Spike knew that he should be focusing on getting the victory in this little match. This was his chance to get back the upper hand, to make the Slayer finally see once and for all that he was no one to be trifled with. He could show her that she was not the only one with inherent, natural power.

And yet -- all he could think about was the silken touch of her skin against his, as her hands moved slowly up and down his body, intensifying his need with every expert touch, as she slid her body slowly up and down on his, easing him deeper inside her, and then rising up off of him, over and over again in an act of blissful torture.

*Okay -- get it together, Spike!* he told himself warningly, trying to make his thoughts make sense above the roaring in his ears and the powerful sensations coursing through his body. *You’ve got to do this…you've only got one chance to -- *gah*!*

A rush of desperate desire went through him as the Slayer’s soft lips against his throat turned to tiny sharp teeth, nipping lightly at his sensitive skin in a gesture that should have been playful – though instinct told him it was anything but.

She raised up to look him in the eye through narrowed, desire-darkened eyes that shone with a predatory light. The look sent a shiver of fear down his spine, knowing that he was at her mercy in ways that a master vampire should never allow himself to be at the mercy of a Slayer – at the same time intensifying the need that he felt for her, making him long to possess her as his own, to tame this wild creature that was so dangerously near to taming him.

*Right, then…come on now, mate…get it together…* he told himself urgently, knowing that if he did not get back control quickly, he would never get it back at all.

He caught both of them off guard when he suddenly flipped them over so that he was on top of her, leaning down to tenderly kiss her shoulder, his hands sliding around in front of her, one lightly caressing her left breast, as the other slid down between them to where their bodies joined, his lips edging nearer to her throat.

There was no mistaking the menacing growl that came from the Slayer’s throat, that sent chills down his spine even as he wondered at its source. He had never heard a human girl make a sound like that in all his life and unlife, and it stopped him short – that, and the warning, calculating look in emerald green eyes, as one powerful hand shot up to lock around his wrist, stilling his motion over her breast.

*Don’t let her see…gotta get control…come on, Spike, you can do this…* he told himself, his mouth suddenly dry with a mixture of emotions that he could not have defined by this point if he had tried, as he raised his head and looked down at her, thinking fast. Had to keep the small advantage he had managed to gain.

“Buffy,” he whispered. “Please…I can make this so good for you, Buffy…”

As he spoke, the hand she had not stopped went to work on the most sensitive part of her body, and the Slayer let out an involuntary gasp of pleasure, her head rolling back slightly in spite of her determination to keep the upper hand in this little game.

He smiled to himself for a moment, wiping it from his face in an instant when her eyes opened again and she looked back up at him, clearly struggling to keep control herself. He kept his eyes wide and seeking, and thought to himself as he uttered them that his next words were pure bloody genius.

“Let me please you, Buffy…please…I can make you feel so good…”

The Slayer could not resist the invitation of his words, in combination with his expert touch, and she relaxed with a little moan, pressing his hand back against her breast and releasing his wrist, her hands running up and down his back as he went to work on her long-neglected body.

“Buffy,” he whispered, lowering his lips to her throat, suppressing a smile.

Instantly, one of her hands went to his head, fisting in his hair and yanking his head back hard, as she snarled in a hoarse whisper, “*No*!”

So the Slayer was not quite as lost to the feeling as she appeared, he realized.

*Not yet.*

She was wise enough not to allow her vampire lover to get that near to her throat. Even in her passion, she maintained enough caution to prevent him the possibility of biting her.

*No matter,* he thought with a smile and shrug that he kept only in his mind for the moment. *Soon enough I’ll have her throwing caution to the wind…and then, she’ll be mine!*

He moved his lips to her mouth instead, gently pressing his tongue to her lips, begging entrance which she swiftly allowed, his fingers working with gradually building intensity around her sensitive breast and sodden, aching center, still filled with him. The combined sensation of his fingers and his body inside her was almost more than she could take, and the Slayer through back her head with a strangled little cry of mingled need and the satisfaction of it.

“God…” she whispered. “Spike…touch me…so good…” she gasped.

He allowed himself a smile that she couldn’t see, with her eyes closed as they were, knowing that he was very close to the victory he was seeking. A few more minutes under his hand, and she would forget all about her previous caution. She would be his for the taking.

“Buffy,” he whispered, lowering his head slightly, edging nearer to her throat. “Sweet, pretty Buffy…”

She gasped. “Spike,” she whispered. “Yes…yes…Spike…”

He stared at her, wide-eyed, drinking in the sight of her red, trembling lips – her expression of utter ecstasy. God, he wanted her so bad! He had not even realized how badly he wanted her. He had known for a long time now that he was attracted to the girl, and she to him, but never had he thought that it could ever go beyond that.

Now, the thought of what he was about to do, the thought of making the Slayer his for the rest of her life – in combination with the sheer desperation of need she was expressing for him – she wanted *him*, too – made him long for her, long to make her his and no one else’s – for the rest of her life.

She was beautiful, and powerful, and utterly amazing, as he took in every contour of her face, her body beneath him – and soon…she would be his.

She was so close to the edge now, he knew she was about to reach her peak – and when she went tumbling over the edge, he would seize that moment of weakness and use it to make the Slayer his own.

He thrust slowly inside her, moving in rhythm with the motion of his hand, removing his hand from her breast and daring to place it behind her head, pulling her up into a kiss. He kissed her deeply, intensely, savoring the taste of her, the feel of her body under and around him.

“Buffy,” he whispered against her lips, his voice low and hoarse with need. “Buffy, love…”

“God! Spike…” she replied in a breathy whisper, as his lips slid down from her mouth, down toward her throat again – and she did not object.

Her body slowly rocked with his, her arms sliding slowly over his back, his buttocks, pulling him closer to her, edging nearer to the fulfillment of her need, as his mouth edged nearer to the fulfillment of his desire. She didn’t seem to notice as his lips slowly parted over the throbbing vein in her throat, pulsing rapidly with her accelerated heartbeat.

Cautiously, he sucked gently at her neck for a moment, savoring the sensation as her hot, rich blood rose to the surface under her mouth. He waited a moment, wondering if she would react, would stop him – but her only reaction was to moan softly in pleasure at the sensation.

“Buffy,” he whispered against her throat, his words coming out in a rhythmic chant with the motion of their bodies together. “Want you so bad….gonna make you feel so good, Buffy…gonna make you…make you…” His voice lowered as he parted his lips, his fangs exposed, though her eyes were closed, in the throes of her passion.

“*Mine*!” he growled possessively, without warning, sinking his fangs into her throat, drawing her blood from her body, the powerful taste and sensation nearly bringing about his own orgasm instantly.

Buffy drew in a sharp gasp for breath that was of sheer pleasure at the sharp unexpected shock of sensation – followed by a soft moan, as she felt the blood being pulled from her body.

And then – the powerful feeling of pleasure was followed by – panic, overwhelming fear as she realized that Spike had not been under her control completely. He had somehow managed to fool her, managed to make her think that it was safe – and now, he was turning the tables on her. She fought to think through the fear that was her first instinctive reaction to what was happening.

Her next reaction was quite different.

A savage, primal fury filled her as the Slayer within her reacted to what was happening. This creature that she had already claimed as her own, if not completely, daring to drink from her so freely, to defy and attack her in this way – an overwhelming rage overcame her at the thought.

She could not let this happen.

Her eyes narrowed on a calculating smile. She knew exactly what to do.

An instant later, Spike let out a cry of mingled pleasure and pain -- as without warning the internal muscles of the Slayer’s tight, hot channel contracted around his swollen erection, hard, clutching him in a merciless grip that was both intensely pleasurable, and agonizingly painful.

He couldn’t move an inch – couldn’t pull away, couldn’t thrust deeper into her – he was held helpless in the viselike grip of the Slayer’s body. He realized that he had been found out, and the Slayer was struggling to overpower him, and only drove his fangs in deeper to her throat.

Had to draw…just a little more…weaken her, so she couldn’t….

Her hand rose again to grip his hair, trying to pull his head back again, but he hung on with all the strength he could find within him. Then, she clenched her body around him again, at the same moment yanking back hard on his hair, and in the moment that his grip relaxed with the intensified pain and pleasure sensation that shot through his body, she jerked his head back hard, pulling his fangs out of her throat.

He stared wide-eyed, gasping for breath, into narrowed, feral green eyes glittering with anger and desire. With a calculating little smile, she contracted her body around him again, her smile deepening when he could not hold back a soft moan at the strange exquisite agony that shot through his body, his head falling back into her hand, unresisting, for a moment at the sensation.

When he opened his eyes and looked at her again, she had reversed their positions, and was once again on top of him, her body still holding him fast and pinning him down to the mattress.

“You want to claim me, vampire?” she whispered, and her voice had a sharp edge to it that made him shudder at the sound. Her oddly glittering eyes searched his, a cool smile playing about her lips.

He could not respond – could not find words. The game was lost -- *he* was lost – in the power of the sensations she was making him feel.

She leaned her face down close to his, her smile fading to a hard line, as she said in a low voice of power, “No. I reject your claim, Spike. *No*!”

She paused before she spoke again. “You are mine,” she said in a voice of quiet certainty, her lips inches from his. “Mine…say it…”

Even through the overwhelming sensations that filled his body, that drove him further and further out of control, Spike knew that he could not give in to that command. “No,” he whispered, gasping for breath as she tightened her body around him again. “*No*!” he still insisted.

And what she did next stunned the girl, but not the Slayer, who knew the profound shift of power that was taking place in that moment, and knew what she had to do to make it take place.

Buffy’s hand gripped his hair, yanking his head back and baring his throat to her, and her mouth fell on his throat, strong, blunt teeth clamping onto his sensitive skin with bruising force. He gasped at the pain and shock of it, his hand rising to try to pull her back, but pulled back down and pinned to the mattress as she only bit down harder, harder, until she broke his skin.

She pulled back suddenly, and his eyes widened in shock at the sight of her lips, stained red with his blood. “*Mine*!” she insisted in a possessive growl of menace, some powerful force in her eyes making him look away.

“No,” he repeated, but his voice was weaker – less certain.

Once again her mouth fell to his throat, and he cried out as she began to draw his blood into her mouth, sucking hard and filling her mouth with the warm, coppery fluid that he had just drawn from her own body. The rush of being drank from was something that he had not felt in years, and the feeling overwhelmed him, sending his senses spinning around him and his thoughts fleeing his mind.

When she raised her head again, he was awestruck at the wild power in her expression as she met his eyes fiercely. “*Mine*!” she snarled again, jerking his head back as she did to emphasize the word.

He could not speak; simply looked away, refusing to give in to her. He couldn’t…he just…he couldn’t…

She studied his face for a long moment – and her next words left him breathless.

“I’ve never wanted anyone like I want you, Spike,” she informed him in a voice of quiet intensity, her eyes blazing with need and determination. “And you *will* be mine!”

With those startling words, she sank her teeth into his flesh again, harder than ever, and he felt the rush of painful pleasure at the words and the contact shooting through his body, driving him to the edge of his orgasm. He fought to maintain control, to hold back, a soft moan escaping his lips nonetheless, but she only bit down harder, growling against his skin, “Mine…mine…*mine*…”

Finally, the explosion hit him, and he lost control completely, lost in the blinding release of his orgasm, which spiraled into hers, bringing her to completion as well, as he threw back his head and gasped out in a soft whisper, “Yours…yours, Buffy…yours…” as without his knowledge his face slowly shifted back to his angelic human form.

And the Slayer and the vampire collapsed together onto the bed, each spent with the power of the fulfillment of their passionate need.

Buffy woke up suddenly in the dim stillness of the quiet room, wondering momentarily in her groggy, sleep-addled state at the odd but comfortable form of a body, lying beside her – no, halfway under her – on the bed.

Wait – what bed?

Where was she? She opened her eyes, blinking a couple of times as her eyes adjusted to the faint remaining light from the few dying candles that still glowed around the room. They had been new when she had arrived here – for some strange reason she remembered that much.

She glanced sleepily around the room for a moment before she remembered the much more important fact of where she was. *Oh, yeah,* she recalled. *The mansion.*

She wondered how much time had passed since she had fallen asleep. She wore no watch, and there were no clocks – no electricity – in the old mansion. When she had arrived here with Spike, it had been just a few minutes before eight o’clock, and she knew that the fight had taken a long time.

Not to mention what came after the fight.

Buffy’s eyes widened as she turned her head and gradually focused on the strangely peaceful face of the breathtaking creature sleeping beside her. She wondered that she had never noticed before how absolutely gorgeous he was.

Oh, she had been attracted to him; there had been no denying that, no matter how hard she had tried. But the words that had always come to her mind to describe Spike had been more along the lines of “annoying” or “infuriating”, and it times when she was more honest with herself, “exciting” or “sexy”.

Now, the only word that kept reverberating through her mind was “beautiful”.

Her pensive musings came to an abrupt halt as her eyes fell on the dark, bruised spot surrounded the place where her teeth had broken the skin of Spike’s throat, standing out with glaring clarity on the background of his pale, flawless skin – the mark that she had left there. Unconsciously her fingers rose to touch the tiny puncture wounds, almost healed now, that he had left on her own throat.

Slayer healing had caused them to close up and almost disappear completely, though she knew from experience that she would probably always bear the scar. Still, she knew that the actual injury would be totally gone very soon. She wondered why the wound she had left on Spike’s neck was not healing as quickly, as it should have been due to his own accelerated healing.

Maybe it had something to do with the fact that she had won.

*I won!*

The thought hit her with startling clarity, in a rush of sudden exultation, as a slow smile spread across her face at the realization. It had been quite a challenge, and she had almost lost several times. Spike had managed to deceive her into believing that the challenge was won before it actually was, and she had nearly allowed him to defeat her – to claim her. But at the very last moment, just before it was too late, she had managed to regain control.

She had won.

And the gorgeous, flawless creature on the bed beside her, the one she found herself desperately wanting even now, was her prize.

Her mind raced – and her heart was not far behind – at the memories of all that had happened during the previous hours between her and the vampire she had taken as her own. She had done things that night that she had not even known were possible until that night – and that she would not have ever considered actually attempting, had she known.

*What came over me?* she wondered, her face coloring with an odd mixture of mild shame – and fresh arousal. *What ever possessed me to make me do – those things?*

A part of her was aghast at the daring, sexually aggressive manner in which she had behaved, taking control and taking what she wanted from Spike, who had fortunately turned out to be a very willing partner in the whole affair – aside from the whole “submission to Buffy” thing.

But the greater part of her felt a surge of pride at the revelation of the power she had not known she possessed – the primal instinct that seemed to have taken over and guided her actions of the night before. Buffy had been sure at the beginning of the night that she had no idea how to go about the whole “domination” thing.

Yet, on some deeper level, some basic part of her had known exactly what to do.

She had somehow managed to delve into the natural, inherent power that was a part of her as the Slayer, and she had used it to bring the dangerous, wild creature that she had never been able to tame or defeat, into her control. She had not consciously thought about the things she had done; they had just felt right at the time. She had just somehow *known* what she had to do to accomplish her goal. Her eyes widened, her expression sober.

She had bitten him.

She, the vampire Slayer, had bitten a vampire. How had she known to do that? How had she known that that was the action that would bring about his submission? And *why* had that act been what had finally overwhelmed him to the point of giving in?

And why did she want to do it again?

One little worry kept nagging at her, however, about the way that things had happened. Anya had told her that the sex between her and Spike was supposed to be symbolic, an act to signify that he had *already* submitted to her. And when she initiated it, she had believed that to be true.

But she had found in the middle of the act itself that he had never really submitted to her at all – not at that point – when he had attempted to claim her as his own. He had only submitted to her when she had forcefully overpowered him, delivering a claiming bite and demanding his acceptance of her claim, in the midst of their union, at the very last possible moment.

She wondered what sort of effect, if any, that might have on the results of the ritual.

She would have to talk to Anya about what had happened later. Anya was not exactly the revered scholar of the group, but she *was* an ex-demon with centuries of experience and knowledge in matters of this nature, and she would probably know more about it than Buffy did, that much was for sure.

Besides – there was no way in the world that she was going to talk to *Giles* about this!

The thought of her Watcher reminded her suddenly that her friends were probably in a state of panic by this point, worrying about her. They had know way of knowing – thankfully – just how everything had turned out. All they knew was that the ritual involved her fighting Spike, while his chip was out of operation, and he was able to hurt her. She had been alone with him, in this old mansion, for hours, with no one to help her should he manage to get the upper hand.

She had given them strict orders that they were not to come near the mansion, and Anya had sworn that she would make sure those orders were obeyed. Buffy did not want her friends coming to “rescue” her and being accidentally scarred for life by the revelation of the ritual’s true nature, and all that it entailed.

She had promised to call each and every one of them and let them know she was all right as soon as the ritual was complete, but she had not counted on the apparently mystically induced heavy sleep that had come upon both her and Spike upon the completion of the ritual.

Anya had forgotten to mention that part.

And now, she had no idea what time it was, how late it had gotten while she had been dead to the world. But however late it was – she was sure that her friends would still be awake.

It was a wonder to her that they had not turned up here anyway, regardless of her orders, if it was anywhere near as late as she thought it was.

She had to find a phone.

She climbed carefully off the bed, feeling the oddly affectionate desire not to disturb Spike, smiling softly at him as she rose to her feet, staring down at him for a few moments longer.

*God, he’s gorgeous!* she thought again with a tenderness that was startling to her.

She was amazed at the strange new emotions she was feeling for him now, after the ritual. She had expected nothing more than a sense of power, at knowing that he was under her control, and satisfaction, at being able to finally stop his constant annoyances any time she felt like it.

What she had not expected was the powerful feeling of possessive affection – the thrill and joy of knowing that he was hers, and the need to protect – and the desire that was at an almost desperate level now, far greater than it had been before the ritual.

Just another thing that she would need to ask Anya about.

Silently, she made her way into the next room, where she had left her jacket, and her cell phone in the pocket. She pulled it out, fumbling a bit in the darkness, until she managed to push a button and get a bit of light. She was relieved to see that it was only a little after midnight.

She quickly dialed Giles’ number, and waited as it rang – only once.

“Buffy?” his urgent voice greeted her before she said a word.

“It’s me,” she whispered. “I’m okay.”

“Oh, thank heaven!” Giles breathed out the words, his relief obvious. “I’ve been worried sick, Buffy. So – everything went as planned? Spike is – no longer a problem?”

“Um…yeah,” she replied, glancing nervously toward the bedroom door. “No problems here. He’s all tame vamp now. Completely under control. I mean, I guess so,” she amended with a thoughtful little frown. She was really speaking on assumption, as Spike had not yet awakened. “He’s still asleep.”

“Good.” Giles paused for a moment before adding, in a slightly different tone, “Asleep?”

Buffy covered her mouth, her eyes widening in horror at her own slip. “Yeah, um…I knocked him out. Out cold. Like a light,” she explained quickly, cringing at her own weak, awkward wording, thankful that Giles could not see her face, and hoping that he did not notice how nervous she was.

“Oh. Very well then,” Giles replied, and she was relieved that he seemed to accept her words without hesitation. “So – what exactly are you planning on doing with him? Tonight?”

“*What*?” Buffy demanded in a tone of shock. Was her guilt that obvious? What, did she somehow *sound* like a slut now?

“Are you going to leave him there in the mansion? Or bring him back here?” Giles clarified, in a slow, careful tone that one might use with a not-particularly-bright child. “Because I think it’s probably wise not to leave him alone. Not until we’re completely sure that everything has worked out as we expected.”

“Oh,” Buffy breathed a sigh of relief as understanding dawned on her. So she wasn’t caught.

Yet.

“Oh, it’s cool. I brought chains,” she replied carelessly, suppressing a giggle at the knowledge of where those chains were and for what use she had intended them. If Giles only knew…

Thankfully – he didn’t. “Oh. Good, then. So you can chain him up there and come back for him in the morning? Because I really think we should meet Buffy. To discuss your experience and any possible ramifications. And I think you should bring Spike with you. So we can all see the results of your triumph.”

Buffy had absolutely no intention of “discussing her experience” with Giles or anyone else – except maybe Anya. And as for the results of her triumph – the naked, sleeping vampire in the next room with a big, glaring bite mark on his neck – she wasn’t so sure she wanted to share that with the others just yet either.

In fact – she was pretty sure she didn’t want to share at all.

Ever.

None of which thoughts she could express to Giles. “Okay,” she agreed half-heartedly. “I’m really tired, Giles. I’m just gonna go to bed. *Home*! And to bed,” she clarified quickly. “Would you mind calling the others so they don’t freak?”

“Of course, Buffy. Good night,” Giles said, in a voice of fatherly affection. “I’m – I’m quite glad you’re safe.”

Buffy smiled into the phone in spite of herself and her anxieties over Giles and his reactions, once any small part of the truth came out – which it inevitably would.

“Thanks,” she said softly, just before she clicked the phone shut, and put it back into her pocket.

If Giles only knew that she intended to spend the night right here, with Spike, in the very same bed – she knew that he would not be nearly so affectionate, or fatherly, or pleased. She envisioned loud British curse words and threats the likes of which she had only ever heard from Spike before – never Giles.

She shuddered as she walked back through the doorway into the bedroom. It was a good thing he did *not* know the truth – and hopefully never would. She would have to get with Anya and try to figure out just how much of the story to reveal to the guys, and how much to keep secret. And she would have to do it before the meeting tomorrow, because she would have to make sure Spike knew what story to stick to.

She glanced toward the bed with a small smile at the thought of him, wondering if he was awake yet.

And then the smile froze on her face, her eyes widening in surprise – at the sight of the empty bed. She glanced around the dimly lit bedroom – and saw no sign of him. Had he somehow managed to slip past her while she was occupied on the phone with Giles? The only light in the house at the moment was in the bedroom; the living room was dark. It would have been easy for him to slip by her in the darkness.

Had he? Had he left her here? Did he want to get away from her?

She was surprised at the hurt feeling that filled her at those thoughts – and then, by the primal, possessive anger that followed it. She looked around the room carefully for a moment, determining for sure that he was not there, before stepping back out into the living room.

She did not call for him; she knew that he would likely not answer. She slowly peered around the room into the darkness, but could see nothing at all. She did not have the enhanced senses of a vampire.

She did, however, have some other sense, that she had not heretofore possessed. Somehow, she just *knew* -- he was not here. He had left the mansion. She followed the urge that drove her to the front door, looking out into the cool stillness of the night with narrowed, calculating eyes.

Leave her, would he?

No. He would not.

Following the deepest instinct that she possessed, that drove her to find what was hers and bring him back, reclaim him as her own, the Slayer became a predator once more, as she slipped out the front door of the mansion and into the night.

The soft sound of the Slayer’s voice in the next room drew Spike slowly from his sleep, calling to him in some way that went beyond her words, a pull that he could not even begin to explain, in his drowsy state of half-wakefulness. He frowned in irritation before he even opened his eyes. The infuriating bint couldn’t even let him catch a decent nap without somehow interrupting it.

There was not a problem in his whole soddin’ life that he couldn’t trace back to the bloody Slayer!

His fallout with Dru, the bloody chip in his head, the painful wound on his throat…

Suddenly, his eyes snapped open, wide with shock as the memory of the past hours came flooding back to fill his mind. A sense of rising horror came over him as he remembered – the Slayer’s hands, her mouth, her body, urging him closer and closer to the dangerous edge of his control, until finally, she had managed to push him over.

He could still hear her possessive, enticing growl in his ear, *Mine!*

And he had responded.

*Bloody hell!*

He rose quickly from the bed, his mouth suddenly dry with a fear bordering on panic, as he stood there for a moment, listening to the Slayer’s hushed phone conversation in the next room. Her voice was soft and low; apparently she was keeping her voice down in an attempt not to wake him.

She had forgotten to take into account his acute vampire senses.

It sounded as if she was talking to her Watcher, from her nervous, vague explanations, and the tone of her voice that sounded like a little girl about to be punished. As he heard her explain – leaving out certain choice details – how she had managed to subdue him, he felt his anger rising. When he heard her lie to Giles, telling him that she had “knocked him out cold”, his indignation became overwhelming, overpowering his fear completely.

*Lying little chit!* he thought resentfully. *She never even came *close* to beating me in a fair fight! She never would’ve gotten the upper hand at all if she hadn’t tricked me – distracted me – why if she hadn’t have made me lose my focus like she did, I’d have never given in to her, never have said…*

The thought cut off, his eyes widening, and he drew in a sharp, involuntary breath as reality hit him – hard. The reasons why he had done it did not matter. The fact remained that she had stated her claim – and he had accepted it.

Occurring in the very midst of a dominance challenge as it had, he had no idea what sort of effect this particular claim might have. But regardless of whether his single whispered, “yours” had been in response to her challenge or her claim – or both – one thing was certain in his mind, beyond all doubt.

He was utterly and completely, totally and thoroughly buggered beyond all help.

Anger gave way to fear again, as his mind raced with the possible ramifications of what they had done. He had the distinct feeling that whatever it was, it went far beyond “just” a dominance ritual, or “just” a claim – but was something different, some odd mystical combination of the two, the effects of which were still unknown to them both.

But he did not intend to stick around long enough to find out what those effects might be.

The Slayer was still talking in the next room. Silently, he slipped into his clothes from the night before, and cautiously approached the doorway. He could clearly see her, despite the darkness, standing with her back to him, talking softly into her cell phone. She did not notice as he made his way silently past her along the wall, toward the door.

Her eyes were nowhere near as good as his in the dark, and the room was pitch blak except for the faint glow from her cell phone, which did nothing to reveal him to her eyes, clothed all in black as he was, as he edged toward the door, and his escape.

Once he reached the door, he found that he had a new problem. He could not open it and leave without drawing her attention – not while she was standing so near to the door. He waited, breathless, for some chance or opportunity to escape unnoticed, listening to the last bit of her conversation as he did.

His eyes, fully adjusted to the darkness that was their natural element, could see her clearly, though he knew that she still had no idea he was there. Subtle movements of her body here and there, slight nuances of her voice, brought back vivid memories of the night before. Almost against his will, he found himself wanting her again.

He wondered with a sort of sadness, and a fear that went beyond physical pain, to some deep emotional insecurity that had followed him throughout his life and unlife, if she had any idea at all the magnitude of what she had done. The truth was – he didn’t either, not really. She had claimed him, yes – but in the midst of the dominance ritual. He did not really know what that meant; all he knew for certain was one thing.

She had denied his claim.

He had always been more one for action than for study, and most of what he knew about vampire customs and laws was from his years as a fledgling with his “family”.

Once, he had dared to claim Dru, against the wishes of Angelus. She had just giggled and wagged a finger at him as she told him that he was “naughty” and she was only her “daddy’s girl”. When Angelus had confronted him about the claim, emphasizing with brutality and cruelty that both he and Dru were his and his alone, Spike had defiantly declared that it was too late. He had already claimed Dru, and there was nothing Angelus could do to change that.

Angelus had mocked his “ignorance”, telling him that, unreciprocated, his claim was meaningless, and Dru was no more his than she had been before he had claimed her. He had then proceeded to viciously punish his childe’s defiance, and Spike was left believing that Dru’s rejection had made his act of love and devotion meaningless.

And believing that Buffy’s rejection now had done the same.

But that did not make Angelus’ lies true – and it did not make his claim any less valid – then, or now. True, an unreciprocated claim would fade with time, if not returned, and in the end would be of little effect. But that did not make it any less real or powerful, at the time it was made.

But he had no way of knowing that.

As he listened to Buffy tell her Watcher of her plans to leave him here at the mansion, to chain him up and go home for the rest of the night, his hurt was almost a physical pain, though he did not know why. It wasn’t as if he was in *love* with the bloody bint! Yes, he had wanted her, and attempted to claim her in an impulse of desire the night before. But that did not mean that she *really* meant anything to him – or that he should expect to mean anything to her.

So why did her rejection of his claim, followed by her apparent unconcern about the claim *she* had made, hurt him so badly?

So she thought she could just do something as important as claiming him, and then just chain him up and leave him like it meant nothing, did she? Well, he was not going to stick around for that! Not bloody likely!

He waited until Buffy disconnected her phone call and walked back into the bedroom, still completely unaware of his presence in the room with her, and then took the brief chance that might be his only one, as he slipped out the door into the night.

He stopped for a moment, just outside the door, feeling the strange compulsion to go back. It might have been his imagination, but the sore spot on his neck where Buffy had bit him seemed to throb for a moment as he made his decision and stepped onto the sidewalk, heading deliberately away from the mansion.

Claim or no claim, he was not going to allow the Slayer to control him.

She couldn’t control him if she couldn’t bloody *find* him, now could she?

It was time for Spike to leave Sunnyhell behind, once and for all.

As he made his way through the deserted residential streets of the little town, heading toward downtown Sunnydale and, hopefully, some unattended vehicle that he could nick, he tried to ignore his growing unease, the unexplainable desire he felt to go back – back to the Slayer who had claimed him and rejected him in the same night, who wanted to own him, but to be able to cast him aside as she chose.

*No,* he told himself firmly as he moved through the back alleys of the business district, keeping his eyes open for some convenient means of leaving town. *Keep going. Fight it, mate…don’t let her…*

He was so lost in his thoughts, his inner struggle, that he did not sense her presence, did not know she was there, until a powerful hand gripped his arm from behind, slinging him back against the wall with breathtaking force. An instant later, he felt the heat of her body, pressed in close to his, pinning him between her and the wall.

He was not surprised by the defiance that rose up in him in response to her rough, possessive manhandling; or the tingle of fear that went through him at the anger he felt radiating off of her, her rage at his rebellion.

He *was* surprised by the sense of relief that came over him unexpectedly in spite of the other emotions – as if he had been lost, and had suddenly found the way home.

The Slayer’s small hands trailed up his arms to rest just below his shoulders, holding him there against the wall with a strength that was a bit frightening, though he knew that he would be able to break her grip if he tried. Judging by the time frame she had given him earlier, his chip should still be non-functioning; he could defend himself against her if he wanted to.

What was most frightening was that he *didn’t* really want to.

Her brilliant emerald eyes were glittering with a dangerous light as she leaned in close to him, her voice a soft, husky murmur as she asked, “Going somewhere?”

He returned her gaze boldly with a defiant smirk as he replied, “Doesn’t appear so, does it?” He glanced down derisively at her hands on his arms, one of which was slowly sliding upward toward his shoulder, trying not to show how deeply her nearness, her touch, affected him.

“Did you want something, Slayer? Cause I’m actually in a bit of a hu – uunngghh!”

The light – if forced – mockery in his tone was swallowed up in a moan of sensation, indistinguishable as pleasure or pain – an exquisite, terrible mix of the two – as her hand found the tender, bruised spot where she had marked him earlier, and her thumb pressed down hard into the sensitive flesh.

He felt his legs weaken beneath him, as flashes of colored light fell before his eyes. He closed them, and leaned his head back against the wall, gasping for breath as she moved in closer, her body pressed against and partially supporting his, as her other hand rose to the back of his neck, tilting his head slightly back to further expose her mark to her touch.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I want something, Spike.” As she spoke, she swiveled her hips slowly against his swiftly hardening erection, and his eyes opened wide with shock, staring into a strangely soft smile that was somehow both gentle and predatory at the same time.

Eyes darkened to jade with her lust for him bored into his until he had to look away, as she leaned in closer, her words a whisper of hot breath against his ear. “You.”

She pressed harder in a slow circular motion on the spot where she had claimed him, at the same time rotating her hips slowly against him again – and he was not sure which touch was more powerful in eliciting the soft, desperate cry that rose from his lips as she went on, “And you’re already mine.”

No. He *was* sure. He had never felt anything to compare with the power of her touch on the symbol of her claim. The sensation of that simple touch was both an intense pleasure beyond anything he had ever felt, and an agony that was more than he could bear, bringing him to a point where all he could do was whisper a soft plea of desperation.

“Please…Buffy…please,” he whimpered, all rational thought, his determination to escape, vanished under the power of her touch, his body trembling with sudden, overwhelming need.

He did not know if he was begging her to stop – or not to stop.

“Buffy,” he gasped. “*God!* Please…”

She ignored his words, her hand, her body, still working to drive him to greater desperation, her lips falling from the place just below his ear where they had spoken, down along his throat, on the opposite side of the mark.

She pulled up to look him in the eye with an expression of terrifying promise, as she whispered, “You shouldn’t have left.”

He did not reply, as her mouth lowered to his throat again, working slowly around, covering his skin with soft, hot kisses, her teeth closing lightly over the spot just above his jugular for just a moment, making him gasp at the silently dominant gesture, before she moved on around, her mouth a bare inch from the mark on his throat.

Suddenly, she removed her hand from the bite, raising it instead to grip his hair and pull his head back, making the spot vulnerable to her mouth, hovering over it, so close that her warm breath caressed the wound, the feeling driving him to a frenzied fever of desire.

Smoldering eyes of jade flame met his in a relentless demand, as she said in a voice that came out as a soft snarl, “*Mine*!”

He did not know if the expected answer would prevent or encourage the response from her that he both dreaded and craved; all he knew was that he could do nothing but respond.

“Yours,” he whispered, a desperate ache of need in his hoarse voice. “Yes – yours, Buffy – please…”

With a savage, primal growl of possession, she sank her teeth into his throat again, and he felt his legs give out under him as the powerful sensation engulfed him, pleasure so terrible and pain so sweet that he was lost in it, drowning in it, as the rest of the world went swirling away into darkness, and he felt himself sinking, sinking down into the depths of his own need, overwhelmed by the power of what was taking place.

As the unconscious vampire slumped down against the wall, half-supported in her arms, the Slayer drew back in surprise – and a bit of alarm. She had not meant to overwhelm him so completely. She still had a lot to learn about the claim she had made, the power and effects of it that she had not expected.

Her eyes narrowed over a small, sly smile as she looked at the collapsed from between her and the wall, contemplating.

He still had a lot to learn about *her*, too.



Spike was awakened a short time later by the sweet taste and soft sensation of the Slayer’s kiss, her warm, moist tongue sliding over his teeth, caressing his mouth as she slowly pulled back, the moment he became aware enough to respond.

He tried to follow her as she pulled back, but found his progress impeded – tried to raise up off the soft surface he was lying on – the bed? – but found that he could not get any leverage to move. In fact – he couldn’t move at all.

*What the bleedin…?*

He opened his eyes, glancing around quickly to see with dismay that he was indeed back in the mansion, on the very bed where Buffy had claimed him.

And he was chained to it.

His wrists and ankles were fastened tightly to the four posts of the bed, so that he could barely move at all. He pulled slightly against them, instinctively testing the bonds that restrained him, and finding that they were indeed strong enough to hold him.

A soft, throaty chuckle drew his attention to the Slayer, standing at his side and very near. Her voice was soft with amusement and a strange affection, her lips turned up in a playful little smile as she said in a voice of quiet triumph that sent shivers down his spine, "You're not going anywhere."

He looked up at her as she turned her back to him, sauntering slowly toward the foot of the bed. "Buffy," he whispered, hating the slight tremor of uncertainty he heard in his own voice as he spoke. "What...?"

His voice trailed off as she turned to face him again, and he saw that the soft little smile had become a calculating smirk. His mouth went dry and his eyes wide as he stared at her, unable to hide his reaction to the seductive and terrifying image that she had become.

She stood at the foot of the bed, facing him, still fully clothed in her tight-fitting black top; short, tight red leather skirt, and high black boots. She might as well have been naked, for the effect she had on him. Bloody hell, but she was stunning! A frightening, amazing, enticing vision of power and desire.

Her eyes met his for a moment, then darted down to something in her hands before meeting his eyes again, her eyebrows raised in a question. He managed to somehow tear his eyes away from hers for long enough to look to see what she was holding -- and his jaw dropped and his eyes widened when he saw the object that she was lovingly caressing, sliding through her fingers slowly and seductively.

It was a black leather belt.

*His* black leather belt.

He looked down again and realized with a little thrill of fear and excitement -- he was absolutely, completely naked. Chained to the bed, at her mercy, utterly vulnerable to every whim of the Slayer he had defied. He knew that he should feel nothing but terror -- and that emotion was definitely present, there was no denying that -- but the intoxicating scent of the Slayer's arousal filled the air around him, and the look in her eyes promised him that if he could handle what she intended to dish out -- the pleasure she would reward him with would be worth it.

If he could handle it.

Mingled with the arousal, beneath the tiny smirk that ghosted about her lips, was a smoldering anger, an outrage at his defiance, in daring to flee her. The realization made his blood run cold, and yet flow as fire through his veins at the same time.

The Slayer was pissed.

"Buffy," he whispered, meeting her eyes, forcing himself not to look away from the blazing power of her fury and desire. "Buffy -- love..."

In an instant she was at his side, one hand fisting in his hair to yank his head back, baring his throat to her threateningly, as she leaned down close to his face with a cool smile to say softly, "Shut up."

He was wise enough to obey, but held her gaze boldly, knowing that he could give her no less and retain any shred of his dignity -- and that if he *did* give her any less, she would cease to desire him as she did now. He was hers to punish, hers to break -- but if he allowed the latter, he would not be worthy of her.

And he knew that really, despite her bold, menacing show -- she did not want that, either.

It was, however, quite a *convincing* show.

She lowered her head so that her lips were inches from his, meeting his eyes for a moment before capturing his mouth in a forceful, bruising kiss that had him hard and longing for her again in moments. As she kissed him, her free hand moved down his body, playing lightly about his swollen member in a torturously enticing way.

She broke the kiss, smiling into his eyes -- and suddenly gripped his erection in a strong, powerful hand, just on the border between pain and pleasure. And as he stared into her wild, lustful eyes, saw the sweet and cruel intentions there -- he knew that, pain or pleasure, he was lost to her.

Her soft words next to his ear spoke both his reward and his doom as she reaffirmed and emphasized in a whisper the words she had spoken in the alley.

"You *really* shouldn't have left."

*Bloody hell!* Spike thought as the Slayer released him, standing up straight again over his chained, helpless form. *Where did the Slayer learn to act this way? Not from the bleedin’ poof, that’s for bloody sure! He was all soulful and virtuous until *after* the fact! Not from her little college boy – that little wanker lacked imagination, could tell just by listening to him – so how in the bleedin’ -- *gah*!*

While he had been lost in his thoughtful reverie on the past, he had not been paying attention to the Slayer, and she had suddenly looped the leather belt around the base of his aching erection, yanking it tight with a sharp tug that jerked him painfully back to the present.

Bye-bye, thoughtful reverie.

“I was talking.” Buffy’s voice was calm, gently reproving in contrast to her merciless actions, as she leaned down over him to look him in the eye with a smirk, her eyebrows raised expectantly. “Were you listening?”

The second question, innocent in its tone, was not-so-innocently accompanied by another quick little tug on the belt that made him gasp, biting back a whimper that he knew she would see as disobedience to her earlier command to “shut up”.

And disobedience did not sound like such a good idea at the moment.

But she had asked him a question. *Had he been listening?* He almost nodded automatically. But that would lead to the next logical question – what had she said? And he hadn’t the faintest soddin’ clue. He would be caught lying to her.

And that couldn’t be anything but bad.

How had he ever ended up in this situation? he wondered desperately. *Oh yeah. That’s right, you bloody stupid wanker!* he reminded himself sarcastically. *You accepted the Slayer’s soddin’ claim, you git! And now you’re hers, nothing to be done about it. You’ve got to do what she says, whether you like it or not.*

Or *did* he?

He found himself wondering about the limits of the claim the Slayer had made. He had been the recipient of a dominance claim once before – the type of claim he knew that the Slayer had intended to place over him. And it was definitely not pleasant to be on the receiving end of that sort of thing.

But this did not feel like that had felt. That had been an overwhelming, consuming terror in the presence of the one who had claimed him, that sprang from an absolute inability to disobey the commands he was given, no matter how hard he tried. And considering the cruelty of the one who had had the power to give the commands, it had definitely been a terrible situation to be in.

But there had never been the desire, the desperate need, that he felt for the Slayer now, as a result of this claim. He had been attracted to her before the claim, had admitted to himself that he *did* want her -- but this was so much more. He *needed* her, craved her, and though he hated to admit it, he found himself wanting to please her.

He had never felt those things for his former claimant. Never. There had only been a seething hatred and resentment, at being forced into submission.

Maybe it had something to do with the fact that this claim had been finalized during sex; maybe it was the fact that he had never actually given in to her in the physical fight that had preceded it; or perhaps it was the fact that on some level, a part of him had *wanted* to accept his claim. She had stated boldly that she wanted him, and that hopeless romantic side of him that desperately longed to be wanted had seized at that promise she had extended.

He didn’t know. All he knew was that this was different from the last dominance claim he had been a part of.

Time to test the limits of this particular claim – to find out just how “different” it really was.

“Shut up” she had said. In his experience with dominance claims, an order given by the claimant had to be obeyed; it was next to impossible to keep from obeying it. If this was like the other claim, then he should not be able to speak, even if he tried.

He looked her boldly in the eyes, allowing a defiant smirk to cross his lips as he replied in a mocking tone, “Sorry, love. Got a bit bored and lost you there for a bit. What did you say again?”

Well, then. Not like the last time. That was definitely a good thing.

Maybe. Or maybe -- not so good.

The Slayer’s narrowed eyes and the angry set of her jaw reminded him that perhaps there would have been a better time to test the limits of the claim than – well, any time when the Slayer quite literally had his dick on a bloody leash.

Her hand slipped around the back of his neck, tilting his head back slightly. His instinct was to pull away; he wanted to desperately, his every sense screaming danger. But he was helpless, trying uselessly to move against the chains that bound him and her strong hand gripping his neck. Couldn’t. Couldn’t move at all. He had never felt so vulnerable in all of his existence. He had never *been* so bloody vulnerable!

She smiled coolly, her lips inches from his, as she said softly in a voice of quiet menace, “Maybe I just need to work a little harder to keep your attention.”

He winced in anticipation of the pain he expected, the upward jerk of her hand on the belt that would send excruciating pain through his entire body, and steeled himself not to cry out – not to give her the satisfaction. But the expected punishment did not come.

Instead, the Slayer’s fingertips on the hand behind his neck played lightly around the edge of her mark on his throat, which suddenly seemed ten times as sensitive as his previously most sensitive body part. The light touch sent a powerful sensation of pleasure through him, and he groaned softly, his head rolling back slightly into her hand.

“You like that?” she murmured, a soft mockery in her tone that he missed through the overwhelming sensations coursing through his body.

Of course, he would have missed it if a bloody tornado had ripped the roof off the mansion and carried them both away to Australia – as long as it left the bed intact, and didn’t tear her fingers away from their slow, steady work.

He could find no words, could only nod helplessly, desperate for her touch.

Without warning, her fingernails dug sharply into the sensitive flesh of his throat, and the pleasure she had been giving him was instantly transformed to a fiery agony of pain. “How about this?” she hissed in his ear with a cool smile. “You like that too?”

There *were* no words to describe the feeling of her touch on the mark, delivered in anger rather than a desire to give pleasure. The searing, almost unbearable pain that shot from the mark, through his entire body, was worse than any punishment he had imagined that she would deliver.

He could feel her anger, her power, flowing through him and around him through the touch of her hand on her mark, a terrifying, overwhelming flood of sensation that spoke volumes more than her words could have spoken. In her touch, he felt the claim she had made, her right to command him and his own dangerous mistake in defying her, and her fury at being defied. It made him want to beg her for mercy, to please just stop – it was simply more than he could stand.

He didn’t realize that he *was* begging, pleading for her to stop, until he heard her whispered word next to his ear, accompanied by an increase, rather than an easing, of the pressure on his throat.

“Quiet,” she commanded softly, and in her tone he heard the full authority of the claim she had made – that he had accepted.

And then he felt it.

A strange, powerful compulsion to obey. It was not like the dominance claim he had been under before. He still had a choice. He physically could have spoken had he chosen to. It simply seemed unthinkable to choose to disobey. He was hers, and she had ordered him to silence.

He was silent.

Through the heat of her touch, the powerful sensations overwhelming him, a trace of memory came back to him -- of the last time he had felt anything like that quiet urging, that irresistible compulsion to obey her command, that he had felt as she had pressed down hard on her mark and ordered him to silence.

It was not quite the same -- but it drew to mind the memory of his sire's command, many years ago as a fledgling. Oh, he could disobey his sire -- and had, frequently. But there were times when his sire would be absolutely adamant about some command -- and somehow, his authority, his power, would come through in a certain tone that he would use -- and in those times, there was no option to obey or not.

He simply knew that he must. That was it.

His thoughts were torn once again from his memories as the Slayer once again increased the weight of her fingers against his torn flesh, whispering in a dark, possessive tone, "You're mine."

He felt the words all through him, a terrible, delicious shudder of affirmation at their truth. He *felt* that he was hers. He gasped in pain at the shock of the powerful sensations, physical and otherwise, that were flowing through him with her touch and her words.

He wanted to cry out, to speak. *Please...please...please...* echoed in his mind -- but something held him back from speaking the words -- her command that he was somehow bound to obey.

Amazingly, as if she had heard his desperate words spoken only in his mind, she did finally ease the pressure of her fingertips, instead cupping her hand lightly over the wound, surrounding it with heat from her hand that was soothing to the pain that was shooting out from the spot through his entire body.

“*Mine*!” she repeated warningly.

He nodded desperately, still not daring to speak.

He felt the taut leather of the belt go slack, as the Slayer straddled him, one knee on either side of his hips. She removed her hand from his neck, and he bit back a whimper at the loss of the intense contact with her mark on his throat.

His obedient silence was swiftly rewarded, as he felt the belt removed completely, followed by the light brush of the Slayer’s sodden center over the tip of his swollen erection. Her mouth lowered to hover over his throat, her hot, moist breath a torturous promise on his skin, which felt oddly fevered, considering that he had no body heat at all.

He glanced down to see that the very convenient red skirt had been hiked up around Buffy’s waist; apparently she had been in too great a hurry to find him to bother with panties. He stifled a groan at the sight of her glorious body, exposed to his vision.

Suddenly, she jerked his head back hard, filling his sight with her maliciously seductive smile, inches from his face. “Close your eyes,” she ordered softly, and a thrill of fear went through him at the loss of one more piece of the slight control he had left – but he obeyed.

Suddenly, he felt her body dip down onto his for an instant, then pull back, teasing him with pleasure she withheld. At the same moment, her mouth descended onto her mark, her warm soft tongue tenderly caressing the wound she had left there, sending a blissful feeling of warmth and safety and belonging all through him.

*I can make you feel so good, Spike.*

He was startled to realize that she was not actually speaking aloud – couldn’t be. Her mouth was still caressing his skin so softly, driving him to a point of pleasure that he could barely fathom.

*I can make you want me to touch you so bad that you’ll be begging on your knees for just a little bit more.*

Her words were a soft seduction in his mind, inviting and intimate, as the sweet affection in her voice coursed through his mind and body, consuming him, surrounding him, until there was nothing but the sweet sensation of her touch.

And in that moment, her teeth sank sharply into his highly sensitized throat, her hand lowering to take the base of his erection in a hard fist, leaving nothing but pain in place of the beautiful pleasure she had been giving him.

*Or I can hurt you,* she went on in his mind, and the surge of power and menace carried by her thoughts sent a shudder of fear through him. *If you insist on defying me – I can remind you that you *are* mine. I can punish you until you beg me for just one more chance to prove that you can please me.*

The power of the threat in her voice made him fight uselessly against his bonds, pulling instinctively away from her painful bite in fear. But when she only clamped down harder on her throat, and he felt her dark fury through that forced connection, he ceased his struggles, realizing the truth. There was no escape, and he was only angering her further. His head fell back in a primal gesture of submission that was as clear as the words that he could not speak.

He was hers; and he was admitting it, giving in under the overwhelming power of her claim.

She raised her mouth from his ravaged throat, her lips stained with his blood, studying his face. His eyes were still obediently shut; his lips parted and trembling.

“Look at me,” she whispered, and he obeyed, wide shocked blue eyes meeting her wild, feral gaze. “You. Are. *Mine*,” she stated again in a low growl of possessive menace.

He nodded quickly, holding her gaze, breathing hard, aware that he was completely in her power. Pleasing her, satisfying her demands, became his priority of the moment.

“You will *not* leave me again,” she declared – and there was no mistaking the power – or desire – in her voice.

He shook his head to indicate that he would not, and he meant it – but could not suppress the smirk that played faintly about the corners of his mouth. His leaving had only upset her – because she wanted him so badly.

Her eyes narrowed in anger, and he braced himself for her violent reaction to his smug response. But apparently, she had a worse punishment in mind. A sly, calculating smile on her lips, she held his gaze as she slowly removed her hands from his body completely, lifting up off of him so that she was not touching him at all.

She meant to show him whose need was greater in this little situation – and as a sense of desperation rolled through him at the loss of her touch, he knew that he had lost already.

*Please – please – please…* the chant repeated in his mind, and her satisfied smirk confirmed that she had heard his thoughts, as he had heard hers.

“You want me, Spike?” she whispered, one hand lightly trailing over his trembling, gasping lips.

He nodded pleadingly, turning his face into her hand, repentant already and desperate for contact.

His heart sank as she removed her hand and rose from the bed completely, smiling maliciously into his eyes. Unconsciously he thrust up toward her as she did, desperate to feel her, touch her.

Her eyes narrowed dangerously at his attempt, as she picked up the discarded belt from the mattress, winding it around her hand a few times as she glared at him, shaking her head in a reproving way.

“You don’t touch me unless I *let* you touch me, Spike,” she told him, idly trailing the rough leather in her hand across his throbbing member, and he jerked involuntarily at the contact.

She smirked at him – then suddenly raised the belt and brought it down sharply across his thighs, bare inches from his balls. He could not suppress the moan of mingled pain and pleasure at the sharp, stinging sensation.

“You’re not behaving very well,” she commented softly, running the belt through her fingers as she walked slowly along the side of the bed. “You must *want* to be punished.”

He shook his head desperately, emphatically, knowing that if she truly decided to punish him, it would be to leave him wanting, rather than the beating she was suggesting. At this point, he would definitely have preferred the beating.

“No?” she said in a surprised tone, moving closer and reaching out a hand to trace her fingertips lightly, almost casually, up the length of his hard, aching member. “What *do* you want, Spike?” It was a cruel question; she knew very well he could not answer.

Her agonizingly light touch stole his control, and he thrust up just slightly against her hand, with a soft, pleading moan.

Immediately she pulled back, delivering a sharp little slap that drew a hiss of pain from his lips as she snapped, “No!” She paused, then ordered softly, “Don’t…move…” as she returned her hand to its previous motion.

He forced himself to obey, though he desperately wanted to move, and this command did not carry the full authority of her claim behind it. It was nearly impossible to keep still, but he feared her anger if he should fail to obey her.

“Good,” she said softly, removing her hand again. He forced himself not to move, not to make a sound, as she moved up to the head of the bed. “Maybe I should reward you.” She moved in slowly, her hands on either side of his head, the belt resting unnoticed across his shoulder as she whispered seductively, “What do you want, Spike?”

He bit back the frustrated whimper of desperation that rose in his throat at the knowledge that he could not tell her.

She smiled softly, her hand beside his head rising to brush the backs of her fingers tenderly across the mark on his throat. He threw his head back involuntarily, cringing inwardly even as he did. He knew he would be punished, but he simply couldn’t help it.

The Slayer only smiled affectionately at the evidence of his desire for her, caressing the spot lightly for a moment as she said, “You may speak.”

Just like that, the restraint that had kept him silent lifted, and he could speak again. At the same moment, she withdrew her hand.

“Please,” he whimpered hoarsely, his voice almost a sob. “Buffy – Buffy, please…”

“What do you want me to do, Spike?” she asked him, not touching him – yet – smiling, enjoying her power as she proved her point.

“Please – God, Buffy – please – touch me!” he gasped, yearning in his voice.

“Touch you?” she repeated in a whisper of breath, her hands moving to his sides and trailing little shivers of pleasure across his skin with the light scrape of her nails, as she let the belt slide from her hand to the floor, forgotten. “Like this?”

He tried very hard to keep still, trembling all over with repressed need, but not daring to risk her wrath by moving – not now, when things were going so well. Her touch set him on fire, leaving him longing for more. *Any* contact was good, after the way she had denied it before. But she was still holding back what he needed most.

“Please,” he moaned softly. “Please, Buffy – please…”

She slowly climbed back onto the bed, straddling his legs, just above his knees, her hands moving slowly down to his hips, holding him down on the mattress, as she stayed on her knees above him, still not giving him what he so desperately craved.

“Please what, Spike?” she said in a soft, taunting tone, trailing her hands slowly inward along the lines of his hips. “Tell me what you want.”

“Touch – please – touch me…” he moaned incoherently, his body quaking under her tantalizing hands, so near to his need, yet torturing him with her refusal to grant it.

“I *am* touching you,” she said in a voice of innocent confusion, her fingers lightly tracing up and down the inside of his thighs, a malicious smirk on her lips at his desperate moan that was almost a sob.

“Where do you want me to touch you, Spike?” She finally took pity on him and guided his words, her thumbs finding a tender pressure point on his inner thigh and pressing down, smiling and pressing harder when he whimpered softly.

“Please, Buffy – please – touch – touch me – my cock,” he pleaded desperately. “Please – please…”

Immediately her hand closed tight around the base of his erection, sliding slowly down to its tip, and he moaned at the pleasure and agony of the sensation. Her hand froze around him, preventing any further satisfaction, holding him in a grip that was not exactly painful – but definitely unbreakable.

“Don’t you mean *mine*?” she corrected him with a wicked smirk, her thumb tracing a torturous circle around the tip of his desperate, weeping erection.

“Yes!” he cried out in an anguish of pleasure and need. “Yours, Buffy, yes, yours, all yours, all yours!” His words came out in a trembling, incoherent babble, just desperate to satisfy her, to please her, so that she would end the torment she was so expertly inflicting.

“That’s right,” she whispered, her hand beginning its slow upward movement again, as she raised her body up, her hot, wet center hovering over him enticingly. “Mine. You’re all mine,” she murmured, brushing her body across him in the lightest of touches, driving him to greater urgency of desire.

“Buffy – Buffy, please – please…” he gasped, pulling against the bonds that held him, forgetful of her command, knowing only that he had to be inside her – had to!

He thrust his body up toward her – and her hand around him suddenly became hard, slamming him down and pinning him to the mattress hard. Lust-darkened eyes met his with a smoldering intensity that held him and would not let him look away, as she whispered softly, but with a note of unquestionable authority.

“You’re *mine*! I am *not* yours. You’ll get only what I choose to give you! Do you understand?”

He stared into the dark, mesmerizing light in the Slayer’s fierce, predatory eyes, and knew in that moment that this was not simply Buffy that he was dealing with, but some deep, primal part of her nature that something deep within him recognized with a sense of dread and terror.

And yet, something in him rose up in protest against her words, some part of him that defiantly insisted, against her words, that she *was* his! He had claimed her, and she was his!

But no – that was just his own desires talking. She had rejected his claim, and thus made it of no effect.

*Her* claim, on the other hand, could not be denied. The power of it surrounded him, held him in an inescapable grip, and he knew beyond any doubt that he *was* hers – hopelessly lose in her desires – at her command.

He realized suddenly that he had lost himself in his thoughts, and had failed to answer her question, as her eyes narrowed in anger, with a vindictive light rising in them. Her hand was still hard on his body as he winced in expectation of vicious punishment.

And in the next moment, her expression became a cold smile, as she released him completely, rising up slightly off him with a questioning challenge in her eyes. And he knew in that moment – she could and would leave him like this, if he did not satisfy her. She might want him – but due to the claim he had accepted, his need for her was far greater than her desire for him.

“No,” he whimpered, shaking his head. “Please, Buffy…no, I need you…please!” He hated the desperation in his voice, but he *was* desperate. He was helpless, and she had the power to fulfill his need – or to leave him here like this, chained and alone and longing for what only she could give him.

And that was the point, he realized suddenly, of this whole lesson of hers.

She smiled maliciously, and whispered, “You don’t deserve it. You’ve been *very* bad.”

“I know!” he said hurriedly, desperately. “Please, Buffy, I’m sorry, please don’t! Please don’t go! I need you, Buffy, please!”

She did not move an inch, did not touch him, just hovered over him, deliberating. “You’re going to do as you’re told,” she stated, meeting his eyes with a hard look.

“Yes!” he gasped. “Whatever you say, Buffy!”

“You’re not going to go running off again.”

“No!” he promised desperately. “No, no, never, Buffy, never!”

She smiled softly, one single fingertip moving down to trace slowly up the underside of his erection, making him moan softly as her nail lightly scratched his skin – but he did not move.

“And you’ll take what I give you. No complaints. No pushing. *I’m* in charge here. Not you. Clear?” she went on, the touch of her fingers carrying him ever nearer to the edge of the ecstasy that she had not yet agreed to allow him.

“*Yes!*” he gasped in a pleading tone. “Yes, Buffy! Please! Whatever you want! I’m yours – yours!”

That was what she had wanted to hear, voluntarily, from his lips, and she suddenly removed her hand, only to immediately plunge her body down onto him, so suddenly that the shock of her tight heat left him breathless, stunned, staring up into her dark, hooded eyes inches from his, feral with possessive desire.

She pulled him into a deep, intense kiss, forceful and demanding, invading his mouth with her tongue, slamming his head back down onto the mattress. Her hands lowered to rest on his buttocks, pressing him harder against her, urging him to the response she had formerly forbidden, and he thrust into her, moving in flawless rhythm with her slow rocking against him.

Their pace gradually increased as they both neared completion, and he gasped out, “Buffy – Buffy – please…”

She knew instinctively, through the new but powerful connection between them, what it was that he craved – because she wanted it, too.

He let out a soft, strangled cry as her warm lips caressed his throat with soft, light kisses, sending a fresh wave of pleasure all through him. Encouraged by his response, she intensified her efforts, continuing the gentle rocking motion of her body. When she closed her teeth lightly over the mark, he gasped out, “Yes! Buffy, yes! Yes!”

She bit down harder, and as his cool blood trickled down her throat, she felt her orgasm engulf her, at the same moment that his overcame him, and then she was falling – falling – into depths and heights of pleasure like nothing she had ever known.


She awoke in the stillness of the early morning, a bit disoriented and utterly exhausted despite the night’s sleep she had just gotten. There was no clock in the room, but the bit of sunlight filtering through a small hole in one of the high, painted over windows, told her that it was indeed morning.

She was having trouble remembering exactly how she had come to be there – until her eyes fell on the sleeping vampire beneath her – and the chains that bound him to the bed – his freshly bruised and ravaged throat…

*Oh, God.*

Her eyes widened. *Was that – was that really *me*?* she wondered, a strange horror and excitement both coming over her at once – followed by more horror that the memory excited her at all.

Bits and pieces came back to her, little by little, and she felt a rising fear and unease in the pit of her stomach.

The *things* that she had done!

She felt him stir under her, and scrambled backward with a sudden sense of alarm. His movement, the brush of his cool skin against her flushed, sleep-warmed body, made it all the more real to her. She hurriedly got off the bed, searching for her clothes.

Wait. She was still dressed. She had done all that, and she was still *dressed*?

Somehow that made it seem even worse.

She hurried from the room, ignoring the restless, waking-up stirrings of the vampire on the bed – and the strange stirring in *her* that made her want to go right back to the bed and lie down with him again.

She found her cell phone and opened it with trembling fingers, thankful that the number she needed to call was on speed dial, noticing only after it started ringing that it was 6:30 in the morning.

Two rings. Halfway through the third, she heard, “Hello?” The voice on the other line was annoyed.

“Anya?”

“Buffy?” Anya sighed impatiently. “Unless it’s about the orgasms that you are so rudely preventing me from having before my boyfriend goes to work…”

“It is,” Buffy blurted out hurriedly, then grimaced as she rushed to correct herself. “No – not -- *your* -- um, *things*,” she amended, wondering at the irony that the sexual predator of the night before couldn’t bring herself to say the word “orgasm” this morning. “Not yours. Mine.”

There was silence on the other end of the line for a long moment. “I’ll be right there,” Anya said finally.

“*No*!” Buffy objected quickly. “Um – meet me at my house in – in an hour. My mom’s out of town so we can talk. Okay?”

“Okay,” Anya agreed. “Buffy – is it bad?”

“Oh, *God*, Anya, is it bad!” she replied in a dark, trembling voice, her eyes wide and somber as she hung up the phone, trying hard to ignore the insistent little voice in the back of her head that argued with her assessment of the situation.

*But, boy, was it *good*!*

As she hung up the phone, Buffy rushed back into the bedroom, almost frantically gathering the few things she had discarded during the course of the night before. She had to get home and get cleaned up before her meeting with Anya. Her mind was racing ahead, trying to decide just how much she should tell her friend – since “everything” was certainly out of the question – and she was only half-focusing as she hurriedly moved about the room.

She quickly gathered her belongings – her jacket, the boots she had finally taken off just before finally falling asleep – she suddenly flinched backward in revulsion when she came across Spike’s belt, lying on the floor beside the bed where she had dropped it.

She stood up slowly, wide eyes staring at the simple piece of rough black leather, her mind filled with memories of the night before and how she had used it. She could hardly believe that she had done the things that she had done to Spike – had no idea what had possessed her to behave in such a way.

It was almost as if something had taken her over, guiding her actions and leading her to do things she never would have considered on her own. The claim seemed to have awakened some primal, dark part of her nature that she had not even known existed before. And when Spike had left in the wake of her claim, that part of her had seen it as defiance – and had proceeded to take her over.

The overwhelming fury she had felt, the need to assert her power over the vampire she had claimed, was frightening to her in its intensity, even now in the light of day. She could not explain the powerful desire she had felt to prove to him beyond all doubt that *she* was the one in control, that he was at her mercy – that he was hers.

And he *was* hers.

Her heart pounded and her mouth went dry with renewed desire as she took in the sight of the still form asleep on the bed. God, how she wanted him! As she watched him, he stirred in his sleep, pulling slightly against the chains that still held him, and she felt a rush of desire flood her nether regions at the very sight.

It was disturbing to her that the sight was so arousing to her. Her former mortal enemy, bound, helpless, and utterly vulnerable to her – and it filled her with a powerful desire like nothing she had ever felt before.

Bound, helpless – and completely desperate for her. It had been quite obvious the night before that she was not the only one affected powerfully and strangely by the claim. It had clearly awakened a need, a longing, in Spike – for *her*. All the things she had done to him – she had teased and tortured him, giving herself to him only as she chose, making it clear that he was at her whim. She had hurt and abased him and demanded nothing less than his absolute submission.

And he had yielded it freely, and begged her for more.

*Something is seriously wrong with this picture.*

As she looked on, the blonde vampire began to slowly awaken, drifting out of the heavy sleep that had overtaken him after the intense events of the evening before, straining slightly against his bonds, frowning in confusion, not seeming to remember where he was or what had happened, as he gradually opened his eyes.

The moment they fell on her, he froze completely, his half-hearted struggles ceasing as he stared at her, memory coming back to him. She did not move, did not look away, strangely feeling no shame at gazing so freely on his naked form, something that would have had her blushing and turning away in shame the day before.

But why should she feel ashamed? After all, he was hers, wasn’t he?

The myriad emotions that flowed through him with the memory of the night before were all too clear in his incredibly expressive blue eyes, focused intently on hers, studying her expression with a strange mixture of fear, resignation, and an oddly hopeful expectancy.

The uncertainty she saw in his eyes filled her with an unexpected softness, a sense of affection for him like she had only felt once before, in the moments when she had awakened after the claim. The anger, the rage she had felt the night before at his perceived rebellion had been soothed by her display of dominance, and his submission to it.

Now, she felt only a gentleness and compassion for him, her possessive feelings toward him taking a softer, protective turn. She saw his fear, his insecurity, and wanted nothing more than to take them away, to comfort and reassure him.

Suddenly, accomplishing that seemed more important than getting home, than her conversation with Anya – than anything else at all.

Slowly, with a grace and confidence that surprised her, she approached him, feeling a pang of regret when she saw his body tense as she neared him, saw him swallow reflexively and flinch just slightly as her hand stretched toward his face, intending nothing more than a tender caress.

“It’s okay,” she murmured softly, relieved when he relaxed slightly and leaned into her touch, closing his eyes for a moment before meeting hers again, a question in his wide, startlingly blue gaze. “I won’t hurt you.”

He did not move at all as she leaned over him to unlock the chains that bound him to the bed, and he fell back onto the mattress, unable to hold back a soft sigh of relief that made her feel a sharp pang of guilt, for leaving him in the uncomfortable position all night. He just lay there patiently as she moved to the foot of the bed and released his ankles as well, before moving back up to the head of the bed.

She leaned down over him, meeting his solemn, wondering eyes with a tender, reassuring smile as she reached a hand toward the darkly bruised, bloodied spot on his throat that she had so abused the night before. His eyes widened with alarm and he tensed up – but did not pull away – a pleading look in his breathtaking eyes.

“It’s all right,” she repeated softly, gently brushing her fingertips across the wounds she had left, then lowering her mouth to kiss them softly.

He closed his eyes, leaning his head back with a low moan at the sweet sensation, beyond pleasure, fulfilling a need deep within him for which he could not find words – a need for acceptance, for approval, for the tenderness and affection that she was unexpectedly lavishing on him.

The night before had been about punishment, dominance, enforcing savagely the lesson of just whose he was, and what was expected of him. But the lesson had been delivered and accepted, and now the Slayer seemed to be focused on healing and reassurance, teaching another, more pleasant lesson, of just what he could expect if he *did* please his claimant.

She deepened the pressure she was applying slightly, laving the blood that had dried on his throat gently away with her warm tongue, and he gasped at the intensifying sensation, a rush of hot pleasure flowing through him as she put her arm around him, resting her upper body against his as she raised her free hand to rest behind his head, steadying him.

Instinctively his arms rose to go around her, hesitating just before he touched her, remembering her sharp words of the night before – he was not to touch her, not unless…

*Go ahead,* he heard her soft, encouraging voice in his mind – and it was all the permission he needed.

His hands moved slowly, worshipfully, over her glorious body, still clothed in the top and skirt she had worn the night before, and she let out a soft moan at the sensation of his touch over the coarse fabric of her blouse. His hands lowered to rest at the base of the tiny scrap of leather that she called a skirt, then edged a few inches up to her hips, his hand sliding cautiously inward, toward her aching core.

*Yes, yes, yes…* she urged him silently, her mouth working over her mark with rising intensity, and the pleasure coursing through his body was nearly overwhelming to him.

“Buffy…” he whispered. “God, Buffy…need you…want you, Buffy…sweet…”

His soft, adoring, incoherent ramblings in her ear intensified her pleasure as his skillful fingers did their work to bring her to the satisfaction of her need. She intensified her efforts, her hands running lightly up and down his body as her mouth caressed his throat.

Finally, in a moment of intensity every bit as powerful as anything they had felt the night before, and far more sweet, they reached their fulfillment in the exact same moment, her body clenching tight around his fingers as her orgasm engulfed her, her mouth closing with a gentle but intense pressure over her mark on his throat, bringing him to his climax a mere fraction of an instant later.

Only when it was over, as the blissful haze began to pass from them, did he realize…

She had never once touched his cock – and yet the intense pleasure that had consumed him was greater and more powerful than anything he had ever felt before.

She rose slowly from the bed, meeting his eyes with a tender smile, lowering her lips to his to grace him with a slow, thorough kiss, before standing up straight again.

He lay there for a moment, watching her, before he slowly sat up on the edge of the bed, never taking his eyes off her as she gathered up her things again, sitting in the chair across from the bed to put her boots on -- preparing to go. He just sat there for a moment on the edge of the bed, absently rubbing his sore, aching wrists, as he watched her.

“Where…” he began finally, his voice hoarse and hesitant from lack of use. “Where are you going?”

The insecurity in his voice was clear, though he tried to sound unconcerned, and Buffy paused, regarding him for a moment, trying to decide how much to tell him. Finally she replied, “I need to talk to Anya about something. And then, a little later, we’re going to go to the Magic Box. Giles wants to meet.”

He looked down for a moment, pensive, before looking back up at her. “What do you – I mean – do you want me to…” His voice trailed off, his eyes finishing the unspoken question, over an uncertain frown.

“Go get cleaned up,” she said in a quietly commanding tone that surprised her, though in a way it seemed so natural. “Get dressed and ready and meet me at my house at…” She glanced at the clock on her phone before finishing, “ten o’clock. Okay?”

He nodded slowly, studying her face, trying to read the answers there to the questions that swirled through his mind. He had no idea what was happening between them, what she thought about it, what her intentions were. He only knew that his future, his very being, was in her hands; and – her immediate tenderness notwithstanding – her capricious, possessive nature made that a frightening thought.

“Okay,” he answered quietly, looking away. He had little other choice.

She looked up at him again, at the odd unidentifiable emotion in his voice, troubled and concerned – and wondering at the fact that she was troubled and concerned. She made a quick decision and moved quickly, purposefully, across the room to stand in front of him. Without hesitation she leaned down and kissed him again, firmly, intently, though the kiss was brief.

When their lips parted, she met his eyes again wordlessly, and he found some reassurance in the expression there. She cared. It mattered to her. What they had done was not meaningless, not merely a way of enslaving him to her, as he had feared.

He kept telling himself that over and over – hoping desperately to convince himself – as she turned and walked toward the door without another word.


Buffy deliberately did not think about the events of the past night as she let the hot steaming water from the shower wash over her body, rinsing away the sweat and other evidence of the night she had had. Her mind had been racing with confusing thoughts, trying to figure everything out, and she had come to the conclusion that she did not really know enough about the ritual or vampire bonds and such to figure it out on her own.

She would wait and let Anya try to figure it out.

She had barely stepped out of the shower and into her bathrobe when she heard the doorbell ring. She hurried to answer it, standing out of sight from the porch as she invited Anya in, before going back upstairs to get dressed.

When she returned to the kitchen where she had left the ex-vengeance demon, Anya was busying herself by putting on a pot of coffee. She smiled apologetically at Buffy as she came down the stairs.

“Long morning,” she said by way of explanation. “Lots of orgasms to cram in, and not a lot of time to do it.”

For once, Buffy was too troubled by her current situation to even notice Anya’s blunt statement, responding only with a meaningless grunt as she took a seat on a stool by the center island.

Anya turned to face her, leaning her back against the counter beside the coffee pot with an expectant smile as she added, “Apparently it’s been a long morning for you too?”

“Not so much the morning,” Buffy amended with a little grimace. “as the night.” She paused, frowning, before she admitted, “*And* the morning.” She looked up at Anya with an expression that was almost panic in her emerald eyes.

“Anya, I don’t know what to do. Something went wrong with the ritual. It must have. This is all just – just so strange. I don’t know if I can even explain how I’m feeling right now. It’s just – it’s just too weird,” Buffy shook her head helplessly, her face already coloring, though she hadn’t even begun to tell her story.

Anya studied her face for a moment. “Well,” she said matter-of-factly after a moment’s pause. “maybe you should just start at the beginning and tell me what happened – and then maybe I’d have a freakin’ clue.”

Buffy took a deep breath, hardly able to believe she was about to tell this to anyone. “Well,” she started hesitantly. “I think what started the whole thing off wrong was that – he tricked me. I didn’t make him – actually say the words. Actually submit. Until – until we were already…”

“Halfway to happy land?” Anya supplied helpfully.

Buffy’s lips quirked up without amusement as she nodded. “Yeah,” she replied quietly. “And even then…he wouldn’t really give in…I mean…he even *bit* me! He wouldn’t give at all until I…” Her voice trailed off, her eyes widening slightly as she looked up at Anya with a guilty expression. She *really* wasn’t sure if she wanted to share this part or not.

“Until you what?” Anya prodded impatiently. “What did you do, Buffy?”

“I – I really don’t know *why* I did it,” Buffy admitted softly, looking away. “It just – seemed like the thing to do at the time.” She shrugged with a little grimace. “I – I kept insisting that he submit, and – and he wouldn’t, and – and finally I, well I…”

“Buffy,” Anya’s voice was low and troubled as she interrupted suddenly, her eyes wide and alarmed as she went on in a slow, measured voice, “don’t tell me you bit him back.”

Buffy’s eyes widened in stunned disbelief that Anya had guessed it so easily – followed by apprehension as she stared dubiously at her friend.

“Buffy,” Anya prodded not too gently.

“I’m not telling you,” Buffy said in a voice that was slightly petulant, looking away like a child trying to avoid punishment.

“Oh my God,” Anya moaned, putting a hand to her eyes and turning away for a moment before turning back to Buffy with an anguished look.

“What?” Buffy demanded, standing up, on the verge of panic. “Anya, what?”

The ex-demon stared at her for a long moment with wide, somber eyes, studying her expression, looking her up and down almost as if looking for some subtle difference in her. When she finally spoke, her words sent a shudder of dreadful apprehension down the Slayer’s spine.

“Buffy,” she said quietly. “You have no idea what you’ve just done.”

“Okay,” Buffy said slowly, trying very hard to stay calm, though Anya’s statement had her completely and utterly freaked. “I *know* that I don’t have the first clue what I’ve done. That’s why I’m asking you. Anya -- *what*?”

Anya took a deep breath before she spoke, trying to calm down herself. “Okay,” she said in a carefully controlled voice. “Okay -- Buffy – maybe you should just start at the beginning. That’s the only way I can know for sure, is for you to tell me from start to finish what happened. Then, I’ll tell you what I know – but I’m not promising anything. I don’t know *everything* about these things…”

“But you know more than Giles does,” Buffy pointed out quietly.

“Well – it might not look like it,” Anya admitted with a little shrug. “But I’ve got a good thousand years on Giles. But if it’s what I think…” She stopped, shaking her head and holding up a hand to stop herself. “Go ahead. Talk.”

Buffy took another deep breath as she prepared to speak. She hated to tell Anya *everything* about her night with Spike – she was not even sure if she could bring herself to, when it came right down to it – but she was just terrified enough at this point to try her best to be open.

“Okay – so – we got there, I waited until I knew that the spell had kicked in to deactivate Spike’s chip – and I challenged him. I said the things you told me to say. And he said ‘I accept’.” She paused, frowning at the memory. “*After* punching me across the room. And then – we fought.” She shrugged slightly.

“So far so good,” Anya said. “If I didn’t already know that it’s *not* good. So – that’s when he tried to bite you? While you were fighting?”

Buffy shook her head. “Not then. And not tried. He did. He bit me. But that wasn’t until – um, later. See – Anya,” she hesitated, before going on uncomfortably, “This is really embarrassing for me to talk about – but – it was almost like – something came over me. I don’t know why I did it, but – but he was beating me, and I was scared, and he was so in control – I – I just sort of – made him -- *lose* -- control,” she trailed off slowly.

“You came onto him. Used sex to subdue him,” Anya concluded bluntly. “To catch him off his guard.”

“Pretty much,” Buffy admitted. “I don’t know why I did it, but – but it made him stop fighting, and I managed to pin him down on the floor. And see – I’m pretty sure that’s when things started to go wrong.”

“What happened?”

“Well – I told him to admit that I’d won – to submit. And he nodded, like – like yes, I’d won.” Buffy looked up at Anya to see if she was still following her, and the ex-vengeance demon nodded to show that she was. “So – I pressed him to say it. I said, ‘I won – right?’”

“And he said?” Anya prompted her.

“Right.”

Anya frowned, confused. “Right, what? What’s right?”

“That’s what he said,” Buffy clarified. “ ‘Right’.”

Anya gave her a blank look for a moment, that slowly changed to a disbelieving, almost pitying look at the ignorance of the girl before her. “He didn’t say anything else?”

“Not…right…then,” Buffy admitted, wincing slightly at her foolishness that was so clear to her now. “I guess – I guess I thought what he said was enough. So I – um – initiated the dominance ritual…”

“Jumped his bones,” Anya translated.

Buffy glared at her for a moment before nodding. “I took him into the bedroom and – well – yeah. But um – Anya, this whole time – it was so weird – it was like – like it wasn’t really me…I mean, it *was* me…but…not *just* me?” Her tone was questioning as she searched for the words to describe the sensation that had seemed to go beyond words.

She looked to Anya, but all she got this time was a puzzled frown and a slight shake of her head.

“I don’t know,” she went on, giving up. “It was just really weird. And I mean, this whole time, I thought I’d already won. It was supposed to be a symbolic act of dominance, right? *After* the actual ritual itself was over.”

Anya nodded, still just listening.

“But then – right when…um…we were almost done,” Buffy went on, blushing furiously in spite of herself. “He bit me. But – I pulled him off, and then – it was the strangest thing, Anya – I bit him back.” Her eyes were wide, horrified, as she made her quiet admission. “I don’t know why. Again, it was like I was – out of control. Like someone else was in control of me. But – it just seemed like the thing to do. And I – I made him say it then, once I realized that he hadn’t said it before…”

“Say what?”

“Huh?” Buffy had to struggle to focus on Anya’s question, having nearly lost herself in the vivid memories of the night before as she recounted them.

“You made him say *what*, exactly?” Anya asked.

“Well,” Buffy tried to remember her exact words, her eyes widening as she did. “I said – he was mine. I told him to say it – and – and he did. He said ‘yours’…”

“Did you draw blood?”

“What?” Buffy frowned, wrinkling her nose in distaste.

“When you bit him. Did you draw blood?” Anya clarified.

Buffy hesitated a moment, thinking back. She could clearly remember the wild fury that had overtaken her, sinking her teeth into his throat until she broke the skin, her own warm blood flowing down her throat from his body…

“Yes,” she replied in a low, frightened whisper. *Oh God…what’s happening to me?* she wondered desperately.

Anya let out a soft little moan, turning away for a moment before turning back to look Buffy in the eye. “Buffy – it’s just like I thought. That wasn’t a dominance ritual. Not really. That was a claim. A – a blood bond.”

“What?” Buffy did not like the sound of that, even though she had no idea yet what it really was. “But – he’s obedient to me now. Like you said about the dominance ritual. We completed it, we just did it – a little out of order,” she finished weakly, well aware that she knew too little about this sort of thing to speak with any certainty. “But – it seems like it had the result that we were after.”

“No, Buffy. You never completed the actual dominance ritual, because you never finished the fight. When you skipped to the sex before he’d actually accepted your authority, it’s like – you just kind of – abandoned it and started the claiming process instead,” Anya explained.

“So – why is he all submissive and stuff?” Buffy asked, confused. “If I didn’t actually dominate him?”

“I didn’t say you didn’t dominate him,” Anya corrected her. “I just said you never completed the ritual. The thing is, Buffy – blood – it’s very important to vampires. And not just in the whole ‘they cease to exist if they don’t get it’ kind of way. It’s – it’s powerful. It has – mystical properties that most people don’t know about.”

Buffy was silent, waiting for her to go on.

“It’s like – when a vampire drinks someone’s blood, they’re drinking their life force – they’re taking power from them to exist. So – even if it’s a claim and not a dominance ritual,” Anya went on. “If you’re the aggressor – like you were – and you made the claim…and he accepted it – then you’re gonna have a certain amount of power over him. It’s kind of like – the act of turning. When a vampire turns someone, they’re their sire, and they have a lot of power over them, at least at first.”

Buffy was quiet, trying to take it all in. “So I didn’t finish the dominance ritual – but he still is in submission to me – so – it’s not that bad…right?” Her tone was hopeful, but she knew that there was little chance of things working out that simply. “I mean – it’s not what we planned, but – we can work with it – right?”

“Buffy,” Anya said, echoing her dubious thoughts. “It’s not that simple. A blood bond – a claim, turning, whatever kind of blood bond – is – permanent, if it’s returned by the one being claimed – and you said Spike did return it. So it’s permanent. Beyond permanent, really. Eternal.”

“Eternal?” Buffy’s voice held a note of panic.

Anya nodded solemnly. “Yes. And – and here’s the really bad news…um…this particular blood bond…initiated during the act of sex like it was – well, Buffy – it kind of sounds like a – a mating claim.”

“*What*?” More than a note of panic showed in the word, nearly shouted as Buffy stood up. “What do you mean, *mating* claim?”

“I could be wrong, but I think – I think you’ve bonded yourself to Spike as your mate, Buffy.”

Time seemed to stop as the Slayer took in those words, her mind reeling with the magnitude of what she had done. “No,” she shook her head slowly. “No, that can’t be. There has to be a way to – to undo it…” But even as she spoke the words, there was something even more troubling that the truth that had just been revealed to her. Some part of her rebelled against what she was saying, loathing the thought.

She didn’t *want* to undo it.

“No,” Anya said quietly. “There isn’t.”

“So…that’s why I – I want him so much?” Buffy asked, her voice little more than a whisper, making the admission and the question at once as she met her friend’s eyes. “Because I do, Anya. It’s like – I can’t be in the same room with him without wanting to – to touch him. And there’s this weird, like – it’s like I – care. A lot. And I didn’t before, at all. I just – is that all because of the claim?”

Anya nodded slowly. “I think so. When a claim is made, the person doing the claiming is saying that the person being claimed is *theirs*. And that doesn’t just mean they have to do what they say. That means the claimant feels the need to protect them – to care for them, as their own…because they are.”

Buffy thought about that for a moment. “I don’t get it,” she said softly. “So – if it’s a mating claim – why is he acting so submissive? It’s like – he does whatever I tell him – he just *let* me…”

Her words suddenly cut off, and she glanced up at Anya in alarm. The girl had *not* missed her near slip, and was looking at her expectantly with raised eyebrows. Buffy did not want to go there – not yet – not at all, if possible, though she was beginning to doubt that that would be an option.

“It’s like – he *wants* to please me…you know?” she went on, resolutely sticking to her original question. “I mean – it’s totally not like *Spike*. It’s gotta be an effect of the claim, right? But if it’s a mating claim – shouldn’t we be like – equals? Shouldn’t I want to please him too?”

“If it’s a mutual claim,” Anya agreed cautiously. “Like, if he claimed you too. When he bit you…did he say anything?”

“Yes,” Buffy remembered slowly. “He said ‘mine’.”

Anya’s eyes widened in alarm and she drew in a sharp breath. “Did you – did you respond?”

“Well,” Buffy went on, looking away, remembering, “I told him that I rejected his claim. And then I claimed *him*. Something kind of told me that that – that would give me the upper hand.”

“It sort of did,” Anya agreed with a nod. “I mean, a claim that’s made and not accepted – it’s still there, but it’s not quite as effective. And it fades away, in time. See – it’s not so much your claiming Spike that’s making him submit to you, want to please you – as the fact that he accepted it. It’s like – your claim is stronger than his – but his is still there.”

“So…what does that mean, exactly? That he’s claimed me? I mean – I guess I haven’t really felt anything from that – not that I can tell,” Buffy asked, confused, and more than a little concerned.

Anya shook her head. “Not a lot, really, at this point. It’s gonna make you want him. Bad. Like, crave him night and day bad. But you won’t have to like, do what he says or anything. That’s where you’re lucky that you didn’t return his claim. Because if you did – then he’d have as much control over you as you have over him.” Anya paused, frowning thoughtfully. “And of course, I guess then it kind of wouldn’t matter either way. You’d be pretty much equals at that point, on the power scale.”

Anya’s words brought back more vivid memories of the night before, and Buffy looked back up at her uncertainly.

“Anya,” she said quietly. “There’s more. I mean – I – I kind of scared myself last night. Well, this morning. I did it last night, but I wasn’t scared til this morning…”

“Buffy,” Anya cut off her nervous ramblings patiently. “How did you scare yourself?”

“Um…well, Anya…I was just so…so aggressive. Like – right after we woke up – after the…the claim…he left, and – and I totally freaked, Anya. Except – I was completely in control. Calm. I mean, *I* wasn’t in control…I think. I hope. It was that whole, someone else in my body feeling I was telling you about? Except that it *was* me…and I’m making absolutely no sense at all, am I?” Buffy stopped, looking up at Anya with a sigh of defeat.

“Surprisingly, you are,” Anya informed her with a nod. “Go on.”

“Well…I was just so…so…like, jealous maybe? Or – or possessive? Like I was just furious that he left, and…well…the things I did…Anya, I was seriously scary last night. Could that be another result of the claim? Because I *so* don’t want that to be permanent!”

“I don’t know,” Anya said slowly, frowning. “Nothing I’ve heard would really explain that sort of thing. I mean – that’s more along the lines of the dominance ritual. The one you didn’t finish,” she added pointedly when Buffy looked hopeful. “I really couldn’t tell you. Maybe you should ask Giles?”

“*No*!” Buffy immediately replied, sounding nearly panicked at the thought. “I’m not telling Giles about this! Not yet!”

“Buffy,” Anya frowned. “He’s gonna have a lot of questions…”

“For now, we’ll just tell him that it went like we planned. I fought, Spike lost, so now he does what I say. That’s it, until I can decide how I need to deal with this.”

“We don’t have the rest of your life, Buffy,” Anya retorted impatiently. “You really need to tell at least Giles about this. This is gonna be a hard thing to deal with on your own at all.”

“But I’m not on my own,” Buffy countered, her eyes wide and almost pleading. “I have you.”

Anya heaved a weary sigh, but the look on her face said she was close to caving. “Buffy – this is a bad idea. The whole lying thing. I mean – you’re gonna slip up somehow, and when the others find out you’re lying, then that’s just one more problem you’re gonna have to handle…”

“Anya,” Buffy interrupted in a voice of quiet anguish. “I *can’t*. I can’t tell Giles that I had sex with Spike and claimed him and now he’s my mate for eternity, and every time I see him I want to throw him down and have my way with him.”

Anya’s mouth quirked up in a sarcastic expression. “Well…no. I couldn’t tell him *that* either…but…”

“Anya…please,” Buffy said softly. “Please, just…just go with me on this for a little while. It’s not that I’m not gonna tell him. I just kind of have to…figure out how.”

“Okay,” Anya relented, sounding very doubtful about the whole thing. “But you need to figure it out soon. Because this is big. Like, life-changing, destiny-shaping big. And you’re going to need the support of your friends to get through this.”

Buffy nodded meekly, just wanting the lecture to end, more than anything. She had so much to think about…so much to process and try to figure out. She knew on some level that Anya was right – she was going to need her friends, her Watcher, to get through this newest development in the insanity that was her life.

And yet, some part of her mind was still focused intently on the vampire she had left at the mansion, the one who was now irrevocably hers, for *eternity*. She was in a state of shock at learning the truth, but on some level, it had not even come as a surprise. It was as if a part of her had already known what Anya had told her. She was terrified of how her friends would take it, what Giles would say, and yet on some level, none of it seemed to matter.

Because on that level, she somehow felt that all she *really* needed – was Spike.

Spike was lost in his whirling, confusing thoughts, as he rose from the bed and began to get ready, as Buffy had instructed. His entire world had just changed, literally overnight – and it was an awful lot for him to take in. New, undefinable sensations and emotions swept through him, and though he could hardly begin to make sense of it all, he felt that he himself had changed in some profound, powerful way.

He winced slightly as he pulled his black t-shirt on over his head, the fabric brushing accidentally across the tender, torn flesh of his throat – and then his eyes widened, as all at once the reality of what had happened sank in with the twinge of pain from the contact.

Bloody hell, it had really happened!

The Slayer had claimed him.

His hand rose to rest cautiously over the mark, cupping it without touching it, as he stood there, trying to process all that had happened to him the night before – all that he was feeling now. And it was a lot.

He could still feel the sensation of her hands, her body, on his, the way her touch had set him on fire with longing for her, inspiring a need in him like nothing he had ever experienced. Her kiss on his lips – soft and tender in a few brief, precious moments; passionate and forceful so much more frequently – he could still taste, as if it had only been moments ago.

But the one sensation that he could not feel was the sweet agony of her hand, her mouth, on the mark she had left. It had faded into memory almost immediately, leaving only the burning, consuming desire to feel it again.

It was an aching hunger, deeper than any blood lust or human need for nourishment. It was a yearning, a desperation, for the connection she had forged between them – as if a part of him was missing, and he would only be whole again when she was near him, touching him, again.

And it was that thought that truly terrified him.

The intense need he felt for Buffy surpassed even the longing he had felt for Drusilla, during the hundred years they had spent together. He did not just want her – it was a craving, a consuming, desperate need. When Buffy had threatened to leave him the night before, he had never felt anything to compare with the terror that had come ove rhim – a sheer desperation to do whatever it took to keep her from walking away from him.

In fact, even when he had tried to leave *her*, immediately after the claim was made, he had found it very difficult – as if something was holding him, pulling him back to her. Every step away from her had been a struggle, like trudging through knee-high water – and when she had found him, a part of him had felt an intense relief just to be with her again.

And at the same time, the look in her eyes ahd set something inside him to trembling, some part of him recognizing that he had crossed an unseen line in attempting to escape her. And she had shown him that night, beyond all doubt, just how much power she held over him. She had overwhelmed him, surrounded and subdued him, until she had managed to reduce him to pleading, trembling submission.

He had been lost in a confusing, whirling vortex of sensations that had made him both dread and long for her touch. She held the power to make him feel incredible pleasure – or terrifying punishment – with a single touch. By the end of the night, he was completely aware of how thoroughly this amazing, stunning creature possessed him. He was unquestionably, totally hers.

And he wanted to be.

In the morning, he had been apprehensive, uncertain as to how she would treat him. Would the Slayer who had claimed him feel that his rebellion merited further punishment, or would she see that she had already thoroughly convinced him of her authority, and secured his obedience? Truthfully, he had been terrified at her approach, though he had tried not to show it.

But then, she had been so tender, so gentle and comforting, and he had felt in her touch the reassurance that he *was* hers, not only to control and to punish, but to cherish and protect. Her hard, possessive hands of the night before became soft, affectionate, making him feel cared for and treasured, and causing his fears to evaporate like mist in the sun.

Until she walked out the door – taking the sunlight with her.

She had left him. Yes, with a tender kiss, and plans to meet later that morning. But without the convincing factor of her touch, her smile, now that he was alone with his thoughts, he found his doubts returning.

She had only initiated the whole thing in the first place in an effort to dominate him. She was wise enough to know that, chipped or not, he was still a master vampire, and therefore still a threat. Therefore, she had wanted to make sure that he was in submission to her.

Well – it had worked, but apparently not quite as she had planned. He felt sick inside as he wondered again if the whole thing had just been a dreadful accident on her part. Or worse, if she had known the impact of what she was doing for him, but not cared, seen it only as a convenient means to the end of getting him under her control.

Once again he felt the powerful need to be with her, to have his doubts reassured by her nearness, and feel again the touch that would affirm beyond all doubt that he mattered to her, that he was hers – and that she *wanted* him to be.

Gingerly he touched the sore spot on his neck, wincing slightly at the pain of the contact. He wished in that moment that he could have seen his reflection, so that he could see the Slayer’s mark. He could tell by touch that it was badly bruised, and probably red at the place where her teeth had pierced his flesh, judging by the strange warmth that was there – though the rest of his skin was cool as usual.

He remembered suddenly what Buffy had said earlier, about going to meet the Watcher and her friends later that day. He frowned slightly, wondering what she planned to tell them about last night. He could hardly imagine the Watcher’s reaction when he heard, let alone when he saw the livid puncture wound on his throat, and realized that his Slayer had put it there.

Spike moved suddenly to the antique dresser beside the bed, where he and Drusilla had kept some of their things when they had lived there – still keeping up the pretense of being together, even though Dru had been sleeping with Angelus in a manner too obvious to even be called “behind his back”.

He dug through one of the drawers, where he had kept his clothes. Around the time of Acathla, packing would have aroused the suspicions of Angelus and Dru, so when he had taken Dru away in his old DeSoto, they had left with nothing more than the clothes on their backs. This was the first time since his return to Sunnydale that he had had the chance to return to the mansion, so his things were still here – untouched.

He finally found a black cotton turtleneck, that he had rarely worn back then. He used to wear it on occasion when he was going out hunting and wanted to cover the bite marks left on his own neck by his enthusiastic, insane lover, bite marks that would have drawn attention and aroused suspicions, and possibly driven potential meals away.

That was back when he *could* hunt, unfettered by wheelchair or chip, back when his lover had still preferred him to any other. Before his entire life had been turned upside down more than once in a matter of a few short weeks.

A lifetime ago.

He slipped the t-shirt off and replaced it with the turtleneck, feeling to be sure that the mark was completely covered. The material against the wound was chafing, and felt too hot. He had the sudden impulse to take it off, wanting for some reason for it to be revealed, but he was sure that Buffy would not want the others to see it – not just yet.

Once he was sure that he was ready to leave, he took the blanket from the bed and made his way down through the tunnels that ran under the mansion, that took him out to the street a short way from the Slayer’s house.

He sprinted the distance from the exit of the tunnel to the Slayer’s back door, slipping into the kitchen, relieved and mildly surprised that his invitation had never been revoked. Buffy was no where in sight, and the kitchen was bright with sunlight, so he ducked down the stairs into the basement, pulling the door behind him – just as he heard the doorbell ring.

As he heard her footsteps on the stairs above him, he could smell her – the sweet scent of her shampoo, the fresh, clean smell of the soap she had used, combined with that intoxicating scent that was uniquely hers – she had just gotten out of the shower.

He heard her go to the door, and let Anya in. As they moved to the kitchen, he opened his mouth to make his presence known, to ask Buffy to close the blinds so that he could come out into the open.

Then – he suddenly stopped.

*What does she need to talk to her about in private so badly, anyway? And why did she want me to wait?* he wondered, his eyes narrowing in suspicion born of his insecurity.

He debated for a moment, then edged nearer to the closed door, his decision made. He would wait – listen – to see what the Slayer had to say before he made himself known to her.

It couldn’t hurt to get a bit of inside information.

He listened, breathless with apprehension, as Buffy haltingly, awkwardly, described to Anya – in *very* limited terms – the events of the night before. He felt a cold, sick feeling come over him at the horrified, stricken sound of the Slayer’s voice as she spoke of the things she had done, as if it were a terrible, dreadful thing of which she had every reason to be ashamed.

When Anya told her that what they had done was a mating claim, he gripped the banister tightly, shaking with fearful anticipation of Buffy’s reaction. He had known that much already, though he wondered about the ramifications of its being donw in the midst of the dominance ritual – but Buffy apparently hadn’t had a clue.

He froze as he heard her ask in a whisper, “Can we undo it?”

The words were like a slap in his face.

*She wants to undo it – she hates me that much – she only wanted to control me…*

The thoughts rolled through his mind on a repeating track, making him miss Anya’s response, and the next bit of the conversation. He already knew the answer, anyway. A mating claim, accepted as he had accepted hers, was eternal.

There was no way to undo it.

He was eternally mated to a woman who despised him, who regretted her claim already.

He half-listened as the Slayer finished her conversation with Anya, and walked her to the door, telling her she would see her at the Magic Box that evening. Anya was going to let the others know to meet her there after dark, as it would be easier for Spike to travel then.

He waited, unsure of what to do. It was only nine o’clock; Buffy was not expecting him for another hour. But he could hardly imagine facing her, even then – knowing how she really felt about what they had done.

He listened as he heard her soft footsteps on the stairs again, heading back up. He took his chance to crack the door, trying to gauge the safest route outside – and saw that at some point during her conversation with Anya, she had closed the blinds – apparently in preparation for his arrival.

A sense of hurt anger came over him. *Bloody wasted effort,* he thought sarcastically. *Cause as far as she’s concerned, I’m not gonna show. I don’t bloody care. Bond or no, I’m not stickin’ around where I’m not wanted.*

He stepped up into the kitchen, empty, and now completely safe, and went to the door a few yards away, fighting back tears of hurt and shame that filled his eyes. The tears only made him furious. Why should he even care? It was the bleedin’ claim, was all! Before that, he had wanted nothing more than to rip the Slayer’s bloody throat out! These emotions were lies, this feeling that told him he needed her, cared for her, wanted to be with her – all lies, only results of the claim – not truly from his heart.

He could – and would – walk away.

He realized suddenly that he had been standing by the door, the handle in his hand, for a minute or so, engaged in his mental rant, trying to build up the courage or anger or whatever emotion would overcome his doubts and allow him to simply walk out that door.

*Just bloody do it!* he snapped at himself viciously, despising the weakness that stayed his hand. *Just open the soddin’ door and walk out. Do it!*

His hand slowly turned the knob, opening the door a few inches, as he shifted the blanket in his other hand in preparation to shield himself from the deadly sunlight that filtered through the space he had made.

Suddenly, a small hand closed over his and pushed the door shut firmly, as a soft, powerful arm wrapped around his waist, pulling him back, and he felt the warm pressure of her body against him.

He closed his eyes determined to resist, though he could feel the longing rising up in him. He wanted her so desperately.

“You’re not leaving again – are you?” Her voice was low and warm, sweet as honey to his ears, but sharp with an edge of warning to it that sent a chill down his spine in memory of her reaction to his last attempt to leave.

He swallowed hard, determined to be strong, and forced the word out. “Yes.” He did not turn around, his head bowed, unable to face her after what he had heard her say.

Not that he could have turned around, anyway. Her arm around his waist tightened slightly, her body pressing nearer, as she slid her hand on his up to his wrist, and pulled his hand back from the doorknob.

“I really don’t think so,” she said softly, reaching up to speak close to his ear, before she backed off suddenly, spinning him around by the arm and pushing him forcefully back against the door, demanding wordlessly that he face her.

He felt the anger rolling off of her in waves at his defiant intention to leave – but he did not flinch, did not relax the stubborn set of his expression, though he still did not look at her.

He was angry too, damn it!

“What do you bloody care anyway? I should think you’d be glad to see me go!” he snapped in a hurt, resentful voice.

“No,” she spoke softly but firmly, yet with a hint of dnager in her voice as she reached out to take the blanket – necessary to his escape – from his hand, tossing it to the floor behind her as she moved in boldly closer to him.

“Right,” he spat out bitterly with a humorless little laugh. “That’s just bloody great! Bet you’d rather I went this way, anyway, wouldn’t you? Meet the sun? Rid you of your little eternal problem?” As he spoke he jerked his wrist out of her grip and fumbled for the doorknob, not really intending suicide, intending nothing more than a dramatic gesture to reinforce the strong emotion he was trying to express.

Buffy took it a bit more seriously thatn that.

“*No*!” she snarled angrily, gripping his arms suddenly and slamming him back against the door so hard that his head knocked into the wood and he bit back a cry of pain.

He closed his eyes, turning his head away as she moved in closer – a feat he had thought to be impossible. He could sense the same powerful anger coursing through her that he had seen in her the night before, mingled oddly with the protective concern she had shown that morning.

And then, he felt a deceptively gentle hand at his throat, in a mimickry of a choke hold, but loose enough that his breathing was not obstructed in the slightest, her thumb falling just slightly to the side of her mark, covered by his shirt.

He drew in a sharp breath in anticipation – before he remembered that he was trying to resist her. It was a trick – nothing more. Just an attempt to dominate him. She did not mean by it what he had desperately hoped that she did.

“Buffy,” he whispered, breathing hard, his head turned away. “No…don’t, Buffy…” His voice was low, firm in its intent – but trembling with the need for her that he could not suppress.

“You don’t mean that,” she said with a soft smile, seeking his gaze and drawing it back to her with her own. “You don’t want me to stop…”

“Yes,” he gasped out as her thumb edged nearer to the mark. “Yes, I – I do…Buffy…stop,” he whispered desperately – though he was not sure at this point what he was desperate for.

“Your mouth says stop,” she whispered, her lips a mere breath away from his skin, staring up into his eyes with an unearthly light in her own, and he got that same sensation he had had the night before, that this was not merely Buffy. “But everything else is saying the opposite…your body…your voice…”

She paused, her low, seductive murmur taking on an almost hypnotic quality as she finished, “…even your thoughts, Spike. You *don’t* want me to stop. You want this as much as I do.” A low, throaty chuckle that was somehow cruel rose in her throat before she added with a smirk, “More.”

“No…” he whispered his protest, little more than a breath and thoroughly unconvincing – especially followed by the low moan he could not hold back, as her thumb sightlessly found its goal, and his back arched slightly, shifting his body toward her, with the pleasure of it.

Feeling his swelling erection forming against her, the Slayer smiled. “Yes…” she whispered, pressing just slightly harder, her smile widening when his knees buckled slightly and he braced himself against the wall behind him with his hands. “Yes…”

He did not object again, gasping as he tried uselessly to control his own reaction to her – and failed.

God, he was lost to her! Utterly lost to her desires. He tried to fight it – but his need was simply too great.

Buffy slowly eased the pressure, raising her thumb from the mark, and he fought back a little whimper of desire.

“I’ll stop,” she said softly. “If you want me to.” The words were not a threat; her tone was simple and honest, and he knew that while she was making a point, she meant what she said.

If he said “no” again right now – she would stop, and allow him to walk out the door.

If he said “yes”, she would make no effort to punish his useless resistance by withholding herself from him, as she had done the night before. She would give him what he craved.

Time stood still for a moment in the dimly lit kitchen as she waited patiently, calmly, for his response.

He tried. He really did. He knew that her motives in all of this were not the same as his – that his need was greater, and therefore so was her power, and if he wanted to break it in some small way, this might be his only chance. He knew all of that.

But he also knew that if he did not speak, she was not going to touch him again – not going to fulfill that desperate need for connection, for that intimacy that he craved…

“Yes…” he whispered finally, slumping back slightly against the wall and raising his hands to take her arms and pull her closer to him. “Yes, Buffy…yes…”

She smiled a smile of genuine affection as she touched him again, reaching her other hand up to rest behind his neck and pull him down for a slow, intense kiss.

They had a lot of time to kill before sunset.

“Buffy,” Spike gasped when she finally broke away from the kiss long enough to draw a breath. “Love – wait…”

There was a reason why he wanted her to wait – something important he had to talk to her about – something that should be preventing him from accepting her advances – from feeling – oh, *God*!

“Can’t wait,” she muttered in a husky voice, her hand behind his neck holding him firmly as her mouth dropped to caress the side of his neck, at the line of his turtleneck, her free hand coming to rest at his back, just below his waist, and press his swelling need against her, hard. “Now,” she added in a throaty whisper against his skin.

*Yes, now, now, need you, Buffy…* his mind echoed his agreement with her words. He was desperate for her, longing for her, drinking in her scent, her warmth and nearness, like the sweetest water to a parched and dying man. How could he have thought to resist her, when he needed her so badly? Why had he wanted her to stop?

A tiny voice, nearly drowned out completely by his desire, tried to remind him of the answer – this wasn’t real…it was a deception…she didn’t care, she was using him…he needed to get her to stop…

*Don’t want her to stop…* his mind rebelled against the soft voice of reason. *Need her – don’t ever want her to stop…*

Her hand behind his neck pushed at the fabric of his shirt for a moment, wanting to uncover her mark to her touch, and he heard a soft growl of frustration rise in her throat at the barrier between her and the sign of her possession. She drew back to meet his eyes, her own feral and glittering with possessive lust as she demanded in a harsh whisper, “*Off*!”

He felt a shudder roll through him at her commanding tone, knew that this was an order he could not defy, but still, he hesitated. The instinct to obey, new, but still strong, warred with the instinct for self-preservation.

The indirect sunlight filtering through the closed blinds still set his skin to tingling in a natural warning of danger, though he knew it couldn’t really hurt him unless it was direct. The thought of baring his body to it sent a feeling of fear through him that was primal, instinctive, rooted deep inside him as a part of his very nature.

But so was the fear he felt at the smoldering anger beginning in Buffy’s eyes at his hesitation.

The wild, feral creature that had claimed him was visible again in her eyes, demanding the absolute obedience he had promised, a warning in her green eyes as both her hands went to his waist, impatiently pushing the material of his shirt upward as she hissed, “*Now*!”

His hands lowered to take over her work, pulling the soft shirt off over his head, as her hands slid slowly up his chest, leaving a trail of fire everywhere she touched him. As he dropped the shirt to the floor, her hands suddenly caught his wrists, pinning them forcefully to the wall on either side of the door, level with his head.

Lust-darkened eyes of jade met his in a smirk for just a moment, before slowly, boldly roving over the flawless alabaster of his chest. The desire in her heavy-lidded eyes, the arousal he could smell, sense, rolling off of her, made his knees feel weak and his cock harden with anticipation and need.

She looked him in the eye again as her right hand released his wrist, and the unspoken warning was clear. He did not move as her hot hand moved slowly over the smooth ivory skin of his cool torso, exploring his body in an almost leisurely way, without inhibition. The silent message was clear – he was hers, and she would touch him as she pleased.

Not that he was complaining.

Suddenly, her eyes met his again with a cold, predatory smile, and she shoved his chest hard, pressing him against the door as she moved in closer. His back flattened the blinds covering the small window in the door, leaving several small gaps that allowed the searing sunlight to touch his bare skin in thin lines here and there.

He gasped in pain and tried to move forward, but she only shoved him back hard again with a soft little snarl, and the threat in the sound was stronger than that of the deadly sunlight on his back. He dared not move again, despite the pain – not without her permission.

“Buffy,” he gasped as she pressed her lips to his skin, just above his collarbone, heedless of his predicament. “Buffy – please…”

“Shhh,” she murmured, her hot lips against his skin, ,just before she raised them, meeting his eyes for only a moment – but it was long enough for him to see the cruel amusement in her deep green gaze.

His eyes widened with shock and hurt as a chill went down his spine at the frightening intensity of the Slayer’s hard, glittering gaze. It was not that she did not realize, in her consuming lust for him, that she was hurting him. He could see in her expression that she *did* know.

She simply didn’t care.

He barely had time to register the fact before she broke his gaze, to plunge the heat of her mouth down over her mark on his throat, and an overwhelming sensation of pleasure swept over him, drowning out the screaming of his tortured nerves from the slowly singing places on his back.

“Buffy,” he gasped out. “God, *Buffy*!” His unrestrained hand moved unconsciously to rest on her hip, wanting to pull her closer.

Her hand instantly caught his wrist again, without lifting her mouth from his throat, slamming his hand back painfully hard against the doorjamb. Her teeth scraped lightly across the surface of the wound on his neck, sending a burning sensation through him to rival that of the scorching sun on his back. It was a warning; he had almost forgotten himself. He was not allowed to touch her.

In that moment, as her touch ceased to give him pleasure, to ease the burn of the light on his back, for a bare instant, instead inflicting her own brand of pain, his entire body felt as if it were on fire, as if he was being burned alive. He let out a soft little cry of pain, of pleading and submission, and although she still did not let him move away from the window, she returned her mouth to its gentle work.

But the damage was done.

A sense of sorrow began to creep over him, beneath the surface of the pleasure she was giving him, as the painful truth sank in. His body was still responding to her powerful touch, but his heart felt heavy, and a part of him deep inside was sobbing with hurt and shame, at the way she was using him – and the fact that he was allowing it.

She didn’t care. He was nothing but a toy to her – nothing but a possession to be used to bring her pleasure. She could dominate him, hurt him, until he was desperate for it to end; or give him such unspeakable pleasure that he could not express it, that he would hunger desperately for more of her touch – if it pleased her to do so.

But she could never love him.

This harsh reality gradually began to steal the pleasure from her touch, until the intensifying heat of the sunlight on his scorched skin overwhelmed the sweet sensation of her lips, her tongue, caressing his throat. The physical and emotional pain brought a soft sob to his lips, his body shaking as he weakly tried to push her back, unable to bear any more of the agony she was putting him through.

The Slayer’s eyes were glazed with an unearthly glimmer of desire and anger, as she slammed him back hard against the door again, her hand on his chest deliberately pressing his back through the blinds against the cool glass of the window – but all he felt was fiery heat, intensified as she raised her red, swollen lips from his throat, as she met his eyes with a demanding challenge in her own at his slight defiance.

He hated the longing, the ache inside him that wanted her touch back – wanted the lie of her lips to obliterate the pain in his heart, his body, to send him into sweet oblivion, even if it literally consumed him. He hated her for making him feel it, for making him want her with her mysterious hold over him, effective even when he knew how little he truly meant to her.

But most of all, he hated the pleading, desperate sound of his own hoarse voice as he moaned, “Buffy – please – please…”

But it seemed to satisfy the demanding, possessive force that was in control of the Slayer at the moment. She smiled, and put her arms around his waist, pulling him away from the door and against her body.

The blinds snapped back into their normal position, and the searing heat that had tormented him was relieved. Weak with a combination of the pain from the burns on his back, and an unreasonable gratitude to his claimant that no further pain was to be inflicted, he stood there, leaning unconsciously closer to her, gasping for breath.

“Shhh,” she whispered again in a soothing, comforting tone, and he felt the urge to break down – to take the comfort she offered, regardless of the fact that he knew he would not even need it if not for her abuse.

He fought it stubbornly, blinking back tears, pressing his trembling lips together in a defiant line. He should hate her! He should despise her for what she had done to him – what she was *doing* to him. And yet, he desired her embrace, her kiss, more than ever.

God, what had she done to him?

Her piercing eyes of jade found his, searching, questioning, and he averted his gaze, feeling too open, too vulnerable, his body, his heart – God, even his mind! – exposed to her scrutiny.

*No,* he thought desperately, focusing his every thought on closing his mind to her, not wanting her to see how deeply hurt he was, how devastated by her cruelty. *No – I won’t let you in! I hate you – I hate you…*

The Slayer’s eyes narrowed dangerously, as in her attempt to read his thoughts, she got his message, loud and clear. She saw the resolve in his face, the firm set of his jaw – and beyond it, the pain he was trying to hide – and a slow, calculating smile spread across her face.

She knew just how to break down that little wall of his.

Her strong hands on his waist suddenly became soft, gentle, as she backed up away from the door toward the island in the center of the room, pulling him with her slowly. She stopped when she had almost reached the island, letting her arms fall away from him completely and regarding him for a moment before moving to walk slowly around behind him.

His body was tensed, awaiting her judgment. He had sensed her anger when he had attempted to shut her out of his thoughts, though he was not sure yet if he had succeeded. His eyes were closed, his breathing fast and shaking slightly, as he braced himself for her violent reaction.

He was caught by surprise and completely off guard when he felt her hands, tender and gentle, brushing slowly up his sides and around to his back. He felt suddenly self-conscious and ashamed, and tried to pull away from her, even as he did expecting the action to be punished.

But she only made her hands on him firmer, though still not hard, and pushed gently forward, until he was pressed between her and the counter – trapped, unable to evade her gentle touch.

“It’s all right,” she softly said. “Let me see.”

The concern, the compassion in her voice, were his undoing. He fought back the sobs that threatened to overpower him as her hands ran tenderly, carefully, up and down his back, tracing the burns left by the sunlight, but not touching them. The gentleness that she was showing now, as if his pain mattered to her – as if *he* mattered to her – was what he had craved so desperately – not just since the claim, but his entire bloody life – but had always been denied.

His emotions were so raw, so near to the surface, that he knew he was on the verge of breaking down as she whispered in a tone of affectionate sorrow, “My poor baby…” her gentle, warm hands moving between the dark red marks that criss-crossed his back.

When he felt the soft heat of her lips press lightly, tenderly, over one of the burns – it was more than his ravaged emotions could bear. He broke down, his shoulders shaking as he tried – futilely – to repress the sobs that finally overcame him. The tender gesture of compassion touched a deep need in him – flooding him with a sense of relief, safety, and belonging.

*Maybe,* he scarcely dared to hope. *Maybe she does…*

Suddenly, he felt her lips against his skin turn up in a smile – and his heart sank with a sense of despair and disappointment as he realized the game she was playing. Her mouth moved upward slightly, and in the knowledge of her true motives, the heat felt oppressive, painful, not soothing as it had moments before.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmured, before kissing him tenderly again, but this time the subtle mockery was obvious to his wounded heart. She was making light of his pain and insecurity, using it to bend him to her will.

It hurt. Bad.

“Don’t,” he whispered in an anguished, pleading voice, pushing back against her, ignoring the pain of his injuries. “Stop – Buffy, stop!”

She complied, her cruel goal accomplished, stepping back and releasing him, a firm hand on his arm turning him around to face her, moving in close to him, her eyes shining with a strange light, a smirk on her face at successfully reaffirming her power.

He was bent slightly back over the counter, drawing away from her, at the moment no longer desiring her touch – just wanting to get away from her. Relentless in her quest for power, the Slayer extended a hand to stroke lightly down his face, and as much as he hated her touch in that moment, he dared not pull away from her.

“You can’t win this, Spike,” she whispered with a soft, triumphant smirk. “You’re mine. In every sense of the word.”

His eyes closed, trembling with the emotions that coursed through him, Spike spoke softly, in a voice of stark, honest pain, “I hate this. I hate what you’re doing to me.”

She only smiled, moving in nearer, her thumb rubbing away a tear on his cheek. “I know,” she answered simply, quietly, without malice or compassion.

His jaw set in resentful anger, as he added in a voice that was trembling, but harder, “And I hate *you*.” He half-expected a blow – an angry reaction to his defiant words.

What she did was so much worse.

She pressed nearer, eliminating all space between them, as she reached a soft, strong hand behind his neck to pull him closer to her, her fingers touching the edge of her mark. He gasped slightly at the sudden contact, his lips parting slightly, breathing harder as he fought for control.

*No…no…no…*

She leaned in, covering his mouth with hers in a kiss that was invasive, demanding, and he resisted her, struggling to pull away. But as her fingers gently massaged the token of her bond over him, he found himself responding in spite of himself, craving the nearness and connection that now only she could give him.

The moment he started to respond to her kiss, the Slayer drew back, smiling into his eyes with cruel triumph. He stared at her, stunned by his own reaction as much as by the sudden loss of contact.

“Hate me?” she murmured with a soft little laugh. “No…you really don’t.” The truth hit him like a blow, driving his terrible situation home, as she added in a cold, mocking tone, “That’s what makes it so funny.”

He flinched at her words, shaking his head slowly. He didn’t want to hear this – couldn’t hear it.

“You can’t help it,” she went on mercilessly. “You might *want* to hate me…”

“Please,” he whispered, shaking his head, unable to look at her, just desperately wanting her cruel words to stop.

“…but you can’t. You need me, Spike. You’re. Mine. But you know what?” She moved in even nearer, her face mere inches from his as she smiled coldly at him.

“Stop,” he begged her softly. “Please – please just stop this…”

She ignored him completely, answering her own question. “I’m *not* yours. Not really. That’s what *really* gets you. You want me to need you – to want you like you want me – and I don’t. Won’t. Ever. Not unless I *decide* to let you make me. And that’s *so* not gonna happen!” she sneered.

His eyes shot up to hers, wide with shock and hurt, as he realized that she was talking about his unreturned claim – and the fact that she never *would* return it. He felt his heart slowly crushed under the weight of her words as she went on.

“Yeah, you managed to get a little bit of an edge for a minute there last night. So maybe now, I want you too. I’ll give you that.” She shrugged with a careless smile, leaning in closer. “But you know what the difference is between you and me, Spike?”

“Please – please stop – please don’t,” he sobbed quietly, pleading desperately for the painful things she was saying to end.

She was not finished yet, and did not intend to stop until she was. She pressed her hand behind his neck, forcing his head to tip back, baring his throat to her. Almost instinctively he tilted his head slightly, offering up the mark to her in an unconscious gesture that once again proved her words.

She did not touch the mark at all, as she leaned in close to deliver the shattering blow in a cold whisper.

“*I* can have *you* -- any…time…I…want.”

He was stunned, heartbroken by her words. “God, Buffy,” he gasped, shaking his head in disbelief at her deliberately hurtful behavior. “Buffy, please stop! Please!” His voice softened with defeat, and an aching sorrow as he repeated in a whisper, knowing that it was really too late – she was finished, “Please.”

Something in his pleading voice, some echo of the depth of his pain, reached past the possessive creature that had been in the forefront of the Slayer’s psyche – already receding now that her demands of submission had been met for the moment -- and touched the protective, caring part of her heart that wanted to nourish and defend her vampire.

She stepped suddenly back away from him, releasing him, and he finally raised his eyes to look at her, his own expression dull and defeated. He was surprised, however, to see that her eyes were clear, startled, and held none of the primal menace and possessive cruelty that had filled her moments before.

Only Buffy stared back at him, with eyes slowly widening with shock and horror at the memories of the things she had just said and done.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “Spike…” She shook her head slowly.

He looked away, sensing an apology – not ready to hear it.

She moved a hesitant step closer to him, speaking in a slow, disbelieving voice. “God – I’m so sorry, Spike…”

He just shook his head. “Don’t,” he whispered in a tone of mingled despair and disgust. “Don’t…”

Desperate, she moved in closer, putting her hands on his arms, crossed defensively over his chest. “Please – Spike, I – I don’t know why I – said those things…why I hurt – oh, God, your back! Are you okay?”

“Don’t touch me,” he whispered, pulling away from her slightly. “Buffy – just don’t, please…”

She ignored his efforts to escape her, intent only on *doing* something to make right the wrong she could remember committing, but had no idea why she had done it. It was just as it had been the night before. She felt as if something else had taken control of her, and the things she had done, while she had wanted to do them at the time, horrified and repulsed her now.

“Spike, please just listen to me!” she insisted, moving in closer. “We need to…”

“I said *don’t* bloody *touch* me!” he suddenly roared in anguish and pain, his arms flying out to break her grip and shove her forcefully backward.

Caught off guard by the unexpected blow, she staggered and fell back onto her rear. He watched as her eyes narrowed in anger – saw that light of fury come into her eyes – as she quickly rose to her feet, closing the gap between them in a matter of moments, her hand drawn back in preparation for a brutal backhand blow.

He couldn’t move away, had no choice but to simply take it, and he braced himself – but the blow never fell.

Buffy suddenly withdrew her hand with a little gasp of shock and dismay. She shook her head, staring between her hand and Spike with stricken eyes, breathing hard.

“Spike,” she whispered. “Something is – something is seriously wrong here.”

He huffed out a soft, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You don’t have to tell *me* that, Slayer,” he muttered, looking her in the eyes with a sarcastic smile that was full of pain.

“I’m sorry,” Buffy repeated, sounding distractedly and uncertain and – well, frankly, terrified. “I’m sorry. I – I have to go.” She looked back at him suddenly, and then quickly away, unable to hold his gaze after the things she had done. Without hesitation she turned and headed for the door.

He despised himself for caring at all, but felt that uncertainty, that need, coming over him, an almost desperation as he watched her walk away, and could not help but ask quietly, “When will you be back?”

She stopped with her back to him, pausing for a moment before she replied, “I don’t know. I – I’ll be back at least by sunset. To get you for the meeting. Other than that – I just don’t know.”

And without a backward glance she walked out the door.

It was only after she had gone that a stunning thought occurred to him – a thought that left his mind spinning and searching with mingled excitement and apprehension for an answer.

Yes, she was the Slayer, and didn’t get hurt as easily as normal mortal girls – but he had shoved her, hard, knocking her to the floor. It had to have caused her at least a little pain – judging by her reaction, the stiff sort of way she had risen from the floor.

He had hurt her.

And his chip had not fired.

*God, why doesn’t she open the freakin’ door?* Buffy wondered desperately as she slammed her fist urgently against the door of Anya’s tiny, run-down apartment again, several times.

Someone at the next door down the hallway peered out at her with a resentful glare. “It’s 9:30 in the morning on a Saturday, lady! Show some respect, would ya?”

At that moment, the fist that was much too strong for the small frame of the pretty blonde went right through the wood of the cheap door, and Buffy withdrew her hand with a little hiss of pain, shaking it as she bounced on her heels a bit with a little grimace.

“Crap,” she muttered. Then, almost as an afterthought, “Ow.”

She glanced up at the wide-eyed man who was staring at her in disbelief – and rising alarm. “What are *you* looking at?” she demanded irritably, and he quickly ducked back into the relative safety of his own apartment.

Just then, Anya finally opened the door, staring dubiously at the new hole in it, and then back up at the nearly panicked Slayer who had made it. She stepped back to allow Buffy to come in, commenting calmly as she did, “I hope you’re planning on paying for that. I can hardly keep up with the rent around here.”

She paused, giving her broken door a regretful look as she added, “But I might not have to worry about that much longer.”

“Sorry, Anya,” Buffy replied automatically in a hurried, breathless voice that said without saying it that whatever concern was on her mind was far more important than the broken door or Anya’s housing concerns.

Buffy just had no concept of how difficult it was for an ex-vengeance demon with very little experience at even being *human* -- let alone any other sort of experience – to keep from becoming one of the very small percentage that made of Sunnydale’s homeless population.

“I just *really* need to talk to you, it’s really important, it’s just that this whole dominance mating whatever sort of stupid ritual I ended up doing is turning out to be seriously scary and…” Her voice broke off as she frowned down at her hand, bleeding in several places from its run-in with the door.

“Do you have any band-aids?” she finished in a small, pouty voice that made Anya think of a small – and quite spoiled – child.

With a weary sigh, she put the damaged door out of her mind and headed for the bathroom to get her first aid kit. Apparently, Buffy’s situation could not wait. Or at least, Buffy was not going to *let* it wait. Her boyfriend’s best friend’s belief that the world revolved around her and whatever her current crisis happened to be could be very annoying, Anya thought, not for the first time, as she walked back into her tiny living room, first aid kit in hand.

Especially when said boyfriend seemed to agree with that belief.

She quietly sat down beside Buffy and opened the first aid kit, taking out antiseptic wipes, ointment, and band-aids. Buffy did not say a word as she carefully cleaned and bandaged her injured hand, taking deep, even breaths in an apparent attempt to calm herself.

“Are you calm enough to be coherent yet, because I’m not feeling terribly patient at the moment, and I could end up getting testy with you,” Anya said matter-of-factly when she had finished treating Buffy’s hand. She was not being sarcastic or snide – just honest, as usual.

Xander had told her that she got “testy” with him much too often. She had asked him what “testy” meant, and he had told her that it meant irritable and impatient and getting upset over little, insignificant things – and sighed in exaggerated irritation at having to explain yet another “obvious” detail of human life to her.

Anya thought Xander was the testy one.

Buffy nodded slowly, her eyes wide and solemn. “I – I think so,” she said in a near whisper. “Anya – Anya, it’s awful. I don’t know – I don’t know why I’m doing the things I’m doing – and Spike – Anya, I can’t believe what I just…oh, God…” she moaned softly, lowering her head to run her fingers back quickly through her hair in a gesture of helpless, tense frustration.

“Um, Buffy – you’re starting up with the incoherence and not making sense,” Anya informed her, not unkindly. “Please back up a little. What exactly did you *do*?”

Buffy looked back up at her, a bit startled. The thought of actually telling Anya about the little scene that had just taken place in her kitchen was horrifying to her. She could scarcely believe it herself, it had been so vicious and pointlessly cruel. She did not want anyone to know about the horrible, heartless things she had just done.

But Anya knew more about the whole situation than anyone else. If there was anyone that Buffy could talk to about this at the moment, it would be her.

And she desperately needed someone to talk to.

“I hurt him, Anya,” she whispered in a voice that sounded lost and scared. “I – I just – I treated him like – like he was nothing. I hurt him – and – and I enjoyed it.” The look in her eyes was horrified, disbelieving.

Anya was alarmed by her words, coming to the quick conclusion that maybe this time – maybe Buffy was right. Maybe her personal predicament actually *was* a bit more important than the broken door.

“Buffy,” she said slowly, cautiously, her eyes focused in a concerned frown on the wide, anxious eyes of the Slayer. “Is Spike all right?”

Buffy’s distant eyes appeared to be focused on a memory, rather than the girl sitting beside her on the couch, watching her warily. She looked up at her, shaking her head a little as she said, “What? Oh…yes…I mean…I think so. I didn’t – I didn’t hurt him – too bad.”

She shook her head again, her words driving home the reality of what had happened – that she had to even *say* that she didn’t hurt him “too bad”. Why had she hurt him at all?

“Oh, my God. Anya, what’s happening to me?” she asked in a desperate, pleading voice, her eyes downcast.

“I don’t know,” Anya replied slowly. “But Buffy – it sounds like this is getting serious. You really need to tell Giles, and we need to figure this out. Before – someone – gets hurt. Worse.” She paused, hesitant, before she asked, “What exactly did you do?”

Buffy opened her mouth to reply, then just shook her head again before resting it in her hands. “I can’t, Anya…I can’t even begin to explain it. It wasn’t all even – it wasn’t all -- *physical*…I mean…you really would have had to have been there.” She paused, releasing a soft, dark laugh. “But I’m *really* glad you weren’t.”

Anya was silent, waiting for her to go on.

Suddenly, Buffy looked up, eyes wide with a dawning idea. “Anya – I don’t think I need to be alone with Spike right now. I mean – it feels like I can’t – can’t keep control around him. But – but I want to be sure he’s – okay. Could you go back to the house with me? Maybe if someone else is there, I won’t – I mean…”

“Of course,” Anya replied immediately.

By now she was quite concerned herself about Spike’s condition, and with Buffy being all vague and cryptic with her responses, she knew she was not going to really find out anything useful from the Slayer. Not yet, anyway. Maybe Spike would be a bit more forthcoming about what had happened.


*Bloody hell, what just happened here?* Spike wondered, his mind racing as he paced frenetically back and forth across the Slayer’s living room, playing over the sequence of events again and again in his head – skipping a few parts for the sake of his own peace of mind.

The startling but exciting question of what could possibly have happened to keep his chip from firing was a welcome distraction from the more disturbing questions regarding Buffy’s cruel, vicious behavior toward him. He shuddered even to remember the words she had said to him, the way she had gloated and mocked him about his feelings for her – the power that she held over him because of her claim.

The pain from the burns on his back – already almost healed – was nothing compared to the merciless things she had said to him, driving home the point with brutal clarity that he meant absolutely nothing to her. In her absence, he felt his anger rising in response to his hurt, a sense of outrage at the sheer cruelty of it, at the way she had used him, taken liberties with his body and his emotions, only to toss him aside like so much used up garbage.

Well, he would show her! He did not know why or how it had happened, but things were different now! He didn’t know if his chip would still fire if he attempted to harm another human – if it was him or the Slayer that had changed – but one thing was certain. The chip had not fired when he had tried to hurt *Buffy* -- which left him free to try to hurt her again, if he so chose. Nothing to hold him back.

Except for the bloody claim.

It occurred to him with a sense of dismay that the physical ability to hurt Buffy without experiencing excruciating pain was fairly useless, considering the fact that she could stop him with a single, authoritative command, such as she had delivered several times since the claim had been made – and *then* proceed to deliver the excruciating pain that the chip would not.

*You can fight it, mate,* he encouraged himself. *It’s not bloody *impossible* to disobey her. Just – bloody difficult is all – you can do it.*

But he remembered the irresistible compulsion he had felt to obey her commands before – and knew with a sinking feeling in his stomach that even if he *could* manage to resist the compulsion of the claim and disobey her, the struggle it would cause him would be enough to allow her to easily gain the upper hand again – causing this scenario to also end in excruciating pain.

*Bugger.*

He was still lost in his own thoughts, trying to think of a way to use this new-found freedom, small though it seemed in light of his entire situation, to his advantage, when he heard the sound of the Slayer’s key in the door.

When he saw Anya come in behind Buffy, he was relieved that he had taken time to put his shirt back on after Buffy had left. In the wake of her vicious attack, he had simply felt too vulnerable and exposed, and the chafing fabric against the wounds on his back and his throat was small price to pay for a shred of dignity and security.

And with that thought, came a new sense of anger at the girl who had taken those things from him in the first place. Why should he feel relieved that he had put on the shirt and covered the evidence of the things she had done to him – covered her sins? It would serve her right if he let Demon Girl see every single mark she had left on him these past few days! Out the Slayer for the depraved, cruel little bint she had turned out to be!

But he knew in his heart that he could not do that. Besides the fact that his own pride would not allow him to let anyone see the abuse she had dealt him, there was a part of him that for some reason, wanted to protect her from the shame of the revelation. Maybe it was the claim – maybe something else – but in spite of himself, he wanted to spare Buffy the embarrassment.

His thoughts were cut short when his eyes met those of the Slayer – wide and searching as she stared at him, her expression grave. He nodded curtly at her and turned away, fiddling nervously with some object that he did not even see on one of the living room end tables.

The sound of Anya’s cell phone ringing broke the silence, and she took it out, frowning at the caller ID screen – then smiling as she saw who it was. She held up an apologetic finger to Buffy as she opened it and spoke into the phone.

As was typical for Anya and Xander’s conversations, it only took a few moments for the conversation to turn – well, personal. “Excuse me for a second,” Anya said to Buffy with a silly, giddy smile, heading for the porch. At Buffy’s alarmed look she added, “I’ll be *right back*, I promise.”

She stepped outside, closing the door behind her – leaving Buffy alone with her sins.

Spike had not missed Anya’s apologetic tone, the way she had stressed to Buffy reassuringly that she would not be long. “Scared to be alone with me, Slayer?” he said in a quietly mocking tone, not turning toward her or even looking up as he continued to toy with the knick-knacks on the end table.

“Hardly,” Buffy scoffed with a harsh little laugh, before she even thought about it, only realizing the mistake of that response when she saw Spike’s almost imperceptible flinch at the disparaging tone of her voice.

He looked up at her, some indistinguishable emotion mingled with the unmistakable fire of anger in his eyes. “Well maybe you should be,” he said softly.

Buffy was startled by the bold response, the first defiance she had seen in Spike since the claim. Well – the second, she amended in her mind – the first being that shove in the kitchen earlier.

This comment evoked the same response in her, though she fought once again to suppress it. Her eyes narrowed in anger, something in her rising up and calling for her to drive that insolence and rebellion out of him. He was supposed to be submissive to her – to obey her without question – not to defy her openly like this. A part of her wanted to walk over to him and strike him down for his audacity.

And that part of her terrified the rest of her.

She stayed where she was for a moment, afraid to approach him – not because of his threatening words, but because she was afraid of what *she* might do. An inner war raged within her, her sense of morality and her concern for this creature before her that was so thoroughly hers, battling with the dark rage that was new and frightening to her, and yet felt so much a part of her – as if it had always been there.

Spike watched her closely, trying to gauge her response to his words. He was well aware that it had been dangerous, but a part of him wanted to provoke her. He was torn, wanting to test the limits of the claim and use his new-found freedom from the chip – at least where Buffy was concerned – to make her pay for abasing and violating him as she had done.

And yet, he knew that at this point that would hardly be wise. If she managed – which she easily could – to subdue him with the authority of her command, he would be at her mercy again, the only change being that she would know about the malfunctioning of his chip – and she would be seriously pissed off.

She laughed softly, and he heard a dangerous note in the sound. He could see the anger in her eyes, though it was still restrained, as she replied quietly, “I don’t think so, Spike.” She paused. “Maybe I’m just tiring of your company.”

He suppressed another flinch at her harsh words, and studied her face for a moment longer before making his expression indifferent and shrugging his shoulders. “Perhaps you’re right.” He turned his back on her again, returning his attention to the end table. “I *know* I’m tiring of yours.”

It was a lie. He needed her, and he knew it. Her words had hurt terribly, and he was only trying to defend his already badly injured emotions by shooting them back at her.

Apparently they hit their mark.

He heard and sensed her sudden approach, spinning around to face her just as she reached him, leaning back over the end table as she moved in close to him with a calm, controlled smile.

“Are you?” she asked softly, reaching a hand out – and he knew what her goal was.

And he was determined not to let her achieve it. Not this time. His hand rose quickly to cover the vulnerable spot on his throat, covered by the turtleneck he was wearing, but he knew still open to her touch – unless he made it otherwise. As difficult as it was, knowing the terrifying fury he would see there, he made himself meet her eyes firmly, calmly.

Her eyes were wide with stunned, incredulous anger. “What do you think you’re doing?” she asked in a dangerously soft voice, pressing in closer, her hand reaching back to grip his hair at the back of his head, pulling his head back in a threatening way.

He could feel the power of her possessive rage, her fury at his daring to deny her what was hers – mingled with his own desire for her touch. The mark beneath his hand burned, ached, with a physical longing for her. But he was determined to be strong. He would not let her do again what she had done that morning.

His breathing quickened slightly, involuntarily, and he closed his eyes – but he did not move his hand. “Don’t rightly know, love,” he admitted in a voice just above a whisper. “But I know what you’re *not* doing. Not this time.”

She was silent for a moment, not moving or making a sound, and he waited in breathless anticipation, unsure of how she would react, his mind racing ahead. He was well aware that he might be fighting a losing battle, if he resorted to brute force to get her way. True, he could fight her now. But the moment he removed his protecting hand from her mark, it would be vulnerable to her again.

And he knew that if she managed to touch him there – the battle would be lost in an instant.

Suddenly, the front door opened again, and Anya came back inside, closing her cell phone and putting it away. She froze when she saw the little scene – the Slayer, and her vampire mate, backed up against the wall in their tense little stand off that had barely begun.

“Um…sorry, Buffy…that was Xander,” Anya said slowly. “I – kind of needed to take that.” She paused before adding pointedly, emphatically, “But I’m here now. So…”

Buffy’s hand in Spike’s hair slowly eased, then slid down to the back of his neck, rubbing slowly for a moment in a gesture that might have been affection, before releasing him completely.

She knew what she was doing. The slight massaging motion of her hand pulled at the mark under his hand, though she didn’t actually touch it, and as her hand moved away, he felt a deep desire to back down – to uncover the mark to her and let her touch him, let her do whatever she wanted – if only she’d fill the craving building again deep inside him.

But the cold smirk in her eyes as he opened his to look at her told him that she wouldn’t, even if he let her – even if he begged her to.

“Fine,” she said in a soft voice of unconcern, with a little shrug, as she stepped back, easing the relentless pressure of her nearness to him. “Have it your way, Spike.” She paused, adding under her breath as she moved away, “We’ll see how long *that* lasts.”

His heart sank as she moved away from him to approach Anya, the little encounter – and him – seemingly forgotten completely.

He mattered that little to her.

And he wondered, as her last words echoed in his mind, if he would prove to be strong enough to resist the pull of her claim, the powerful desire for her that remained in spite of the cruel way she had treated him. Even now, a part of him longed to go to her, to tell her that he had changed her mind, and beg her to touch him.

He had to be strong, he told himself, almost desperately. He had to resist her. But as she spoke to Anya for a moment, and then headed up the stairs at a slow, leisurely pace, without so much as a glance in his direction, he knew that it was going to be more difficult than he had thought.

The limits of his strength were going to be severely tested.

Spike’s heart sank as he watched the Slayer walking away from him up the stairs, a sense of panic rising in him that made something inside him want to run after her, to throw himself down in her path, at her feet, and beg her not to leave him.

And *that* made him bloody furious.

He was trying with everything in him to resist the power of her claim – to fight the overwhelming desire for her that was slowly but steadily consuming him – and yet he only wanted her more with every moment. She had done nothing but treat him like garbage from the moment she had made her claim. He should despise her, should find it easy to deny her the touch she had sought.

But it *wasn’t* easy – not at all. He craved her like he craved blood. More.

He hated the way she made him feel, the power she held over him, and wanted desperately to prove to her that he *could* resist – to make *her* be the one to long for *him*. He had seen the desire in her eyes when she looked at him, and he had heard what Anya had said in Buffy’s kitchen. No matter how cool and controlled she tried to be, he knew the truth.

Buffy wanted him.

And that gave him power over her as well – however slight. If he could just hold out longer than she could – he could manage to gain back a bit of his dignity – to break her hold over him, at least in some small way. But as he watched her slowly disappear up the stairs, without so much as a backward glance in his direction – while he could not take his eyes off her – he knew that he was not likely to win this particular little battle of wills.

*I am so completely buggered.*

A helpless sense of rage began to come over him. He wanted to beat her senseless – to fly at her with the fists and fangs she thought were useless, and remind her of who and what he really was. And yet – he didn’t, and not just because he was afraid she might overpower him. Somehow it felt – wrong – to attack her.

And that thought in itself was troubling. No – infuriating.

Whatever the Slayer had done, had she so messed with his mind that the idea of fighting her no longer seemed like a good one? He was William the Bloody, the soddin’ Slayer of Slayers!

What the bleedin’ hell had she *done* to him?

“Spike…” He barely registered the quiet, cautious voice as Anya approached him, watching him carefully. “Are you all right?”

He shook his head, his eyes closed, not looking at her, trying to control the violent fury that rose up in him, his demon’s rebellion at the realization of how thoroughly dominated he was. When a soft hand came to rest on his arm, trying to pull him out of his thoughts and back to the situation at hand, he shook it forcefully off.

Concerned not only by Buffy’s alarming behavior, but by the way Spike’s body was trembling with powerful repressed emotion, by his obvious state of upset, Anya pressed forward. “Spike,” she repeated insistently. “Did she hurt you? Are you okay?” As she spoke she moved in closer, thinking that she was still dealing with the chipped, harmless vampire that they had all become accustomed to during the past few weeks, and touched his arm again.

That assumption – and the touch – was a mistake.

“Just leave me be!” Spike snarled at her, gripping her wrist and yanking her hand off of him, before propelling her backward a few steps away from him with a hard shove.

Anya seemed more insulted and irritated than intimidated. She looked at her sore wrist for a moment, rubbing it resentfully as she said in an annoyed, questioning voice, “Okay…*ow*?”

Spike glanced up at her grudgingly, feeling bad already in spite of himself. After all, Anya had only been trying to be kind. And besides, he was beginning to think that the pretty little ex-demon might be the only one who could help him in this situation he had found himself in – that is, if he didn’t scare her off by hurting her before she could.

Hurting her…

*Oh, bollocks!*

Anya’s eyes widened with realization, and her gaze and tone became accusing as she repeated, “Ow!” The exclamation was a statement of fact, more than of pain.

She looked with suddenly wide, shocked eyes toward the stairs where Buffy had disappeared, and Spike realized with alarm that she was considering calling for the Slayer. He couldn’t blame the girl. She had just discovered that she was alone with a powerful master vampire who was free to hurt her any time he chose to – and she had no reason to believe that he would not choose to.

He moved with lightning speed, catching Anya’s arm and pushing her back against the wall, his hand covering her mouth tightly. “Anya,” he began urgently, his voice hushed as he looked her in the eye, desperately trying to make her understand. “Please listen to me. I’m not going to hurt you…aauuggh!!”

He tried to muffle his own yell of pain as the feisty redhead bit down hard on his hand, well aware that they were only a few yards from the stairs, and not wanting Buffy to hear and come down.

As he shook his injured hand with a hiss of pain, Anya actually laughed as she declared, “You better believe you’re not gonna hurt me! Let go!” As she spoke, she struggled to break his strong grip on her arm, her voice rising with her agitation. “You better.. mmmfff!”

Spike planted his hand firmly over her mouth again, pressing her back against the wall as he insisted in a desperate whisper, “Stop it, you silly bint, are you daft? I’m not going to hurt you! I just want to talk to you!”

Amazingly, Anya suddenly stopped struggling, her wide green eyes searching his.

“Please,” he whispered, feeling a premature sense of relief that she seemed to be listening. “I need to talk to you. I need you…to help me.”

Anya nodded slowly, her eyes serious and focused on his. Cautiously, he let go of her, his hand hovering over her mouth for a moment before moving away, as he began to feel more sure of her cooperation. He stepped back slightly, giving her room to move – which turned out to be a mistake.

He noticed the intent, vengeful look on her face a moment too late, as she delivered a hard kick to his shin with the pointed toe of her red pump. She was nowhere near as strong as he was, but she was mad, and the blow had caught him by surprise. He bent over with a groan, his hand going to his bruised leg, and she took the opportunity to take back her freedom of movement completely, slipping out from between Spike and the wall.

Assuming that she was going to call for Buffy first thing, Spike hurriedly gasped, his words coming out in a desperate rush, “If you tell her about the chip, I’m dead, Anya, please don’t tell her, the girl’s not right, she’ll kill me…”

When he heard no response, he looked up, his hands resting on his knees, expecting to see the ex-vengeance demon already halfway up the stairs – and was surprised to see her still standing there staring at him, arms crossed impassively over her chest. Her expression was half irritation, half triumph at her escape – but not the least bit scared.

“I know that, Spike,” she said with exaggerated patience. “Buffy’s a few fries short of a Happy Meal right now. I’m not about to tell her about the chip just so she can beat the crap out of you again, now that you’re even *more* pathetically helpless than you were *with* the chip.”

“Gee,” Spike muttered, standing up straight, slowly, holding her gaze. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” she replied, missing the sarcasm completely.

“So why’d you bloody kick me?” he demanded in irritation, barely managing to keep a pouting sound out of his voice that only would have contributed to her “pathetic and helpless” assessment of him.

She gave him a look that said clearly that she had just added “clueless” to the list.

“You threw me against the wall and covered my mouth, like I was some helpless little girl about to become your next snack!” she reminded him incredulously.

“One,” he pointed out in exasperation, counting on his fingers as he spoke in a loud whisper, still very conscious of the Slayer upstairs. “You were gonna tell Buffy. And two – if I’m so bloody helpless,” he added with a smirk. “why were you scared anyway? And three – you *are* a helpless little girl *now*, Anyanka.” He knew he was taking his anger out on the wrong woman – projecting his own insecurities onto her – but it still felt bloody good.

Anya was silent for a moment before responding calmly, holding his gaze with a look that was very serious, “Points one, two, *and* three – I am over a thousand years old. I was once a powerful demon renowned for my skill and artistry when it came to exacting vengeance on arrogant, over-confident, over-aggressive males who thought they could push women around just because they were bigger than them!”

As she spoke, her tone intense, she stepped closer to Spike, and he was surprised to find that he actually took a step back. This was a new side to Anya. She was not threatening him, he knew, and he was not afraid – but there was a new sense of – respect – building in him for her as she went on.

“Therefore, after a thousand years dealing with men who like to hurt women, I know every *possible* self-defense technique known to man, and some that aren’t – so as for being scared of you…” She shook her head and laughed softly before going on, her smile fading completely as she made her third point.

“And I recognize an unstable, emotionally unbalanced woman when I see one. And for whatever reason – Buffy’s not exactly stable at the moment.”

“Bloody right, she’s unstable!” Spike replied, a slight tremor in his voice as his mind played back over the events of the past few days. “Don’t know what’s wrong with her! I mean, she’s always been a raging bitch whose greatest joy was to make my life an unloving hell, but – but she’s always…” He hesitated, unsure how to finish the statement.

“Had a reason?” Anya suggested, with just the hint of a smile.

He shot her a dark look – followed by a little half-shrug as he admitted, “Well – yeah. But – I – I haven’t been *doing* anything to – to make her act this…” His voice trailed off, and he swallowed hard, half turning away from Anya in embarrassment as he felt his emotions rising up in him and valiantly fought them back down.

*Bloody hell, but the bint’s done a number on me!*

“Something is definitely wrong with her, Spike,” Anya said, her tone gentler now, and she moved instinctively closer to him. “You’re right. She wasn’t like this before. She said she feels like something else is controlling her. Something went wrong with the ritual. That must be why your chip stopped working, too. But whatever it is, we – we need to figure it out. I’m trying to get Buffy to tell Giles what happened, so – so he can help us find the answer…”

Spike scoffed, a soft, huffing sound in his throat. “Good luck with that,” he muttered. “Slayer’d rather dust me and be done with it than admit to her Watcher what she did to me. Not that he’d care anyway. Let the Slayer have her fun, he’d say. After all, it’s only Spike.” He paused, his sarcastic tone vanishing as he finished softly, “He bloody well deserves it.”

Anya had no response. She knew he was probably right – on all counts.

“Besides,” he added suddenly, looking up at her speculatively, “what do you need the Watcher for, anyway, Miss ‘I’m a bloody scary former demon with centuries of ancient knowledge – fear me!’?” His tone was mocking, but not cruelly so.

And he had a point.

She frowned thoughtfully. Maybe you’re right,” she said. “I can start looking into it myself, use some of my old contacts, see if I can’t figure it out on my own, since she won’t go to Giles. Yet.”

“Not on your own,” Spike corrected her. “I’m with you all the way on this one, Anyanka.” Now, the use of her old name was a sign of respect, rather than mockery. He recognized that she had the ability to help him, and appreciated that she seemed willing to do so.

“Only,” he hesitated, a little grimace passing his lips as he met her eyes. “When you say – old contacts – well – I really – don’t want it to get out in the demon community that I’m – well…”

“The Slayer’s love slave?” Anya supplied again.

The little chit was altogether *too* helpful.

“The chip thing is bad enough – and I know *that’s* got to be making the circuit as we speak,” he went on without confirming or denying her words.

Anya nodded. “I’ll be discreet.”

“Do you even know what that word means?” he asked her, but his tone was teasing in a kind way, and his smile was more open than it had been before. It was just such a relief to have found an ally in this miserable situation he was in.

“Yes,” Anya muttered darkly. “I hear it every time I open my mouth around Xander.”

“Wanker,” Spike muttered, irritated at the thought of the Slayer’s obnoxious friend. He had fortunately not spent that much time around him, but even he had noticed how disrespectful the boy tended to be to Anya.

Anya diplomatically ignored the comment and turned the conversation back to the matter at hand. “So – sometimes she’s normal, but other times she turns all psycho on you. Have you noticed what might be setting her off?”

Spike thought for a moment before replying with mild sarcasm, “Every time I move or speak?”

“Seriously, Spike.” Anya’s tone was slightly impatient, and he dutifully thought it over again. “She told *me*,” Anya offered. “that it set her off when you tried to leave.”

“Did it ever,” he agreed with a wide-eyed nod at the memory. “And – yeah, that’s what happened this morning, too! So – that would be the common thread, then?”

“What happened in here?” Anya asked. “A few minutes ago?”

Spike tried to remember. “I – I told her…” A light of understanding dawned in his eyes, as he finished, “I was tired of her.”

“She said she feels intensely possessive of you,” Anya stated matter-of-factly. “So if she thinks she’s gonna lose you – maybe that’s what does it.”

“Yeah,” he sneered his dismissal of that idea. “That’s why she goes to such great lengths to make sure I know how much she *doesn’t* need me – how little she actually cares!”

Anya heard the pain, the loneliness in his voice, but did not know what to say to make it better. She opted to simply move the conversation along again. “So maybe it’s not that. Maybe it’s just…”

“Control,” Spike finished for her this time, the pieces clicking together in his mind. “It’s when I resist her. When I try to overcome her claim.”

“She wants you to submit completely. Absolute power over you,” Anya concluded softly.

“Not bloody likely,” Spike muttered, but his tone was defensive, and as he spoke his hand rose unconsciously to rub gently over the mark on his throat.

Any caught the gesture, her eyes focused on the spot. It was covered by his turtleneck, but she knew what Buffy had told her about biting Spike, and she knew about the power of a blood bond, and where it lay.

“She’s already got it, Spike,” she said softly.

When he noticed her eyes focused on his throat, he quickly lowered his hand. “What are you talking about?” he asked quietly, his eyes averted.

“It’s a blood bond. She’s marked you and claimed you – and you accepted it. That gives her the power.” She stepped closer to him, seeking his eyes. “But you already knew that – didn’t you?”

He closed his eyes for a moment, his expression saying clearly how much he longed to deny the truth of her words. But finally, he nodded, placing his hand back over the spot on his neck, aching now with his longing for her, as he whispered, “I – I can’t help it. It’s like – something inside me is – is crying out for her. Needs her. I try to fight it, but – but something in me *wants* to submit. To – to be -- *hers*.”

The longing ache in his whispered words tore at Anya’s heart, and she found herself reaching out, a gentle hand on his arm.

This time he did not pull away from her.

“We’re gonna figure out a way to fix this, Spike,” she assured him with surprising compassion. “It’s gonna be all right. We’re gonna find out what’s happening to Buffy so we can stop it. Okay?”

He nodded – not believing a word of it. He had to admit, though, he did appreciate her concern. It felt so good to have someone around who actually cared about what he was going through.

“Why?” he asked suddenly, his voice a hoarse whisper as he met her eyes, tears in his own.

She didn’t have to ask what he meant. “Because I know what it’s like,” she said softly, sadly. “To lose everything…overnight. To – to not even be who you were anymore…”

Spike felt a lump rising up in his throat, realizing that it was true. Anya was possibly the only one he knew who possibly could understand what it was like – to be powerful and in control one moment, and utterly helpless the next.

He met her solemn green eyes with gratitude in his own, and opened his mouth to put it into words.

And in the next moment, the Slayer’s voice broke the silence from the stairs, her voice light, amused – but tinged with a subtle undercurrent of anger.

“Well. Isn’t this…cozy.”

“Well, isn’t this just a Kodak moment.” Buffy smiled disarmingly as she left the stairs and started casually toward Anya and Spike. Her smile faded to a soft expression of concern, as she registered the tears in Spike’s eyes, the weighted atmosphere of the room, and she asked sympathetically, “What’s wrong? Something I should know?”

But there was an odd note in her voice that was not quite sincere.

Anya suddenly noticed that Buffy’s intent gaze had fastened on the place where her hand rested on Spike’s arm, and withdrew it quickly, taking a step away from the vampire as she turned to face the Slayer fully.

“Everything’s okay, Buffy,” she answered automatically, but then reconsidered, her jaw setting with resolve as she met her eyes squarely and amended in a grim voice, “No. Everything’s *not* okay. Buffy – we need to talk. We need to figure out what’s going on here before someone gets hurt…”

As she was speaking, Buffy moved slowly nearer to her and Spike, and Anya instinctively moved between the Slayer and the vampire her attention was focused on, aware of the subtle threat being directed at him.

Buffy’s eyes rose to meet those of the ex-demon with a sort of surprised, amused smile – which slowly became a look of challenge as she said softly, “Excuse me,” and tried to move past Anya, holding her gaze the whole time.

Anya moved with her, blocking her path – not about to back down. “Wait,” she said firmly. “Buffy, listen to me. You have a problem. Something went wrong with the ritual, and you’re – you’re not yourself. You’re doing things that are dangerous, and you need – you need to get control, Buffy.” Anya released the final words in a rush with a long, slow breath, her eyes earnestly searching the Slayer’s for some sign of understanding.

“But I *am* in control.” Buffy smiled, and something in her eyes chilled Anya’s blood, as she realized that the person she was speaking to was probably telling the truth – she just wasn’t sure if it was really *Buffy*.

“Anya, really, everything’s fine,” maybe-not-Buffy insisted with a little laugh. “I was just upstairs practicing some meditation techniques Will taught me, and I’m feeling much calmer now. Please, Anya, I just need to talk to Spike for a minute.” Her tone said clearly that she was losing patience, and was moments away from forcing the issue.

Spike knew that she was lying through her teeth. She was no more calm now than she had been when she had left the room. He tensed at her last words, feeling a sense of dread come over him. He could feel the anger rolling off the Slayer, knew that the “talk” she had in mind would not be a pleasant one – not for him. And his emotions were so near to the surface at the moment, her fury and power so palpable, that he knew resistance would not be an option if she managed to get him alone.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea right now,” Anya spoke quietly but firmly as she bravely blocked Buffy’s advance again, as she tried to step past her.

Spike was both amazed and horrified by her courage in standing up to Buffy – because there was no way that Anya could hope to actually stop her if Buffy was determined to get to him.

And the Slayer was getting angry.

“Get out of my way,” she said in a soft voice, with just a hint of menace.

Anya took a deep breath, before answering in a voice that was strong, with just a slight tremor to it, “No.”

Buffy’s smile vanished, her eyes narrowing in undisguised anger at the attempt to prevent her from getting to *her* vampire. Spike recognized that dark, possessive gleam in her eyes, knew that the primal force that had driven the Slayer to claim him was now furious at the interfering girl who was trying to keep her from him.

Anya had no idea of the danger she was putting herself in.

Against his better judgment, without really thinking it through, Spike did the first thing that came to mind. As usual.

He stepped forward, taking Anya’s arm firmly and pulling her back as he moved forward to face Buffy, much to Anya’s surprise and dismay.

“Spike,” she protested. “No…she’s…”

“Anya,” he interrupted, firmly, calmly, hoping his fear did not show in his eyes. “It’s all right. She just wants to talk. So let’s – give the lady what she wants.” The last few words were spoken slowly, deliberately, in a slightly mocking tone, but he held her gaze as he spoke and hoped she would understand what he was trying to say.

Buffy wanted power. It was his defiance before that had caused her to become violent, and he knew that if Anya persisted in trying to keep her from him, it would have the same result now. His best hope at this point, until they could figure out how to stop what was happening, was to give her the submission she desired before she resorted to violence to get it.

Anya searched his eyes for a long moment, and seemed to understand – but still did not seem pleased. She did not want to leave him at Buffy’s mercy, but realized that physically, she could do little to protect him. If she attempted to, she would likely be badly hurt herself, and it would not do Spike any good at all.

Slowly, reluctantly, she took a step backward, looking away, very unhappy with the situation, as Spike moved cautiously toward Buffy, forcing a casual smile which the Slayer did not return. She was still looking at the other woman – the perceived threat to her claim.

“Really, Anya, everything’s okay now. We’re gonna be fine,” she assured her, just as Spike came within her reach, and she caught his arm in a firm, almost painful grip that made him flinch slightly as she pulled him closer to her. “I’ll just see you at the meeting.”

Anya was alarmed by the dismissal, aware that if Buffy was herself, she would not want Anya to leave. That was why she had invited her over in the first place. She did not want to leave Spike here alone with Buffy – but she was aware that angering the unstable Slayer would be just as dangerous – for *both* of them.

“I – I don’t have anywhere I need to be,” she shrugged in an attempt at casual. “I could hang around for a little while…”

“Or you could…*not*…” Buffy pointed out with a cold, false smile, and Spike could feel the possessive rage building up inside her, threatening to explode – knew that if Anya did not leave now, Buffy would likely throw her out bodily. And her increased anger at having to do so would not bode well for *him*, either.

“Anya,” he said quietly, his eyes averted. “Go.”

“But…”

“Just go,” he interrupted in a gentle but firm voice, appreciative of her desire to help him – but aware that she could not, not this way.

Each step seemed to take forever as Anya reluctantly walked to the door.

“See you at the meeting,” Buffy repeated, her tone friendly again now that she had gotten her way, smiling at the retreating form of the girl as she walked out the door.

The door had barely closed behind Anya when Buffy whirled around, gripping Spike’s free arm in her hand and slinging him hard against the nearest wall, right at the base of the stairs. His eyes closed and he swallowed hard, biting back a groan of pain as he felt the heat of her nearness as she pressed in close to him.

She didn’t say anything for a long moment, as he felt her warm hands sliding slowly up his arms, her touch surprisingly gentle, but powerful, restraining – intensely possessive.

“Mine,” she whispered, her voice almost tender, holding only a trace of the threat that had filled it before.

“Yes,” he agreed, nodding slowly, his eye still averted and downcast. “Yes, Buffy.” He was determined not to do anything to make her angry, to submit and do whatever he could to keep her calm, until he and Anya could get the chance to find out what was happening to her.

But as soon as her hand began to move upward toward her mark, he felt a sense of panic come over him. He could still feel her anger, and knew the pain that she could cause him with a single touch. If she touched him, he would be helpless – completely at her mercy.

His hand rose quickly, reaching to cover the mark, but Buffy was expecting it this time. Her demeanor changed again in an instant, as she caught his wrists with lightning speed and brought them together between them, crossed against his stomach and pinned with one of her strong hands. With the other she shoved him forcefully back against the wall again with a warning snarl, and he immediately ceased his struggling, though his entire body was trembling with dread – and desire.

He knew that she could hurt him, badly, and probably intended to. And yet – he craved her touch so desperately, the very touch he had denied her before. Her mark ached with her nearness, and his own longing, yearning for contact – even if the touch was cruel and punishing.

She kept his wrists pinned with one hand, her body pressed against him preventing his escape, as she traced a slow line with her fingertips, back up his arm to his shoulder, stopping a bare inch from her covered mark, studying his face impassively.

His eyes were closed, his lips parted and trembling as he gasped for breath, overwhelmed by the mere anticipation of her touch. As her hand neared its goal, he instinctively bared his throat to her in submission and need. His actions were a contradiction, he knew – first attempting to prevent her from touching him at all, and then silently begging for the very same touch – but so were his emotions.

He wanted her, and he feared her – craved her touch, and dreaded it – rebelled against her claim, and yet longed to submit. As her fingers traced a slow, torturous circle around the outer edge of her mark, he fought dual impulses, both to jerk free of her restraining hands and escape – and to press into her touch, to urge her on to more.

*Submit,* he reminded himself urgently. *Submit, submit…* he repeated over in his head, trying to make himself remember what he had decided would be his best means of escaping this encounter unharmed.

A cool smile playing over her lips, Buffy slowly made the circle she was tracing smaller and smaller, edging nearer to the aching place he longed for her to touch – but not touching it. And then, suddenly, she removed her hand completely.

He fought back a whimper of frustration, leaning unconsciously nearer to her hand, which responded by gripping his hair and shoving his head back against the wall again, holding him there for a moment to indicate that she did not want him to move, before releasing him, leaning in to speak softly near his ear.

“I thought you didn’t want me to touch you there, Spike.” Her voice was softly mocking, with a hint of vindictive anger in her tone, and her warm breath teased the spot, already highly sensitive from her touch.

“No,” he whispered desperately, his former resolve forgotten. “Buffy, please, I need you – I – I *want* you to touch me, please…” he babbled out the words in a desperate, breathless rush. “Please, Buffy, please, Buffy…” Reason, pride, had fled; all he was conscious of was the urgent need she had driven him to, and was now so viciously withholding.

“You let her touch you.” The simple statement was an accusation, as the Slayer suddenly stepped back, breaking the contact between them completely, cold eyes narrowed on him in anger.

Though the press of her body against his, the forced closeness, had been oppressive and unsettling, he felt her absence, the loss of contact, like a physical pain, starting at the abandoned, desperate mark, and coursing through his body with a sense of cold fear, at the thought that perhaps he had crossed a line, made her so angry that she no longer wanted him at all.

He had heard of one or two claimed vampires who had been abandoned – rejected – by their claimants, cast aside, no longer considered worthy of their affections. The loneliness, the agony of rejection, had driven those vampires mad with the unrelenting, unfulfilled need of the claims that still bound them, regardless of the presence of their claimants.

As those old stories raced through his head with a sense of panic at Buffy’s withdrawal, his greatest fear, of spending the rest of his existence belonging to the volatile, powerful Slayer, was replaced by a greater fear – of *not* belonging to her, of having her, now that she had claimed him, decide that she had made a terrible mistake and no longer wanted him.

“Please – please, Buffy…” he whispered, moving forward without realizing he was even doing it, just desperate to fill the awful gap between them.

She cut him off suddenly with a hard hand at his throat, slamming him back into the wall with frightening power, cutting off his unneeded oxygen as she leaned in close again and snarled in a low, menacing voice, “Don’t. Move.”

He shook his head emphatically in a silent promise, and she loosened her hold, but did not let him go completely, pressing in closer to him as she demanded in a low voice of terrifying fury, “Which is it, Spike? You want me to touch you? Or not?”

“Yes, yes,” he gasped out, the words almost a sob. “I need you, need you, Buffy, I *want* you to touch me, please!”

He was desperate already, but driven to further urgency of need as her thumb, resting just over her mark, lowered slightly to slide over the soft material that covered it in the lightest ghost of a touch, and he let out a soft moan of mingled pleasure and pleading.

“You sure?” she taunted with a hard, angry smile of triumph. “You wouldn’t rather it was someone else?” As she spoke she lifted her thumb so that she was no longer touching him.

“No,” he pleaded. “No – no one else, Buffy! I don’t want anyone but you, only you, Buffy! Only you!”

Her hand on his throat softened, then slid around to the back of his neck, fisting in his hair and pulling his head back slightly as she pressed in closer, one hand slipping possessively around his waist and pulling him closer to her.

She held his gaze with smoldering fury and desire in her own, as she whispered, “Yes. Only me. Only *mine*, Spike. You’re mine. And *no one* else can touch you!”

Her possessive words of ownership stirred a deep longing within him that he had only recently discovered, and unexpectedly sent a rush of blood to his groin. He felt himself hardening against her as he moaned softly, “Buffy – Buffy – you – only yours – no one else…”

His words were cut off again, as she suddenly jerked his head forward, her lips crushing his with a bruising, punishing kiss that pressed him back into the wall again, and caused the swelling bulge of his erection to grow even harder. She smiled against his lips when she felt his reaction to her, her hand at his waist dropping down to grab the back of his thigh and pull him tighter against her, rotating her hips slowly against him as she did.

A soft, strangled cry of pleasure rose from his throat, his lips parted and gasping against hers as she drew him even nearer to her. “Buffy!” he moaned. “God, *Buffy*!”

“You like that?” she murmured in a low, throaty voice, her smile widening as he nodded weakly, his eyes closed, breathing heavily as he leaned into her embrace.

Her hand in his hair lowered to rub the back of his neck in slow, firm circles, edging again toward the place that marked him as hers. “Buffy,” he gasped out. “Buffy…yes….need you, Buffy…”

“Only me,” she repeated in a harsh, demanding tone. “Mine! You’re mine, Spike! Only mine!”

“Yes,” he gasped, a desperate, pleading note in his voice. “Yours, Buffy, only yours…”

Her hand became forceful again, tipping his head back, making him vulnerable to her, as she went on in a low, possessive growl, her lips brushing the sensitive skin of his throat just above the mark. “No one else has the right to touch you! *No one*!”

“No,” he gasped out, shaking his head in obedience. “No one else – no one but you – only yours, Buffy – please!”

She knew what it was he was pleading for – both his rebellion and his submission had earned it – as she met his eyes with a dark, feral intensity and repeated forcefully one last time, “*Mine*!”

“Yes,” he whispered, his voice soft and broken with emotion and need. “Yes…yours, Buffy…always yours…”

As before, the complete submission, the total giving of control to her, satisfied the need in her to reiterate the power of her claim, and he watched in wonder and confusion as the primal force within her gradually receded, and she became “just Buffy” again, before his eyes.

Startled, uncertain, she drew back from him slightly, staring at him through wide, stricken eyes.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered, taking in his bruised, ravaged mouth, his shaken demeanor and fearful, uncertain eyes. “Spike – I’m so sorry…”

*Sorry?* he thought, the word sending a fresh pang through him. God, he needed her so much! She had just spent the past few minutes reclaiming him, reaffirming that he was hers, that he mattered to her – and she was *sorry*?

He could not help the little flinch that went through him at the unintentionally hurtful word. He shook his head slightly, swallowing back a sob.

*No…no…she can’t change her mind now…she can’t just *do* that and then…no…*

“Please,” he whispered in the same broken tone he had used moments before. “Please, Buffy…don’t…”

She flinched this time, misunderstanding his words, her eyes welling with tears. “Spike, I’m so sorry. I need to just – just stay away…I’m so sorry…” As she spoke, she backed away a few steps, her eyes averted.

She was stunned when a cool, strong hand suddenly caught her arm, pulling her back, and she looked up into wide, panicked blue eyes – *so beautiful* went through her mind as she nearly lost herself in them.

“Please, Buffy,” he whispered desperately, holding her gaze. “Please don’t – don’t go…”

Her eyes widened and she stared at him in shock at the unexpected plea. “Don’t hurt me” she might have expected, after the cruel way she had manhandled and abused him. “Leave me alone” – yes, not a surprise. But that he actually wanted her to stay…

She searched his eyes, startled and awed by the depth of emotion she saw there, the desperate, yearning need – and she remembered what Anya had said. A heavy sense of responsibility came over her as she recalled the words of the ex-demon. Spike *needed* her – desperately. No matter what she did to him, no matter how badly she treated him, he was still going to crave her, desire her, *need* her – because of the claim she had made.

She had the sudden realization that leaving, now, denying his plea, would hurt him worse than anything she had done to him thus far.

And the truth was, she realized, taking in the beautiful sight of the creature before her – she wanted him, too. He was hers, she realized anew with a sense of elation and pleasure. Hers to cherish – to protect – to…

“Buffy,” Spike whispered, drawing her attention from her thoughts of him, to the reality of him, standing before her, searching her eyes with desperate, open need. “Please…I need you…I need…”

He never got the chance to finish his sentence, because in the next moment, the Slayer’s lips were covering his, her arms wrapped around him in an embrace more tender, more intimate, than any she had allowed since the claim. She did not know what she was feeling exactly, or why she was feeling it.

All she knew was that this felt *right*. And after all the hurt she had caused him, intentional or not, she knew that Spike deserved what she was offering him in this moment – and she would give it to him while she could. After all, she had no idea if in the next moment she would no longer be able to give it to him at all.

And she had a *lot* to make up for.

The sweet intensity of that kiss was like nothing Buffy had ever felt before, as Spike’s cool mouth yielded to her own, drinking in her kiss with an urgency, a hunger, that took her breath away. Never had she felt so desired – so *needed* -- as Spike made her feel

Trembling hands hesitantly went to her waist, and she could feel his desperation for closeness, and his fear of daring to anger her by pulling her closer. A pang of guilt went through her; she really could not blame him, after the cruel responses that had met his previous attempts to even touch her at all.

The very thought of the things she had done and said to him was deeply troubling to her, and she knew that she and Spike needed to just sit down and *talk* -- to try to make sense of what was going on, to try to find a way to somehow put it right, or at least deal with the mess they -- *she* -- had made of things.

But there had been no mistaking the painful insecurity, the desperate, longing need in his eyes when he had reached for her moments before, when he had begged her not to leave him – and instinctively she knew that he needed this most basic, primal reassurance more than any words that she could speak.

Tenderly she put her arm around his waist, hugging him gently in nearer to her, breaking the kiss to whisper softly, “It’s okay. You can touch me, Spike…it’s okay…”

The simple permission, the soft affection in her tone, sent a shudder of pleasure and relief through him, as he slowly, almost reverently drew in nearer, his hands at her waist sliding around to embrace her more fully. “Buffy…” he gasped, his voice trembling with uncertainty and need. “Buffy…”

“It’s all right,” she reassured him, kissing a trail down from his lips to his throat. “It’s okay…Spike, I *want* you – I want you so much!”

As her mouth reached the place where his shirt covered his throat, she began to move back up toward his lips, and was surprised by the soft, pleading whimper that rose in her vampire’s throat, as he turned his head slightly, giving her better access to the mark that was crying out, burning for her tuch.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice soft, broken, and submissive. She had told him not to push her, that his place was to simply accept what she offered him without making demands of his won – but this was in no way a demand. It was a heartfelt, humble plea. “Buffy – please – please…”

Her green eyes softened on his face, open and vulnerable, desperate for her -- *needing* her – and without a word she slowly slid the shirt up his body, her eyes darkening, smoldering with desire as he obediently raised his arms to allow her to remove the offending garment, and his glorious body was revealed to her.

She cast the shirt aside with one hand, the other holding one wrist in a gently restraining grip, so that he knew not to move as she returned her free hand to his other wrist, and slowly trailed her hands down his raised arms, sliding down his back and around to run up and down the hard muscle of his flawless ivory chest.

“You’re so beautiful,” she murmured in an awed tone, her hands returning to his waist to pull him closer as her mouth fell to his throat, kissing and licking delicately, teasingly, around the sensitive flesh of her mark. “And you’re mine,” she whispered, in a tone of blissful satisfaction. “All mine.”

The words had aroused his desire before, when spoken fiercely and possessively. But now, whispered in tenderness and affection, they drove him to a frenzy of need. As she felt his swelling erection against her, she lowered a hand between them to cup it softly, a light squeeze earning a low moan of pleasure, before she raised the hand again to work the zipper of his jeans, her other had moving behind his neck to steady him as his head rolled back, his eyes closed as the increased sensation poured over him.

“Yes,” he gasped. “Yes, please, Buffy! Please!”

She needed no further encouragement to reaffirm her claim, as she finally made the contact he had craved, soft warm lips caressing her mark in a tender kiss, teeth and tongue gently working at the spot as Spike moaned in an exquisite agony of pleasure.

All his doubts – his fears of her rejection, her cruelty, vanished under the power of the sweet connection they shared in this moment. In her touch he felt her regret at hurting him, her desire to make things right, the tenderness, acceptance, reassurance that he craved.

“Buffy,” he gasped. “Yes – need you, Buffy -- *God*!”

His hands moved up and down her back as he gently pressed her nearer to him, needing her to be closer, to surround him, leaving no space between them. He had forgotten completely her earlier orders not to touch without permission, but that was all right for the moment.

So had she.

His raw need quickened her desire, and she bit down sharply on his throat, not quite breaking the already torn skin – but it was more than enough. She felt his body go slack for a moment, his knees buckling, and only the pressure of her body was holding him up against the wall as he gasped for breath.

She withdrew, and the pleading, strangled little cry she heard in his throat tore at her, called to her, and piqued her arousal. “Come on,” she whispered, taking his arm as she backed away a few steps, then turned and hurried up the stairs.

He somehow managed to keep up on weak, trembling legs that seemed to have lost all their strength under the power of her tender ministrations, until she pulled him into her bedroom with an almost frantic urgency, slamming the door hard before grabbing him by the arms and throwing him down on the bed.

He waited, eyes closed, breathless but unafraid, for the return of her touch – but felt nothing. Suddenly fearful and apprehensive, he looked up at her, but did not dare to rise from the bed – and froze completely at what he saw.

It was Buffy, he knew – and not the terrifying version of her that seemed to have so much control lately – but there was a smoldering, possessive desire in her eyes that took his breath away. There was none of the former desire to force him into submission – *Why should there be?* he thought. He had already given her that.

But there was a powerful desire in her eyes, a need to claim him again, in every possible way – to make him her own, through pleasure and promise, rather than with cruelty and violence.

She held his gaze with the intense look, as she slowly shed her skirt, revealing to him her bare body beneath it. The heat in her jade eyes was scorching as she unbuttoned her blouse and slid it back off of her shoulders, then unfastened her bra and let it slide to the floor as well.

*Mine,* the thought flew through his mind unbidden, and his eye widened with the realization. No matter what Buffy had said, no matter how viciously she had reinforced her own dominance in the blood bond that held them, the fact remained that he had claimed *her*, too. She *was* his. And while his claim did not give him the power that hers held, it was still real, and binding. She was his.

It was a glorious thought.

And then, the capacity for thought left him as the Slayer was upon him, tugging urgently at his jeans to free his body to her touch. He obediently raised his hips to allow her to slide the denim down under him and off, tossing it carelessly to the floor beside the bed.

She leaned down over him, holding his gaze with a smile that was both lustful and tender, as she laid a soft kiss near but not directly on his lips, and whispered, “You want me?” There was a teasing sparkle in her eyes, but no cruelty, and he knew that she had no intention of holding out on him – not this time.

“Yes,” he whispered, with a depth of intensity in his voice that drove her to greater need. “Want you so bad, Buffy…*need* you…”

She slowly rotated her hips above him, so that her body stroked over his sensitive member, without actually taking him in, and he groaned at the torturous pleasure of the sensation. She brought her mouth close enough to brush his ear as she whispered, “You’re mine, Spike – my own. Only I can give you what you need. And I’m going to.”

The words alone sent a delicious shudder of anticipation through him, just before all at once Buffy fell down onto him, encasing him in her heat, at the same moment, resuming her tender attention to his throat, kissing and laving her mark with her tongue. His hands lowered to her hips to clutch her to him, his own pelvis thrusting up into her without even realizing it, without restraint, as he moaned in pleasure at the overwhelming sensations.

There was no reprimand, no punishment, and he found himself realizing that it was because she *wanted* his touch – wanted *him*. Her hold on him was powerful, unbreakable in fact, an at times terrifying – but he had a hold on her, too. The only thing that kept him in submission to her was the fact that she had not returned his claim.

But now, as he stared into hooded, glazed green eyes dark with desire for him, and saw how deeply she wanted him, he began to think – maybe…

He realized he was taking a risk, as he consciously slowed his movements, his hands on her hips clutching tightly and almost stilling her for a moment, meeting her startled eyes with a slow, seductive smirk when she raised her head to look at him questioningly, as he reset their pace, grinding slowly against her in a way that made her suddenly gasp for breath at the pleasure that went coursing through her.

“Buffy,” he whispered as his hands pressed her nearer, and she moaned with the feelings he was birthing in her. “Buffy – I can make you feel so good…let me show you, Buffy…let me…”

Her head fell back slightly as she gasped at a slightly harder thrust of his body, and he took that as consent, taking a chance and raising his hands to her arms to roll them over so that he was above her. She looked up at him with an expression resembling panic for a moment, and he saw a glint of something dangerous in her eyes.

He lowered his own in a submissive manner, his grip on her arms loosening as he whispered softly, “Only to please you, Buffy…please let me make it good for you, Buffy…please…only if you want me to…” He knew he was riding a dangerous line here, and did not want to risk angering her, drawing out that strange force in her that strove to punish every defiance. “Please,” he whispered. “I only want to please you.”

As he spoke, he moved ever so slightly against her, and she let out a soft moan, her head falling back on the pillow and her eyes closing for a moment. She did not speak her permission, but as she laid her head back she pulled him against her, thrusting up toward him urgently.

They were both very near to the edge, as he continued the beautiful rhythm of their bodies together, leaning close to her ear to whisper to her the whole time, “So beautiful, Buffy…so sweet…need you…want to make you happy…forever, Buffy…yours…want you…want you to be…mine…” He paused there, waiting for the dreaded reaction, but the Slayer either was beyond comprehension at this point – or did not have an objection to the words.

Encouraged, he intensified his efforts, felt her inner shuddering as she approached her climax, hesitating as he instantly rethought his plan. But she wanted him so badly – she was weak – she was under the power of the desire for him created by his claim…

Suddenly, his face changed and almost gently, he slid his fangs into her throat, drawing from her with a passionate intensity. She gasped, her eyes shooting open in shock, pain, pleasure, as her orgasm engulfed her.

“Mine!” he growled possessively near her ear. “Say it, Buffy…mine…I’m yours and you’re mine…say it!”

“I – I’m…” she gasped, frowning with some inner conflict, shaking her head slightly. “I…”

“Please,” he whispered, searching her face for a moment before dropping his fangs to her throat again, savoring the sweet taste of her, as the strength flowed through him. “Mine, Buffy,” he whispered, pulling back again. “Mine…mine…”

“Mine,” she repeated mindlessly, her voice faint, as if struggling for consciousness through a dense fog, her eyes closed and her head turned, her throat arching up as if seeking his bite again. “Mine…mine…”

Suddenly, her eyes snapped open again, and met his, wide and shocked – and with a total clarity of understanding. He stared at her, trying frantically to read her expression – as it slowly went from stunned understanding, to disappointment – to anger.

“*Mine*!” she repeated in a whisper that was almost a snarl, with a menace in her tone that told him he had made a serious mistake.

Within an instant their positions were reversed, and she gripped his wrists in her hands, holding them over his head, her satiated body still impaled on his still-erect member as she glared down at him in fury at his attempt to trick her, enraged by his deception and defiance.

He could see the dangerous light in her eyes, and knew that he was in very real danger. He did not try to fight her, aware that a single command from her lips would leave him powerless to fight anymore, and with one more transgression on her list to punish him for.

“Buffy,” he whispered, meeting her eyes with a desperate look. “Buffy, please…”

“Shut up!” she snarled, pinning both his wrists with one hand as her other hand drew back and struck him hard, across the face, snapping his head to the side with the force of the blow.

He did not dare to move, closing his eyes and biting his lip to hold back his emotional response. She had not struck him before, not since the claim, and somehow – it was as painful emotionally as physically – an insult, a rejection, a statement of how unworthy and disfavoured he was by his claimant.

“You *dare* to attempt to defy me again? To try to put me under your power?” she went on, her voice calmer, but trembling with cold rage as she leaned down closer to him, deliberately dipping down lower onto him, rotating slightly and making him moan at the intense sensation, at this point only another indication of her power over him.

“You *have* no power, vampire,” she snarled menacingly, another expert twist of her body, in combination with the tight clenching of her body around him pulling a sharp cry of mingled pain and pleasure from the pinned, helpless vampire beneath her. “You’re *mine*!” she declared furiously. “And you *will* submit! Mine!”

And with those words, she gripped his hair painfully and yanked his head back as she bit down with brutal strength and ferocity on her mark, drawing his blood and sucking it into her mouth with a fierceness and power that left him breathless and gasping in shock, pain, and pleasure.

The combination of the bite and one last final thrust of her body around him brought him to his own climax, even in the midst of the pain, and he found himself moaning, crying out, sobbing, “Buffy…God, *Buffy*…yours, Buffy…please…”

The pleasure of the orgasm passed, and still her teeth were clenched in his flesh, viciously tearing at the mark, re-opening the original wound and sending a searing agony through him, leaving him still pleading, but this time for her to stop.

“Buffy…no…Buffy…please, stop…no…sorry…” he sobbed out, his body going slack beneath her, submitting completely, turning his head slightly to silently tell her that he was hers to do with as she would, to torment and punish and rend until her anger was sated, if she so chose – even though he desperately hoped that she would not.

It was then that her fury was gradually sated, and she released her hold on his throat, drawing back. His eyes were closed, his head turned away, and this time he did not witness Buffy’s gradual return to herself.

This time, she did not appear as shocked by what had happened – she had been aware of what she was doing the entire time, although unable to stop it – but she was every bit as horrified and dismayed by the damage she had done. Her hand rose instinctively toward the glaring wound in his throat, not quite touching it…

He flinched away before she could, shaking his head and pleading softly, “No, Buffy…don’t…I’m sorry, I won’t…won’t do it again, please, Buffy…”

Her eyes softened, filling with tears as her hand went instead behind his head, pulling him close to her. At first, his body stiffened against her embrace, resistant and fearful – but then, she felt him relax – no, *collapse* -- into her touch, shaking with deep sobs as he leaned against her, his hands lowering tentatively from where she had held them above his head, but not daring to touch her.

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “It’s okay. Come here,” she murmured comfortingly, pulling his arms gently around her to indicated that it was all right for him to touch her.

And he clung to her, until his emotional reaction had passed.

When he seemed calmer, she reached a gentle hand toward his shoulder, on the uninjured side, to lift his head to look at her. He resisted slightly – not too much, he didn’t dare – not wanting to face her, confused and ashamed.

When he finally gathered the courage to look her in the eye, he was startled by the sorrow and confusion he saw in her eyes as well.

“Spike,” she said softly, holding his gaze with a solemn intensity. “We *really* need to talk.”

“I’m sorry,” Buffy whispered, the regret in her tearful green eyes unmistakable as her gaze fell on Spike’s torn, ravaged throat, then on the bruising cheek she had struck. “I’m so sorry, Spike.”

When she reached out a gentle hand to touch his face, he could not help it, no matter how hard he tried. He flinched slightly, tensed for the pain that followed her touch so often these past couple of days. She immediately withdrew her hand, a look of guilt and dismay in her eyes. Her hand was still on his arm, but her grip loosened, and then released him completely, when she became suddenly aware of how tense he was under her touch, as if prepared to face an attack at any moment.

She tried to shut out her own hurt and sorrow at that realization, aware that she had no right to such feelings after what she had done to him.

“Okay,” she said, releasing a slow, shaky breath. “Um – I think we both need to take a few minutes – calm down – get – cleaned up a little. There’s no need to rush, we have all afternoon. But – but we need to sit down and talk, try to figure this out.”

As she spoke, she sought his eyes, trying to get him to look at her, but he avoided her gaze deliberately. His eyes were wide, his jaw tense and his lips set in a firm line, and she knew that he was trying to avoid becoming any more vulnerable to her than he already was, not willing to allow her to see the emotions that were always so visible in his all-too-expressive sapphire eyes.

Finally, he seemed to yield to the pressure of her piercing gaze, raising his eyes to meet her, nodding his silent acceptance of her decision.

And strangely, when he did, Buffy found that *she* was the one who had to look away, as an overwhelming sense of guilty responsibility came over her at the silent accusation in Spike’s eyes. There was no anger, certainly no threat there – but the fear, the submission that was so unlike him, accused her loudly of her crime of putting such feelings there in the first place.

Even as the Slayer, she instinctively knew – such a proud, powerful creature as Spike should never feel such things.

Ironically, it was when she turned her head away in shame at her own offenses, that a sharp twinge of pain in her neck made Buffy remember something that had been forgotten in her distress over her own actions. Her eyes widened as she gingerly touched the injured spot on her own throat, staring at her hand as she brought it away wet, smeared with her blood.

Her eyes met Spike’s again, with realization of the truth – just before narrowing in anger and suspicion. The trapped, guilty look on the vampire’s face dispelled any notion she might have had that he could have been just as surprised by this turn of events as she was. No, he had known that he could bite her, had planned it out – or else he never would have tried it at all.

He saw the angry set to her mouth, saw the fire flashing in her eyes, and drew back quickly in alarm, scooting back away from her in an effort to get out of her reach – but not quickly enough. She caught him by the hair and yanked him back close to her, leaning in close with a wide, false smile that he had seen many times during his tumultuous knowledge of this particular Slayer.

But even as she spoke, her tone and expression coolly threatening, he felt a sense of relief wash over him.

However menacing she appeared, this was not the cruel, possessive, primal Slayer that had been doing her best to smash his spirit for the past two days, the terrifying creature that had been laboring to bring him further under her power.

This was just *Buffy* -- only *really* pissed off.

And *that*, he could deal with.

“Yeah,” she said with a smirk. “we *really* need to talk!” Without really thinking about what she was doing, just automatically employing her usual intimidation techniques, Buffy gave his head a little backward jerk to emphasize her words.

When she saw his very genuine cringe of pain as the sudden motion jarred his abused throat, pulling at the tender, open wound, a fresh pang of guilt hit her, and she suddenly released her grip on his hair, moving back a bit and taking a deep breath to calm herself before she went on.

When she spoke again, her voice was calm and even, but authoritative. “I want you to go and take a shower. Get cleaned up, get dressed. There’s – there’s bandages in the bathroom cupboard if you want them. When you’re finished, I’ll do the same,” she said pointedly, eyebrows raised at her own veiled reference to the injury on her own throat – which he would definitely be required to explain. “I’ll meet you in the living room,” she finished. “and we’ll talk this out.”

She did not wait for a response; it was simply assumed between them that he would obey.

She backed off to allow him to rise, and he slid off the bed and to his feet, as she got up on the other side of the bed. His mind was racing as he headed for the bedroom door, fighting off a sense of panic as he wondered just how severe the consequences would be for his current state of chiplessness. The Slayer had told him that the only thing keeping him alive had been the fact that he could not hurt anyone anymore.

Well, there was the proof that *that* defense was no longer valid, right there in bleeding color on her neck!

He made up his mind as he headed for the shower. He no longer had the chip to hinder him; he could go anywhere, do anything he wanted to do. He would get cleaned up, get his clothes on, as she had ordered – but then, he would get out of here. While the Slayer was in the shower, before she had the chance to stake him for something that was beyond his control anyway. Yes, it would be difficult to resist the pull of her bond on him, but he was sure that if he wanted to get away bad enough, he could do it.

And he wanted it pretty bloody bad.

Suddenly, before he was even aware that the Slayer had moved, he felt a strong hand close around his arm from behind, pulling him back a step against her still naked body, as her other hand came to rest carefully over the bloodied spot on his throat.

He drew in a sharp breath at the unexpected contact, that was surprisingly not painful, despite the tender condition of the mark. In fact, he felt neither pain nor pleasure, simply an intense sensation of pressure, as she pulled him back against her. The touch was a warning, not intended to hurt him – just to make sure that he was reminded of her power.

He was.

Her nearness, the contact with her mark, had the same effect it always did, making him long for her, to please her, making anything but submission a near impossibility, despite his strongest efforts to resist it.

He yielded, leaning back against her as she rose on her feet to speak softly into his ear. “You’re not going anywhere, Spike,” she stated, her voice not threatening, gentle in fact – but with utter certainty, and unmistakable authority. “You will not attempt to leave this house. You will do just as I’ve told you and wait for me in the living room once you’re dressed.”

When she did not say anything else, he nodded silently, swallowing hard – and he knew that he would obey. He had no other choice, really. He had felt it – she had invoked the power of her claim to *force* him to obey.

As he made his way to the bathroom, helpless fear at having his means of escape denied turned to frustration at this entire situation he had found himself in, which turned to anger – at the person responsible for putting him in that situation.

As he allowed the warm water from the shower to wash the blood and other fluids from his body, he allowed the angry thoughts to take root in his mind, playing them over and over, allowing his fury to build.

This whole thing was her fault, anyway! How could she dare to blame him, kill him even, for the malfunctioning of his chip, when it was *her* bleedin’ bollixed up ritual that caused it to stop working in the first place? He thought back over the way she had treated him the past few days, the cruelty and abuse she had heaped on him – and when he realized that even now, in spite of it all, he was wanting to be near her gain, longing for her touch, whether for pleasure or pain…

It made him bloody furious.

The soddin’ bint had destroyed him, ruined him, made him into nothing more than a slave to her whims. He was a bloody master vampire, for pity’s sake! And here he was fawning over a Slayer, forced not only to do her bidding, but to *want* to do her bidding!

By the time he got out of the shower, the wound on his throat had already begun to heal, thanks to his accelerated vampire healing, but he had figured it out by now. The wound would only ever heal so much. It was the Slayer’s permanent mark of ownership over him, and would never completely vanish, would always remain sensitive, vulnerable to her touch.

Just another way she had to control him.

By the time he finished in the shower, he had worked himself up into a dangerous rage. The question was – dangerous for whom? He knew better, when thinking rationally, than to think that he could beat Buffy in a fight right now. She had too much control, mentally and physically, over him.

Then again, he was not exactly thinking rationally at the moment.

By the time Buffy got out of the shower and dressed and ready for the conversation that she was dreading, it was already just after noon. She had taken her time with it, using the time to calm herself and think things through -- as best she could while being completely confused and not having a clue, anyway.

Spike had used the time to work himself into a barely suppressed fury.

Buffy noticed the way he was pacing the living room when she walked down the stairs, agitated and restless, and to her credit, did not react as she went calmly to the sofa and sat down.

“Come here,” she said quietly, touching the seat beside her. “Come here and talk to me.”

“Not sure I want to,” he snapped, his eyes glaring daggers at her. “Might get slapped about and ordered to silence. Unless of course you’re tired of that little number.”

Buffy felt something inside her rising up at his defiant words and tone – and deliberately, forcefully fought it down. She was determined not to lose control – not this time. Instead, she kept her tone light as she replied, “Don’t tell me that’s what you’re all worked up about. I’ve *always* told you to shut up and smacked you down. It’s what I do. So why are you getting worked up about it now?”

It was a weak – and foolish – attempt at humor in the awkward situation, but it only provoked Spike to greater anger. “Yeah, and I’ve never actually done it when you told me to before, either!” he declared, turning to face her and pointing an accusing finger at her. “Never!” He paused, and his tone was softer, but still furious, when he continued, “Not until now. Did you realize I didn’t say a bloody word to you up there just now, Slayer? Not a bloody word! Just sat there and shut up and let you order me around like a bleedin’ ponce!”

He resumed his pacing, hands waving and gesturing wildly as he went on. “And yeah, Slayer, the bloody chip’s quit working, as you bloody well know by now! But have I raised a finger to you? Besides that once!” he interrupted himself quickly before she could bring up the bite marks on her neck, holding up a hand toward her to ward off her inevitable protest. “When you’ve been knocking me about and throwing me around and beating the living daylights out of me, have I lifted a hand to you? No!”

“I’m sorry,” Buffy repeated quietly. “I didn’t want to hurt you, Spike…” If he had been paying attention, he would have noticed the strain in her voice, the struggle to control the anger that was rising in her, not completely of her own volition, but against her own will, at his furious rant.

“No,” he spat back at her sarcastically. “But I suppose we’ve all got to make our sacrifices for the greater good, haven’t we, Slayer? ‘Less of course you’re evil – like me,” he amended as an afterthought.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Buffy snapped, momentarily forgetting her resolve to stay calm.

“What the bleedin’ hell do you think it means, Slayer?” Spike shot back, stopping his pacing to face her, furious. “You just had to do it, just had to do *something* because I was so dangerous, such a bleedin’ *threat*, even though I couldn’t hurt a single living person without my soddin’ head exploding, that you had to initiate an *eternal blood bond* to keep me under control! *Eternal*, Slayer. Do you have any concept of what that means? Do you have any soddin’ idea what you’ve…”

He stopped for a moment, trying to control his emotions…tried again. “Do you even know what you’ve done to…”

He gave up, the steam disappearing from his rant, and turned away, his head bowed, as he finally finished, much softer now, “Why did you even do it?”

Buffy was surprised by the soft sorrow, the note of desperation in his voice – as if some part of him was hoping for an answer from her that the rest of him knew very well he was not going to get.

“I – I didn’t really – mean to,” she admitted quietly.

He turned to face her again, and the shock and hurt on his face struck her like a physical blow.

*Okay – wrong answer,* she noted, cringing inwardly.

“You didn’t mean to – you didn’t *mean* to initiate a bloody mating claim?” he repeated, aghast at her casual comment. “How could you…”

“Actually,” she shot back defensively, a frown coming over her face as her natural defenses rose. “I *didn’t* initiate it. I was just going through with the dominance ritual. Or I thought I was. I wouldn’t have even let things get that far if you hadn’t tricked me into thinking I’d already won…”

“Well, would it kill you to crack a bleedin’ *book* before you attempt a complicated, powerful ancient ritual than happens to last *forever* -- you daft bint?” Spike interrupted her with a derisive sneer. “If you’d had any idea what you were doing to begin with…”

Buffy rose to her feet suddenly, eyes blazing with fury as she took a step toward him, not willing to give up her previous point. “I talked to Anya, and I might not get all of this just yet, but I know this much -- *you’re* the one who bit *me* first and tried the mating claim crap! I just refused to let you do what you wanted and took control of the situation! And it worked, didn’t it? You’re completely under my control! It’s not my fault you had to screw the whole thing up!”

“Is that the way you see this?” he demanded, his voice lower now as he searched her eyes in disbelief and anger, both of which barely served to mask his underlying hurt. “Just a way to keep me under control? Who cares that you’ve bloody bonded me to you for the rest of my existence, just so long as I have to do what you say?”

His comments about her intelligence were just catching up with her, and Buffy felt the perverse desire to hurt him back. “Pretty much,” she lied coolly with a shrug – although the truth was, the permanence, the weight of what she had done concerned her more than she could express. “I’m the dominant party, so the way I see it – it worked.”

He stared at her for a moment, speechless and sick at heart at the casual attitude she had about the whole thing. Real or manufactured by the ritual, his feelings for her were powerful, consuming – he knew very well that at this moment, he could not make it without her. He needed her, desperately.

But for her – it was all about winning.

He turned away from her before she could see the tears welling in his eyes, the pain on his face – but she didn’t have to see it.

She could feel it.

The bond that allowed her to hear his thoughts at times, now allowed her to feel the sorrow, the rejection and hurt that he was going through – and smote her heart with guilt again.

*God, Buffy, you keep getting this wrong!* she silently berated herself, realizing in a moment how thoughtless her words had been. But then, how could she get it right when she really did not even understand exactly what ‘it’ was?

“Spike,” she said softly, moving cautiously up behind him. “I’m sorry…”

He turned further away from her as she reached him, stretching out a hand to touch his arm. He jerked away from her, moving a few steps away. “Don’t touch me,” he said in a voice that was barely over a whisper.

The words incensed that something in her that was so demanding, so possessive of his affections, and it was an almost physical struggle for her to keep control, not to force the issue – force *him* -- to accept her touch whether he wanted it or not. The thought of what a part of her wanted to do right then was horrifying to her, and she fought with everything in her to keep control. She could not hurt him again – not now.

“Spike,” she said in a quiet, barely controlled voice that immediately caused him to turn and look at her sharply, alarm in his eyes as he realized how near she was to losing control again. “I don’t think – I don’t think you should say things like that – not – not until we can get this figured out…”

He took a few cautious steps away from her, his wide eyes focused apprehensively on her face. “And by ‘this’,” he said with barely veiled resentment. “you mean this bloody compulsion you have to beat the daylights out of me every five minutes?”

“It’s – it’s not that, Spike,” she said, with an effort taking a step back away from him, instead of following her impulse to quickly close the gap between them and grab him, punish his subtle defiance of attempting to avoid her touch. “It’s – it’s the claim. It’s like – every time you try to – to resist it, I feel like I’ve got to – like I’ve got to…”

“Put me back in line?” he supplied in a dark voice, eyes wide and solemn as he searched her face, body taut and ready as he waited, unsure yet of whether or not Buffy was in control.

She was not quite sure herself. But she nodded slowly, closing her eyes and concentrating on just – keeping – control…

But it was a losing battle. They both knew it.

Spike’s mind was racing, fighting off panic, aware that there was no way he could escape her, and that she was on the verge of giving in to the strange impulse to exert her dominance on him again. Suddenly, his mind went back to the incident upstairs – what it had taken to get her to back down, to stop the vicious punishment she had meted out then...

It took all the strength of will he possessed for him to take the few steps toward her to close the distance between them – but he somehow managed it. She took a couple of steps back in alarm at his approach, afraid that she was going to hurt him, but he gently caught her hands in his before she could retreat, seeking her gaze until she looked into his eyes, her own chillingly wild and blazing with that strange light that struck such a sense of dread into his heart.

“I’m yours, Buffy,” he whispered softly, holding her gaze as he slowly raised her hands and lowered his head slightly to press his forehead against the backs of her hands in a slow, tender gesture of submission. “Yours.” He looked up to meet her stunned eyes again, a sort of sad, ironic smile on his lips as he added softly, “Touch all you like.” He paused, and the vulnerability, the sincerity in his eyes put an ache of sorrow in her heart as he whispered, “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want you to. Because God help me, Buffy, I do…no matter what. I do.”

He watched with relief as his honest words caused the blazing rage to slowly fade out of her eyes. She looked past him for a moment, her eyes wide and stricken as she tried to take in what had just happened. Finally she met his eyes again, shaking her head slightly.

“I’m sorry, Spike. I keep saying that, I know, but I am. You – you shouldn’t have to pretend, just to…”

“I wasn’t pretending,” he interrupted quietly, subdued now, the anger seemingly vanished from him in an instant. He paused, lowering his eyes as he added, “That’s why – that’s why it…”

“Hurts,” she finished for him quietly, her eyes softening with compassion. “I didn’t mean what I said, Spike. I mean – I really didn’t know what I was getting into – not really. I can’t lie about that. But – but on some level, I – I think I did. It’s like – something inside me just *knew* that it was the thing to do.”

*The same ‘something’ that wants to break and destroy me?* he wondered uneasily, but did not speculate aloud.

She moved in closer, seeking his gaze as her hands trailed up his arms to his shoulders, and he drew in an involuntary breath at the nearness of her touch. “I *do* want you, Spike,” she admitted quietly. “I really do. And maybe it’s just the claim, but – but it’s real, Spike, whatever caused it. And I – I want you so bad. All the time.”

His eyes closed against the revelation of his emotions, and he swallowed hard, as he whispered, “You know I want you, Buffy. I need you.”

“I know,” she whispered, leaning in yet closer, her fingers playing at the edge of her mark, but without the intent to manipulate that it had been before.

This time, it was a simple gesture of powerful affection, and his head moved back slightly, then dropped forward as he leaned instinctively toward her, his lips parting with renewed desire for her, a longing that transcended all his other concerns and fears – they were still there, only overwhelmed by the power of her touch.

“I need you, Buffy,” he repeated with a sense of desperation, an aching need that was a physical pain, as his hands moved to her waist, kneading, pulling her in closer to him.

She kissed his face tenderly, her lips moving down the line of his jaw toward his neck, wanting to offer what little comfort she could after all the hurt she had caused him. “I know,” she whispered again reassuringly, her fingers caressing her mark, sending a sense of comfort and security through him as she continued the physical affection she was lavishing on him. This time, it was all about him, all about reassuring him and taking away the doubts that her own thoughtless words and actions had placed in him.

“Buffy,” he whispered urgently, brokenly, unable to put into words what he was feeling, his depth of need. “Buffy, love…”

She did not know if what she was feeling was real – if there was a way to undo the damage her claim had done, if the feelings she felt now would vanish if they *could* find a way – if she even *wanted* to find a way at this point. She only knew one thing in this moment, and only that one thing mattered.

Spike needed her.

“I’m here,” she whispered against his lips, pulling him in closer to her. “I’m here.”

Buffy pulled back, breathless, from the last of a series of tender, intimate kisses, intended, with her gentle caressing touch on her mark, to comfort and reassure Spike – who would not *need* comforting and reassuring if not for her own vicious abuse of him before, she was reminded with a pang of guilt. It made her feel terribly uncomfortable to think of how vulnerable he was to her, how badly he needed her.

And yet, in comforting him, in the tender nearness of these few sweet moments, she found that a deep need within her was satisfied as well. It was as Anya had said, she guessed. She was starting to feel the effects of his claim as well, although she had not accepted it.

“God,” she whispered as she finally drew back, searching his wide, vulnerable blue eyes for a moment before he lowered his head to rest against her shoulder. “What’s happening to us?”

He was breathing hard himself from the intensity of the moment, his trembling hands clinging to her waist as if he thought she might vanish if he stopped touching her. Finally, he raised his head to look at her again, a bit apprehensive as he whispered a hesitant correction.

“*You*.” When she just looked at him blankly for a moment, confused, he went on. “*You*, love. What’s happening to *you*? I know what’s happening to *me*.” He was quiet for a moment, dropping his gaze as he went on softly, “You claimed me – and for whatever reason I accepted it. I – I’m yours. So now – I want you desperately. I’ll never stop wanting you. I belong to you.”

“Because of the mating claim.” Buffy nodded solemnly, her voice a hushed, almost reverent whisper, her heart heavy with the weight of his words, the responsibility that came with this new-formed relationship between them.

He nodded, opening his mouth to speak again, but then hesitating over the words. “But – but *you*…” he finally managed – then stopped, glancing up at her with uncertainty, and barely masked fear.

She forced herself not to flinch at the sight of it, knew that she had caused his fear, his mistrust of her, and had no right to feel hurt over it – and focused instead on his words. “Me…?” she prompted gently, waiting for him to go on.

He looked away, unable to bring himself to say anymore, not wanting to risk angering her with his simple honesty. But his silence spoke volumes.

“I’m the one who’s messed up,” she concluded with a heavy sigh, though they both had already known that much. “This – this super-possessive, controlling – thing – that doesn’t happen in a regular mating claim? Not even for the – the dominant partner?”

*If the claim is returned, both ways,* he thought with a certain resentment, and a sad sense of longing, *there *is* no dominant partner.*

Aloud, he said softly, “No. I mean – there’s some possessiveness, to a point – but – but not like…”

*Cruel…violent…abusive…* The terrible descriptions finished his statement in her mind, a sick feeling starting in the pit of her stomach.

“Not like this,” she finished in a near whisper, pulling back from him and into her own troubling thoughts. She slowly moved across the room to the sofa and sat down, her head in her hands. “What am I going to do?” she said in a soft, despairing sort of voice.

Slowly, cautiously, Spike followed her, sitting down on the end of the sofa, careful to leave a good bit of distance between them. “Maybe your Watcher’ll know…”

“*No*!” Buffy looked up and cut him off sharply, alarm in her wide green eyes. Spike did not visibly react to her tone, but she could feel his sudden tension, the little spark of fear that shot through him, and she softened her voice as she repeated firmly, “No. I’m not telling Giles.”

Spike was quiet for a moment, accepting that, before he said in an even, cautious voice, “Love – it’s not exactly the sort of thing that lends itself well to secrecy. How do you plan to keep him from finding out? Especially now that Anya knows about it?”

Buffy frowned. “She won’t say anything. And it shouldn’t be that hard. We’re just gonna have to act like everything went according to the original plan. One way or another, you *are* in submission to me, so it shouldn’t be that hard to pull off.”

“Think you’re forgetting one thing, love.”

“What’s that?” Buffy gave him a look that was a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.

His expression, his tone, was calm as he looked her in the eye and replied quietly, “Your rampant need to rip my clothes off, throw me against the nearest flat surface and shag me senseless every five minutes.”

Her eyes widened at his blunt words, and the open desire in his eyes as he spoke them, that look that suggested that if she felt like fulfilling that particular need at this very moment, he would not have any objections. In fact, as her eyes slowly moved over his lean, muscular body and back up to eyes that were at least a shade or two darker than they had been when last she’d looked…

“S-self control,” she replied distractedly, unsure herself whether she was attempting to answer his comment, or giving herself instruction for the moment at hand. She shook her head slightly, trying to break the sort of trance that seemed to be falling over her, as she said slowly and deliberately, “We just have to show a – a little – self-control…”

A soft little smirk came over Spike’s lips as he studied her face, saw her inner struggle, the desire for him that she was trying so hard to manage – and slowly but surely yielding to, despite her better judgment.

That desire was the only scrap of power that he had left in this equation.

Aware of the effect it would have on her, he slid closer to her on the couch, his voice lowering to a soft, warm-honey tone that made her pulse quicken and her arousal surge. “*I’m* under control, love,” he reminded her. “Yours, to be exact.”

He reached up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear in an affectionate gesture that sent a pleasant shiver down her spine, her eyes beginning to drift between his eyes and his lips – betraying her thoughts as he moved in closer.

He didn’t need the telepathic power she seemed to have to know what was on her mind.

“The thing is, Buffy,” he went on, his voice soft and hushed and utterly mesmerizing as he slid nearer to her on the sofa until their legs were touching, one hand coming to rest just above her knee, and sliding slowly up her leg. “This whole thing was about – keeping me under control – but it seems to me – that you’re the one that needs controlling…”

His comment was intended to call her attention to her uncontrolled attraction, the need for him that was apparently taking her over – but something he had said seemed to trigger something in her mind, and she frowned thoughtfully for a moment, before suddenly meeting his eyes. Her own were clear, the haze of desire overcome by a look of curiosity…wait…not curiosity…

Suspicion.

Before he had time to react, she seized his wrist in an iron grip, stopping the progress of his wandering hand, and giving him a hard, speculative smile. “Speaking of control,” she said, tilting her head slightly in an inquisitive gesture she could have stolen from him, “that reminds me.”

He realized suddenly with dismay what the Slayer had just remembered.

The failure of the chip.

“Now, Buffy…” he began nervously, trying to pull his wrist free. “…wait just a bloody minute here, love…”

He could see the anger in her eyes – just normal Buffy-anger, but still pretty bloody scary, considering how much damage the Slayer could inflict on him and how easily she could render him powerless to do anything about it. The accusation in her eyes made it clear that she believed that she had been tricked, deceived about the chip in an effort to manipulate her – and she did not intend to let him get away with it.

She ignored him, holding him fast and taking his other wrist in hand as well, pushing him firmly back against the couch, leaning over him and holding him down in a way that was both intimidating and seductive.

“Buffy,” he tried again. “it’s not what you think…I didn’t even know…”

“Shut up,” she said casually, her oddly calm tone betraying her anger more than shouting would have, and having ten times the effect as she smiled calmly down at him. Verging on panic, he pushed up against her, trying to break her hold on his wrists, raising one knee up in an attempt to push her off of him.

That was a mistake.

Her eyes narrowed, her smile fading, as she snapped with clear authority, her tone leaving no room for doubt, “Stop.” As she spoke, she used her own knee to push his back down, shifting so that her legs straddled one of his, one knee between his parted thighs, just barely touching his slightly hardened manhood, without exerting any actual pressure.

He gasped at the slight contact, and the subtle threat in her eyes as they met his again – and did not move again.

“I have a question for you, Spike,” she said sweetly, her smile widening as she added, “and I’d better like the answer,” sliding her knee forward just slightly and eliciting a frightened little cry from his throat that he did his best to stifle, turning his head away from her.

She released one wrist as she leaned in closer, to turn his head back and force him to look at her. “But I’m already pretty sure I won’t,” she finished in a near whisper with a cool smile, seeming calmer now that his resistance had ceased.

She was still furious, he could tell – but he realized with relief that at least she was still *her* -- and that was a small mercy at the moment.

There was an accusing note in her voice as she went on, “I’m really curious, Spike, as to how one minute the very thought of hurting a human makes your head explode in pain, and the next, you’re taking the opportunity to stick your fangs in my neck and try to kill me…”

“Claim you,” he corrected automatically in a whisper.

“Same difference, to me,” she replied with a harsh tone that made him flinch – that, and the hurtful comment, indicating just what she thought of the idea of belonging to him as he belonged to her.

“Anyway,” she went on, oblivious to his reaction. “What I want to know is what happened to your ‘chip’?” She spoke the last word with a derisive skepticism that implied she really wasn’t sure if he’d even had a chip at all to begin with.

He was in a terribly dangerous position, he knew. He knew how weak his explanation of “I don’t know” would sound to her suspicious ears, and knew that she would likely react with violence first thing when she heard what she would perceive to be a lie.

He took a deep breath before launching into his defense. “Buffy, I know you’re not gonna believe this so why would I even say it if it wasn’t the truth, but you’ve got to believe me no matter how bloody stupid it sounds because I swear to you on my soddin’ unlife that it’s the absolute truth…” he blurted out in a desperate, shaky rush, closing his eyes in anticipation of her punishment when she did not believe him – because, bloody hell, if he was her, he wouldn’t believe him either!

He drew another deep breath, and then finished slowly in a measured voice of resignation, “I’ve got no bloody buggering clue, love. I *don’t* *know*.” He winced, his body tensing in expectation of the brutal blow he expected, the Slayer’s retribution for his deception.

It didn’t come.

After a brief pause, Buffy asked in an uncertain voice, “So you just decide you’re gonna just – I don’t know, check and see if it’s still working? – by biting me? Let’s hurt Buffy and see if my head explodes?”

“No,” he admitted quietly, looking up at her and bravely meeting her eyes. “I knew by then it wasn’t working. But only just barely. You – you should have known, too. I found out when I – when I pushed you off me. This morning.”

Buffy’s grip on his wrists suddenly slackened as she drew back slightly, swallowing hard at the sick feeling that came over her at the memory of her behavior. All at once she released him, raising up to her knees and averting her eyes with a sudden sense of shame. His next words only increased her guilt, spoken softly and full of an aching hurt.

“And just so you know – didn’t intend to hurt you. Only wanted to – to make you mine. Like I’m yours.”

She did not respond, did not make a sound or move for a long moment. Then, finally, she moved off of him completely, turning and sitting back down on the end of the couch, leaning forward and running her hands through her hair in a frustrated gesture.

“I believe you,” she said quietly, sounding exhausted and confused, and very troubled. “So the chip thing must just be another freaky side effect of the stupid ritual.”

Overwhelmingly relieved, Spike released a long, deep breath, his eyes closed for a moment before pulling himself back up to an upright position on the far end of the couch. He shot her a resentful glare as he asked in a shaken, wounded voice, “Was that really necessary, Slayer?”

The physical threat seemed to have passed, but he was still stinging from her verbal barbs, on top of her physical rejection, embarrassed and hurt by his own honesty and self-revelation – and her rather disappointing reactions to it.

“It’s bloody bad enough dealing with this whole new very unpleasant and more than a little psychotic side of you, Buffy,” he informed her in a sharp, scathing tone, “without having to deal with your natural ordinary bitchiness on top of it!”

“I’m sorry, okay?” she said quietly, and she meant it, but her exhaustion made it sound like an attempt to shut him up. “I – I just wanted to be sure you weren’t lying to me. I thought – I thought you were trying to…” She gave up, the vague impressions she had had evading words, and just shook her head, resting it in her hands again.

Spike looked at her for a long moment, trying to gauge her sincerity, and then nodded, acknowledging her words. He could understand how, especially for a Slayer, his bite upstairs could tend to make her a bit suspicious and paranoid.

“If I was lying,” he reminded her quietly after a moment. “You’d have known it.”

Her eyes widened as she remembered the little mind-reading trick that she seemed to be able to call up at will. She suddenly felt very overwhelmed again – so many new and disturbing things to try to process, and with them so much responsibility and change.

“And the freakiness just keeps on coming,” she muttered darkly.

They were both silent for a moment, lost in their own thoughts.

Finally, Buffy looked up at him again through solemn but questioning eyes. “Why did you want to?”

He frowned, a bit distractedly, looking up at her. “Want to what?”

She hesitated, before asking softly, “Make me yours.”

His eyes widened for a moment with a vaguely trapped expression, before he looked away quickly. “I – I just – just wanted to – even the score a bit,” he lied, forcing a casual tone to his voice. “Thought – if the claim was mutual – returned – maybe your need to control wouldn’t be so strong, and – and things could get back to normal around here.”

Buffy was surprised at the disappointment that went through her at his words. She had expected – well – more, or – or something – different, from what he had said. Certainly not for him to say that it had only been about evening the score. And why, she wondered suddenly, *should* he want to claim her for any other reason than that?

And why should she care if he didn’t?

“Well,” she said quietly, with a tired sigh. “I’m sorry, Spike, but I can’t let you do that. This is hard and all, but we’re gonna find a way to control – this – whatever this is that’s making me act this way. But I can’t let you – ‘even the score’,” she informed him, unable to keep the slightly bitter note out of her voice as she repeated his words. “Not now. Not that the chip has stopped working.”

He looked up at her, surprised. He had not thought about that.

“Maybe you’re right,” she conceded. “Maybe this whole thing was pointless and we didn’t need to do it. There’s no question that it was a mistake,” she admitted with a harsh laugh. “But now – since your chip’s quit working – if I give up the control I have over you – well, I’d – I’d have to stake you.”

He blinked, taken aback a bit by the blunt words. “But that’s just the thing, pet,” he said quietly, edging closer to her again, but this time with no ulterior motives. “Since this is a mating claim we’re involved in here, it involves powerful – feelings – devotion – like nothing you’ve ever experienced, love. Even if you accept my claim – you won’t have to worry about me causing trouble, chip or no – because – I’d not do it, just – just to please you. Just because – I’d still be *yours*. Only – you’d be mine, too,” he finished softly, looking down in a manner that was almost shy.

“I don’t know,” she said softly, shaking her head, too lost in her worries to notice the insecurity, the soft question in his voice. “Spike, I – I can’t do anything like that – let *you* do anything like that – until I understand more about what’s going on here.”

He was silent for a moment, taking in the new unintentional blow that was her complete obliviousness to his feelings. Finally, he replied calmly, his tone revealing only a hint of his disappointment and resignation, “Then, perhaps you should talk to your Watcher, love. I know you don’t want him to know things went wrong, but…but if he could help you find a way…”

“No,” she insisted firmly. “Not – not yet. Maybe – maybe – later. But not yet. I just – I just can’t.” She paused, before looking up at him to speak quietly but certainly, “For now, we’re just going to go to that meeting, and act like everything went the way it was intended to. Anya’s working on finding a solution, and if she can’t, then I’ll talk to Giles. But for now, this needs to be a secret.”

She looked away, and when she spoke again it was not really to him, her head resting in her hands again as she said in a voice that was almost a moan of shame and confusion, “I just can’t – can’t let him know what I’ve done.”

It was suddenly painfully clear to Spike, in her tone, that she was still horrified and just sick at heart over what she had done – over claiming him.

And Buffy was utterly unaware as once again his heart shattered in pieces at her feet.

Soon after obliviously shattering Spike’s heart for the hundredth time in less than twenty-four hours, Buffy excused herself and went upstairs to her room. She wanted to avoid being in a situation to lose control, to hurt him again – but to Spike, it felt like yet another rejection.

He turned on the television, knowing that they still had a few hours to kill before the meeting, but not surprisingly, could not focus on anything that was on. All he could think about was the pain of his current situation.

Buffy had claimed him – but she did not want him. She had done it in a desperate last ditch effort not only to control him, but to keep him from controlling her – without any genuine feelings for him on her part whatsoever. In fact, she was utterly ashamed of her claim, wanting to keep it a secret from the people in her life that she actually cared about.

*It’s your own bloody fault,* he reminded himself with bitter self-directed anger. *If you hadn’t tried to claim her it wouldn’t have happened.*

It had not occurred to him until Buffy had reminded him, but he *had* been the first one to initiate a mating claim. The idea probably would never have occurred to her if he had not tried it first. Of course, at that point, realizing that her original dominance ritual had been messed up, she would have thought that the only way to counteract his claim was to issue one of her own.

And why the bleedin’ hell had he done that anyway? he wondered, bewildered. What had ever possessed him to try not only to dominate the girl, but to make her his eternal mate? Where had the intense desire to have her as his own -- *forever* -- come from?

He had the disturbing realization that it had someone been in him since well before the actual ritual.

Just after sunset, he heard Buffy coming down the stairs, and rose from the sofa, wary and apprehensive. After all, lately he had no idea whether she was going to be the normally annoying Slayer he had gotten used to over the past few years – or the frighteningly possessive version of her that he had gotten to know better than he wanted to over the past few hours.

Buffy’s expression was sober, thoughtful, as she reached the bottom of the stairs and met his eyes for a moment, before looking away. He noticed uneasily as her eyes fell on his throat, her smoldering gaze seeming to bore right into her mark, despite the fact that it was covered by his black turtleneck. But it was only an instant before she turned abruptly without a word and went into the kitchen.

She came back shrugging into a dark red leather jacket, asking softly, in a strangely subdued voice, “Ready?”

He nodded slowly, his hand rising unconsciously to cover the wound when he saw her looking intently at it again.

She looked away quickly at his reaction, heading toward the door. He followed her silently – there was really nothing to say. He looked up at her in surprise when her hand froze on the doorknob, to see her staring at him with a piercing gaze.

“Don’t say anything about – about the mating claim, or – or the biting, or…” Her voice trailed off, and she looked away uncomfortably.

“Got it, love,” he replied flatly, moving impatiently toward the door again. “Dirty little secret. Check.”

“Hey,” she said, her voice an odd mixture of annoyance and compassion. “Don’t say that. It’s not like that, Spike, really – I just – just don’t…”

“Just don’t want them to know that for about ten seconds, you actually thought that you wanted me?” he shot back, immediately regretting the impetuous, resentful words, which revealed far more of his emotions than was wise at this point, he knew.

He looked quickly, uncertainly up to her eyes, wanting to gauge her reaction – only to see that his words had hardly registered with her. She was focused on the mark again, a slight frown creasing her brow, and an odd glimmer in her eyes that made him feel very uneasy.

“*What*?” he demanded, stepping back in alarm, his hand again rising to cover the mark defensively.

He saw it coming in her eyes, the instant before her expression darkened and she gripped his arm, yanking the protective hand away from the mark, turning him and pushing him against the door. “You can’t hide the fact that you’re mine!” she snarled menacingly, her free hand trailing lightly over the mark and up the side of his face in a possessive gesture.

He shuddered at the sensation, gasping in a single deep breath, struggling to maintain his focus, keep his thoughts together, under the power of her presence and her touch. “I – I thought – you wanted…” he tried, hardly able to put the words together through his desire and fear. “Please – I wasn’t – trying to…”

He felt Buffy’s grip on his arm slowly ease, and chanced a look up to her face. She looked startled, a bit confused, by her own behavior, as she backed up slightly, without completely releasing him.

“I – I’m sorry, Spike…I don’t know why I…I just…” She frowned, looking again at the covered but still vulnerable mark, and he tensed in anticipation. “I…” she tried again, her tone slow and uncertain, as if aware that what she was saying did not really make sense, “I – don’t think I like you wearing that…”

His eyes widened in surprise, a single eyebrow raising slightly in a wary question. “Why’s that, love?” he asked in a low, cautious voice, relieved when she released him, moving back a little further, looking thoughtfully away to consider his question.

“I – I think – I want to – to be able to…” She struggled to find words, frowning and shaking her head when she could not.

Her initial threatening words came back to him -- *You can’t hide it!*

“You don’t like it being – covered,” he supplied slowly, careful to keep his tone neutral, trying not to betray the strange combination of chilling apprehension, and blissful joy, at the implications of his words. “You – you want for – for it to be visible…known. That I’m yours.”

Her frown deepened, as she raised her eyes again to meet his, wide and confused. She nodded slowly. “Maybe – maybe that’s it – but – but I *don’t* want that,” she argued quietly, uncertainly. “I mean – I don’t think I do. I don’t want them to know what I did, but – but I think maybe – you’re right…”

He kept his eyes trained on hers, just quietly waiting for her to go on, not wanting to risk angering her, not moving or speaking again and watching her cautiously.

“I think a part of me,” she went on softly. “*does* want them to know. It’s like – I know that it’s better to keep this between us for now. The others won’t take it well, to say the least. And in my head, I know I couldn’t stand for Giles to know. And yet – I want everyone to know…”

She hesitated, shaking her head again with a weary sigh. “I don’t know. None of this makes sense.” She met his eyes again, this time with apology. “I’m sorry, Spike. I keep jumping all over you like this…”

He shrugged, attempting for unconcerned. “ ‘S all right, pet,” he said softly. “Getting used to it.”

He felt vindictively gratified when she flinched, then apprehensive again when her expression hardened.

But it was not anger, but determination, that set her jaw and strengthened her tone as she reached for the door and opened it. “Don’t,” she advised grimly. “Because it’s not gonna last.” As she led the way out the door and onto the sidewalk, he barely caught her last words, as her back was to him and the wind carried them partially away – but the desperation was clear in her voice as she finished.

“It *can’t*.”


“Buffy – Spike,” Giles greeted them with a tight, slightly uncomfortable smile as Buffy entered the Magic Box with a jangle of bells and headed directly for the table in the center of the room.

“Hey, guys,” she said with a lightness to her voice that Spike recognized as false – but which probably managed to deceive her often willingly blind friends. “What’s up?”

Willow smiled warmly, expectantly curious, at her best friend from her spot across from her at the table. Xander and Anya were sitting together near her, and Xander had been talking to her quietly – but the moment Buffy and Spike walked in, her attention was stolen away.

The anxious ex-demon glanced between the Slayer and the vampire several times, trying to gauge their behavior – not missing the nearly faded bruise that was still visible on Spike’s cheek from Buffy’s earlier blow following his second attempt to claim her. Anya had no idea of what had happened after she had left the house, but her expression darkened with worry when she saw it.

“We’re here for you to answer that question, actually, Buffy,” Giles reminded her with a calm smile, his curiosity obvious in his eyes. “I’m assuming that everything went according to plan?”

Buffy nodded with a careless shrug – too careless – as Spike hesitantly took a seat beside her, unsure of exactly how he was expected to behave at this point. “Sure. No big deal. Slayer fought big bad vampire. Kicked his ass. Not so big and bad any more.”

Spike was surprised himself by the soft growl that rose in his throat, resentful of her embarrassing misrepresentation of the way things had gone. Physically, she had not managed to overcome him; they had been quite evenly matched. She would not have been able to overcome him at all without resorting to the sexual methods she had used against him.

The slight tightening of her smile revealed that Buffy had noticed the soft sound that the others probably had not – and she was not exactly pleased. But she let it go and focused on her Watcher as he went on.

“Have you confirmed the success of the ritual in any way, Buffy?” he pressed her mildly. “You’ve proven that Spike is indeed under your control? Because, it would be quite possible for him to present a façade of submission for long enough to escape you, if necessary.”

“Yeah,” Xander agreed with a nod. “This is Spike. He’s not exactly the picture of honesty…”

“He *is*, however, still *in…the…room*,” Spike shot back with clear resentment at the way they were speaking about him, as if he were some sort of animal incapable of understanding their conversation.

“Buffy,” Xander said with a smirk. “Could you do something about him? That might help to settle the question.” He paused, giving the vampire a nasty smile of satisfaction. “I think if Spike managed to make it through the rest of the meeting without saying another word – I’d be convinced.”

Buffy hesitated only the briefest moment, in which Spike dared to hope that she might not subject him to any further humiliation in the presence of these people who had kept him a prisoner and mocked and belittled him for weeks now. Whether they knew it or not, in their little circle, his position had actually become elevated since they had last seen him – he was the chosen mate of their leader, the Slayer.

Aside from the whole nasty side effect of dealing with her insanely possessive abusive side – not all in all a bad role to have, he thought.

That is – if she would even acknowledge it.

His hopes were dashed when she reached a casual arm across his shoulder to rest her hand at the back of his neck in a heavily intimidating gesture, her thumb resting warningly above her mark as she sought his eyes.

He reluctantly looked at her, and his helpless anger, hurt – and disappointment – was clear in his eyes, giving her pause.

But only for a moment.

“Spike,” she said calmly, smiling easily at him. “Shut up. You’ll speak again when I tell you to. Clear?”

He nodded slowly, looking away from her before she could see the wounded look in his eyes.

“Wow,” Xander smiled, suitably impressed. “I think I’m convinced.”

“It’s been five seconds,” Willow said dryly.

“Yeah,” Xander cracked. “That’s gotta be some kind of record.”

“Time will tell,” Giles mused thoughtfully, studying Spike’s stormy expression, his brow creasing in a frown. He looked back to Buffy with a slight shake of his head, breaking his own reverie. “Now, Buffy – do tell us exactly how the ritual came about. This is the sort of momentous event that should be recorded and reported to the Council. I’d like to hear every last detail.”

Spike could not suppress the little snort of laughter that escaped him at those words.

*No, Rupes,* he thought wryly. *I really think you don’t.*

He realized too late that he had drawn the attention of the Scoobies with his reaction, odd to them, considering their perception of what had happened.

“What’s funny?” Willow wondered with a frown.

“Yeah,” Xander smirked, rising from the table casually and walking around the table toward the drink he had left on the counter. “Don’t think you’ve got much to laugh at, Deadboy…now that you’re impotent in every possible way…”

Anger came over the vampire at the cruel words. As Xander passed him, it was simply too tempting. Just a slight movement of his leg, and his foot caught behind the boy’s ankle as he passed, knocking him off his feet and backward onto his rear.

There was a moment’s stunned silence as the others took in what had happened, and as Xander climbed to his feet, swearing softly under his breath, Spike mentally cursed himself for letting his anger get the better of him, breathlessly waiting and hoping that no one would realize the truth about his chip. It appeared to have been accidental – possibly – and if it was an accident, then the chip wouldn’t fire? Right?

The sudden wave of anger from his claimant beside him struck him with a stunning power. He could feel the fury rolling off of Buffy at his foolish actions that would possibly cause the revelation of her secret – at least in part. He felt a sense of fear rising up in him, in spite of his resentful determination not to feel it, overwhelming him in spite of himself. He could feel her blazing glare of anger on him, and did not dare to look up at her.

He was so focused on the powerful emotions he could feel coursing through his bond with Buffy into his own consciousness that he was completely unaware of Xander as he got to his feet beside him.

“The chip,” Xander said darkly, glaring threateningly down at the very distracted blonde vampire. “The chip didn’t fire. He doesn’t have a chip anymore.”

“If he ever did,” Giles added grimly, his eyes deadly serious, his expression dismayed at this turn of events.

“So,” Xander went on, his mouth twisting up in an angry, vindictive smile. “You’re not defenseless anymore, huh?” His smile faded, his fist rising to strike as he spat out, “Good!”

Spike was unaware of the bit of conversation, unaware of the threat or the fist flying toward his face, too overwhelmed by the foreign emotions he was feeling so strongly, overwhelming him completely.

And just like that, the pressure of his claimant’s anger was lifted, vanished – or – not vanished, exactly.

Redirected.

He was only aware of Xander’s intended blow as the Slayer caught the boy’s wrist, standing to her feet in the same fluid motion and pushing him backward away from Spike, hard, without releasing his wrist.

Xander cried out in pain as his wrist was wrenched painfully by the motion. “Buffy!” he gasped. “What are you doing?”

“Don’t touch him!” she snapped, her voice a menacing growl, as she released her friend with a shove, standing protectively between him and Spike. “Don’t ever touch him!”

The dark-haired youth was suddenly terrified by the strange fury he saw in his friend’s eyes. There was a very real, even deadly, threat in her expression, and he knew that she would really harm him if he ignored her warning.

In a fearful, trembling voice, he whispered, “Okay! Okay, Buffy! Please, just – calm down!”

The threat to her claimed vampire removed, Buffy slowly returned to herself, her eyes widening with horror on the terrified face of her shaken friend, widening further as they fell on the wrist he was cradling in his uninjured hand. Total silence had fallen over the room, a heavy, shocked silence that could be physically felt.

A single thought went through Spike’s head, amidst the mingled apprehension and anticipation of the fallout of this little unintentional revelation.

*Looks like the dirty little secret’s out now.*

No one moved or spoke for a very long moment, everyone just trying to process what had just happened. Buffy felt a sick, trapped sort of feeling come over her, her mind racing in a desperate attempt to find some plausible answer that would explain, if not excuse, her behavior – any answer but the truth.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, automatically – sincere, but stalling for time.

*Those two words are becoming second nature,* she thought bitterly.

“Xander, I – I didn’t mean to hurt you,* she went on, her voice trembling with the shock of what she had done. “Are you – are you okay?”

The boy did not respond, still staring at her in disbelief, and when she took a cautious step toward him, he pulled back in alarm.

“Buffy.” Her Watcher’s carefully calm voice drew her attention from behind her. “Perhaps you’d better – sit down.” She cringed at the measured, even tone of his voice that sounded as if he was trying to talk a suicidal jumper off a ledge.

*Much more of this and I *will* be…*

She turned slowly to take in the scene at the table behind her. Giles was watching her closely, concern and alarm in his scrutinizing gaze. Willow was wide-eyed and clearly terrified, staring up at her friend from her seat with a disbelieving look of betrayal, wordlessly asking her how she could possibly have done what she had just seen her do.

*How *could* I do it?* Buffy wondered. She had always been careful to remain constantly aware of the great power she possessed, and never to use her full strength with ordinary humans, who could be so easily hurt by her – especially with her friends.

But all she had seen a few moments before was not Xander, not her best friend, but simply someone trying to hurt *her* vampire – and something inside her had snapped, and all that had mattered to her in that moment was protecting Spike. *Her* vampire…her…her…

*My *mate*,* she thought, her eyes widening, sobered by the impact of the word.

“Buffy.”

Her Watcher’s cautiously insistent voice called to her again through her swirling thoughts, and she looked up at him through troubled eyes for a moment, before slowly turning and sitting down at the table, her head in her hands as she struggled just to come to grips with the situation.

The atmosphere in the room was still charged with tension, but seemed to ease a bit as she did as Giles asked her, sitting down at the table and giving them the appearance of being somewhat in control again.

Spike ventured a cautious glance up at Buffy, trying to gauge her state of mind, but quickly looked down again, not wanting to draw her attention, not right now while her temper was so volatile. He was well aware that Xander’s attack, prevented before it could really begin, ironically was the only thing that had saved him from being the victim of the Slayer’s wrath again.

He was not eager to do anything to remind her that he was the one she had originally been angry with.

Anya had risen to her feet in alarm at Buffy’s attack on her boyfriend, but it had all happened so fast, and had been over before she could make a move toward them. In retrospect, she was glad. She knew that she could not have stopped Buffy if she had tried, and she had seen how frighteningly dangerous Buffy could be when it came to her “ownership” of Spike.

The evidence of it was right there, spelled out in purple bruises on the vampire’s face.

Now that the threat had passed, however, Anya made her way slowly to her boyfriend’s side.

As she reached gently for Xander’s injured hand, he pulled away irritably. Concerned, she persisted gently, until he jerked away from her and snapped, “Damn it, Ahn, would you leave it alone?”

She tried to tell herself that the trauma and shock of the moment were causing him not to think about what he said, but the sharp words and rejection in response to her gentle concern stung, and Anya quietly withdrew, moving back to her seat.

Xander just stood there, too agitated and upset by what had happened to even notice his girlfriend’s dejected retreat. His eyes were still focused on Buffy -- *As usual,* Anya thought – although she seemed oblivious to them all, her elbows resting on the table and her face hidden in her arms.

“Buffy,” Willow finally attempted in a very small, hesitant voice. “Buffy, are you okay?”

Buffy raised her head, her eyes still closed for a long moment as she tried to find the courage to face her friends. “No,” she said finally in a defeated voice, “No, I am not okay. I am so not okay that I am completely off the scale of not-ok-ness. In the entire history of ‘ok’, there has never been anyone less okay than I am. No. I am *not* okay.”

Buffy’s calm, if overstated, words, acknowledging the total wrongness of the situation, seemed to take the edge off the shock for the others. Xander finally moved back from across the room to take his seat by Anya again, and Spike felt a sense of vindictive satisfaction when the boy gave the vampire a wide berth on his way.

“Could you tell us what just happened, Buffy?” Giles asked in a quiet but firm voice, his expression serious and very worried. “Why you – reacted – as you did?”

Buffy was quiet for a moment before she spoke, and a subtle glance at her face told Spike that she still intended to try to talk her way out of telling her friends the truth. “I – I don’t know,” she hedged unconvincingly, not meeting her Watcher’s eyes. “I’ve just been feeling – I don’t know – protective? Of Spike. Since the ritual. I don’t know why. It’s like, if someone tries to hurt him, I feel compelled to stop them.”

*Unless it’s you,* Spike thought resentfully. *Then you feel the compelled to hurt me to your little heart’s content.*

Buffy’s slight flinch, barely concealed from the others, surprised Spike with the knowledge that she had heard his words. But she went on, deliberately ignoring it, her eyes attentively on Giles as he spoke.

“Well,” he said with a thoughtful frown. “I suppose that might make sense. The point of the ritual was to make Spike a part of the ‘pack’ so to speak, wasn’t it? So as the leader, if one of your pack is threatened – even by another member of the pack – it might stand to reason that you would feel the need to defend him.”

The others seemed relieved by his words. It gave them a reason, an explanation, for Buffy’s frightening behavior – and a possible solution to what they still thought was a relatively simple problem.

“So,” Willow voiced their thoughts with a relieved smile. “We just don’t try to hurt Spike. Problem solved.”

*No complaints there,* Spike conceded. But what slim hope he had held out for the results of this meeting were quickly vanishing.

He glanced across the table and caught Anya’s eye for a moment, saw the same grim disappointment in her eyes. It was beginning to appear that Buffy was going to get away with her little deception. Her friends did not want to believe any wrong of her, and seemed eager to accept whatever explanation was offered to them.

“Wait a second – so I’m suddenly relegated to the same status as Deadboy Junior?” Xander protested indignantly. “I don’t think so!”

“In terms of the ritual and its effects – it would appear that that is the case – at least somewhere deep in Buffy’s subconscious, some part of her sees you both as members of her pack – equals,” Giles said, a bit apologetically. “If either of you were to attack the other, I believe she would have the same reaction.”

Xander’s mood descended to a level just above outright sulking, and although the Watcher’s theory was a million miles from the truth, Spike felt a bit more cheerful just watching the Whelp’s reaction to his words.

“The chip, however,” Giles went on, his tone darkening a bit, and Spike felt Buffy’s fear of her secret’s discovery, heard her heartbeat accelerate at his words. “Does appear to be non-functioning after all. I cannot see how it could be a result of the ritual, however.”

“No,” Buffy agreed with his assessment, shaking her head. “Nothing to do with the ritual. The thing probably just – wore out,” she suggested, a bit too eagerly – but of course no one but Spike and Anya noticed.

They didn’t want to notice.

The ex-vengeance demon and the silent vampire exchanged a look of resignation. Anya clearly wanted to say something – wanted to stop Buffy’s lies and blurt out the truth. He could see it on her face. But she was too afraid of Buffy’s fury if she did, too afraid that even the others’ best efforts to help would be futile against the Slayer’s sheer strength – not that the others would really care that much anyway – not about Spike, anyway.

But Spike was convinced that if they realized that their best friend and unofficial leader was possibly possessed by some violent, malevolent force, they would care about *Buffy* enough to at least try to do something. The success of their efforts, on the other hand, was an entirely different matter. And besides, he did not have the option of telling the others.

His claimant had ordered his silence.

“I had wondered if perhaps it was only a ruse on Spike’s part from the beginning – some sort of plan to get to you, Buffy…” The Watcher paused, ignoring the irritated roll of the vampire’s eyes at that suggestion, but shaking his head slowly as he went on, “But Spike was genuinely in very poor condition when he came to us, and from what I’ve seen I’m quite convinced that he *did* have a chip at the time.”

“Which doesn’t work anymore,” Xander pointed out darkly, glaring at Spike. “Which means he’s a danger.”

“No, he’s not,” Anya spoke up quickly, looking suddenly a bit self-conscious when all eyes turned to her with varying levels of surprise – not the least of which was in Spike’s sapphire eyes as they shot up to hers. “Well, he’s not!” she insisted, a bit defensive at the questioning stares of the others. “Not as long as he’s under Buffy’s control. He has to do whatever she says, so – so all she has to do is order him not to hurt anyone. So everybody’s safe.”

“Yeah -- *sounds* nice,” Xander agreed sarcastically. “Except that for some freaky reason, Buffy seems more concerned with *Spike’s* safety than anyone else’s. Are we sure that Spike didn’t win that stupid ritual?” he said sarcastically. “Cause the whole thing seems to have come out in his favor. The Slayer’s protection – no chip…”

*Good thing he doesn’t know about the non-stop shagging,* Spike thought, suppressing a smile in spite of the situation. *Then he’d *really* be convinced that I’d won!*

Buffy’s widened eyes and red face told him that that particular little observation had not been as private as he’d thought. The sharp kick he received to his shin under the table a moment later, accompanied by a frantically whispered, *Shut *up*!* in his mind, made him stifle a yelp of pain – remembering that he had been ordered to silence.

The panic in her eyes held a perverse satisfaction for him though; she was trying so hard to keep her secret, that even his thoughts had her terrified. And then, he had to suppress a laugh, as another thought occurred to him.

*I didn’t bloody *say* anything, Slayer!* he reminded her. He knew that it would take a good deal more than that to make the Slayer actually *do* anything to him – she did not want her friends to see the frightening other side she had developed. She would have to be pretty angry to retaliate against him here.

He added with a smirk that she could hear in his mental voice, *I think it’s all in your bloody head, Slayer -- *one* of them…*

*Shut up,* she repeated with frustration, and he could hear her anger rising, but her mental voice still sounded weary and weak, and did not hold the strength of her authority behind it, leaving him the option to disobey.

He took it.

*Perhaps you’re losing your mind, love,* he went on in her head, his voice still mocking, but hardening slightly as he allowed his anger at her to creep into his tone. *It’d be all right – maybe it’d leave you with just *one* personality…*

The others were still discussing possible explanations for the failure of Spike’s chip, but Buffy was as silent as her vampire, engaged in their own private discussion, which she was attempting to cut short.

*Spike – shut…up…*

*Wonder which one you’d get to keep?* he mused with falsely friendly interest. *Hmm? The real you? Or the psychotic you? Only one thing’s for sure…*

*Spike – I’m warning you…*

The dark anger in her voice barely had time to register before he was speaking again, his own voice low with deserved anger, allowing his hurt and fury for the treatment she had given him over the past few days to come out in his tone and words.

*Either way,* he finished coldly. *She’d be a right bitch!*

Before he could react Buffy was out of her chair, seizing him by the throat and yanking him up out of his chair, slamming him forcefully into the wall behind it, blazing flames of rage in her darkened eyes of jade.

He gasped for breath that was blocked by her powerful hand at his throat, his hands pulling uselessly at hers as she leaned into his face and snarled, “I told you to *shut up*!”

She released him suddenly, only to slam her fist across his face, knocking him sideways, following it up with a savage knee to his stomach that doubled him over and sent him to his knees.

He stayed there for a long moment, his ragged gasps for breath the only sound in the room – and Buffy gradually became aware of the unnatural stillness. Her eyes widened as she realized what had happened – realized what her friends had seen and heard – and a feeling of shame came over her at the very idea.

She looked down at the vampire, on his knees at her feet, bracing himself with a hand to the floor in preparation to rise. She stared at him, her piercing gaze drawing his upward. As he slowly raised his eyes to meet hers, she expected to see fear – suspicion – anger – anything but what she saw there.

Triumph.

As Spike slowly got to his feet, his back still to the wall, no room to move away from it with Buffy standing so close, he met her eyes boldly with the barest beginnings of a smirk on his lips, breathing hard as he recovered from the blows she had dealt him. He glanced briefly over her shoulder to see a slow smile forming on Anya’s face as she realized what he had done.

Buffy’s eyes widened as understanding dawned on her as well – then narrowed in renewed anger. “You did that on purpose,” she whispered accusingly. *You – you deliberately -- *humiliated* me…*

He gave her a slight shrug, still holding her gaze, not allowing her threatening anger to make him look away. He was still not allowed to speak, so he let his thoughts respond to her.

*What can I say, love? I’m evil.* He paused, his smile fading as he added, * ‘Sides…on my knees before you in front of your soddin’ Scoobies – not exactly that far from ‘humiliating’, love…*

His words hit their mark, reminding her that hers was the greater offense here – just before she heard Giles clear his throat pointedly behind her.

She closed her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath before she turned to face him.

His ice blue eyes were searching, studying her expression and that of the vampire beyond her – seeing far more in the little scene than the Slayer was comfortable with.

“Buffy,” he said finally, his voice soft and mild, but still striking fresh fear through the Slayer’s heart. “I believe there’s something here you’d deliberately kept from us.” He paused, looking down at the table for a moment before meeting her eyes again, leaving no room for argument.

“And I’d very much like to know what it is.”

As Buffy turned to face the very serious face of her Watcher, waiting expectantly for some sort of an explanation for her behavior, her own expression was suitably penitent, her head tucked slightly as she worried her bottom lip with her teeth, eyes wide and anxious.

A direct contrast to the powerful wave of rage that her vampire felt roll over him from her direction at the exact same moment.

“Um – Giles – you’re right. There’s – some stuff I need to tell you about,” Buffy admitted in a small, hesitant voice.

*Do you have any idea how totally dead you are?* she mentally snapped at Spike at the same time.

He flinched slightly at the fury in her thoughts, but the gesture went unnoticed by her friends, written off as a wince at the pain from his freshly split lip and bruising jaw. Besides, they were not really paying that much attention to him at the moment, their wide, shocked eyes focused on their friend the Slayer, wondering if she had truly lost her mind.

He swallowed hard, trying not to show his fear. This was his chance; there was no going back now. He had made his move, and if he played this situation right, he could end up actually getting some help in dealing with Buffy’s new and dangerous side – which seemed to be gaining more and more control over her at the moment.

Despite his apprehension at the building temper inside his claimant, he did not want her to regain complete control of it, as she was trying so hard to do – didn’t want her to manage to get enough composure back to come up with a convincing lie that her friends and Watcher would certainly believe, they wanted to so badly.

Keeping his mental voice carefully calm, he replied with subtle mockery, *Been that way for some time now, love…*

*Shut up!* the snarled words held enough menace to make him jump, though she kept her eyes focused on her Watcher, did not give any visible sign of the conversation taking place in their heads. The full force of her power was in her tone as she ordered, *Sit down and *shut up*!*

He moved almost automatically, forced to obey, and took his seat back at the table, mind racing desperately for a way to keep the situation working in his favor, leaving off his quiet taunts and efforts to get to her, as she had ordered.

As he did, Buffy moved slowly back to her own seat, which was unsettlingly close to his own, resting her elbows on the table and her head in her hands for a moment, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. Her whole demeanor, the feelings mingled with the anger Spike felt from her, spoke of fear, shame, and defeat.

He almost felt bad – almost.

“*Buffy*.” The tone of the Watcher’s voice conveyed his rising annoyance at having to repeatedly call his Slayer’s attention back to the matter at hand.

Buffy reluctantly looked up at him again, obviously trying to gather her courage to speak. Finally, she admitted slowly – and rather vaguely – “Something went wrong with the ritual.”

After a brief pause in which she did not seem inclined to reveal any more information, Giles replied, “Obviously.” He paused. “The question is, precisely *what* went wrong, Buffy?”

With a little grimace, Buffy opened her mouth to speak – then stopped suddenly, with a desperate little whimper of frustration. “I can’t do this! It’s too humiliating – I just can’t!”

“*I* can,” Anya promptly declared, earning looks of surprise from the still-clueless remaining Scoobies, horror from the Slayer – and tremendous relief and gratitude from the blonde vampire sitting across the table from her.

“You – you have some knowledge of what’s happened, Anya?” Giles asked cautiously, a frown of confusion on his face. “How is it that *you* would know, when…”

“Anya!” Buffy interrupted, her eyes wide with panic. “No!”

“What? Are *you* gonna tell him?” Anya demanded skeptically, crossing her arms over her chest and meeting the Slayer’s eyes with a challenge in her own. “And it has to come out, Buffy. They have to know the truth if they’re ever gonna help you get control of this…”

“*No*!” Buffy roared, suddenly rising to her feet in a menacing stance, eyes blazing with dark rage at the ex-demon, who surprisingly did not seem afraid – or even surprised.

In that moment, Buffy felt such an intense desire to protect her secret – her *claim* -- that the only thing that mattered to her was shutting the girl up before she could reveal it. In her mind, before she moved, she envisioned going around the table and physically stopping Anya from speaking – a sharp blow to the temple would do it – or even just a quick twist of her neck, and…

The utter horror of that last thought was what it took to bring Buffy back to reality, back to herself, suddenly seeing Anya not as a threat to what was hers, but as the trusted friend she had recently found her to be – and she had been about to…

Eyes wide with shock and dismay, shaking her head in denial of the violent intent she had held toward her friend, Buffy slowly, deliberately, sat back down, her eyes focused on Anya – who, strangely, was very calm, a compassionate, understanding – but unyielding – expression on her face.

“Tell them,” Buffy whispered in defeat. “You’re right. Tell them. I – I need help.”

“Buffy?” Willow’s voice was alarmed at those troubling words, though none of her friends had seen anything to reveal the disturbing thoughts that had stopped Buffy in her tracks.

“*Anya*,” Giles quickly redirected the group’s attention, turning his gaze to the girl who apparently held at least some of the answers to their current situation. “What do you know about the ritual – about what has happened here?”

“There was more to the ritual than you knew,” Anya began quietly. “It – it wasn’t just a physical fight involved. It was – more than that.”

A pitiful, anguished moan from Buffy drew little sympathy, everyone focused on Anya’s words, as the despairing Slayer buried her face in her arms in premature humiliation.

“It *did* involve a physical battle,” Anya went on cautiously, watching the faces of her listeners for their reactions as she spoke. “At the end of which the winner had to force the other to verbally accept their authority, in order to win. And then, as a sign of the fact that they won, and to seal the deal so to speak – they had to perform a ritual of dominance.”

“Anya,” Giles broke in, a bit impatiently. “We know all that…are you saying that is not what Buffy and Spike did?”

*Not even half of it, Watcher,* Spike thought ruefully.

“Let me finish,” Anya demanded, taking a deep breath and surveying the group again before going on. “The – um – variations – in how you thought it was supposed to go and how it was *actually* supposed to go – are in what that ritual of dominance was supposed to be.” She paused, steeling herself for the explosion before blurting out,

“After Buffy beat Spike in the fight she had to make him have sex with her. That’s the ritual of dominance.”

“What?” Xander squeaked in shock. “But…how…I mean…what…?”

Willow’s eyes were wide and solemn, but she did not say a word, just stared in shock between her best friend, head still buried on the table, and the vampire who was warily taking in the expressions of the others through lowered eyes.

Giles stared at Anya for a moment incredulously, before looking to Buffy, and finding the confirmation that Anya’s words were true in the Slayer’s mortification. He suddenly became very pale, removing his glasses from his face and wiping them furiously, as he said softly, “Good Lord.”

“You really should have studied up on the ritual before you suggested it,” Anya pointed out to him matter-of-factly. “You would have known that. I knew, and I told Buffy, and she wanted to go ahead and go through with it.”

“Anya,” Buffy’s voice was muffled as she did not raise her head to speak. “That’s enough information…” Her voice sounded weary, resigned to her humiliation, but not ready to face it just yet.

“No, I should say not!” Giles objected, the beginnings of anger in his voice. “That is not anywhere near enough information! How could you do a thing like that, without informing or consulting me, or considering the possible consequences? Buffy…”

“Don’t kill her yet,” Anya interrupted dryly. “There’s more.”

“There’s *more*?” Xander repeated, eyes wide with horrified shock. “How can there be *more*? Buffy slept with Spike?” He paused, suddenly glaring at his girlfriend, “And you knew about it?” His accusing tone took her by surprise, and she stopped suddenly, just as she had been about to go on.

“Xander, do be quiet!” the Watcher snapped tersely. “Anya said there is more, and I believe it’s quite important that we know what it is. You two can discuss the personal aspects later if you so choose.” He looked to the now very troubled girl again. “Anya – what were you going to say?” he prodded her.

Distracted, Anya shook her head as she tried to refocus on the conversation, her mind worrying over Xander’s anger. “Well – they didn’t exactly carry out the ritual right. Buffy thought she’d already won and initiated sex with Spike before he’d submitted to her. So – the ritual didn’t really ever get finished.”

Giles frowned. “But – Spike is behaving quite submissively to Buffy. Why, he hasn’t spoken a word since this meeting began. Quite unlike him. So – what happened?”

Anya took another deep breath, hesitant to go on. “Buffy accidentally made a blood bond with Spike.”

“*What*?” This time it was the Watcher who exploded with furious disbelief and horror. “How is that possible? How could she…?”

“In the middle of what she thought was the act of dominance…”

“In the middle of their having sex,” Xander practically spat out the words with disgust and resentment.

Anya made herself ignore him and went on, though she was more and more worried by his jealous reaction to the news. “Spike bit Buffy. That’s how she knew it wasn’t over. And in order to make him submit – well – she – bit him back.”

Another moment of utter shocked silence met those words as the humans tried to take it in, finding it very difficult to understand what would have possessed Buffy to do a thing like that.

“Buffy – why…” Willow began, hesitantly, unsure how to frame the question.

Buffy finally raised her head, but did not look at any of them, and they saw that her face was streaked with tears. “I don’t know,” she whispered with a miserable little shrug. “It just – felt like the right thing to do. At the time. I can’t really explain it, except – I thought that was what I was *supposed* to do – somehow…”

She gave up, and the silence fell again for a few moments.

“It gets worse,” Anya said, cringing before the others reacted, in anticipation of their negative response.

“How could it?” Xander demanded bitterly.

“Um – well – as I’m sure you know,” she nodded nervously toward Giles, who nodded warily. “a blood bond is permanent. Can’t be broken. And – the way it was done – it’s a – a claim. Blood was exchanged, and Buffy claimed Spike as hers. And – because it was done – during sex…”

“Dear Lord,” Giles interrupted with a moan, his knowledge of vampire lore telling him what the girl was about to say, his hand covering his face as he let out a weary sigh. It was simply too much.

“What? *What*?” Xander urged him, almost frantically, worry in his eyes.

“It’s a mating claim,” Willow surprised them all by filling in quietly, her eyes widening in a sort of horrified wonder. At their surprised looks, she shrugged and added defensively, “What? I study!”

“A what kind of claim?” Xander pressed, a stricken look on his face.

“A mating claim,” Giles supplied in a quiet voice of resignation. “Spike is Buffy’s mate. Until one of them should – should cease to exist, they are bound to each other as one.”

Another silent moment allowed them all to take that in.

“Well, that’s easy then,” Xander finally broke the silence, dark eyes fastening on Spike with undisguised malice. “There’s only one solution. Stake Fangless, and Buffy’s free.”

“No!” Buffy was on her feet in an instant, a furious look of menace on her face, the sound in her throat as she glared down at Xander almost a growl of warning. “Nobody touches him!”

“Okay,” Willow said hurriedly, nervously, standing and holding out a hand in the direction of each of her two best friends. “Okay…staking Spike not an option. There will be no staking Spike.” She gave Xander a pointed look.

His eyes were a little fearful as they focused on those of the Slayer, and he hurried backed down. “Okay – okay, Buffy, nobody’s gonna stake him – okay…”

Visibly calmer, Buffy slowly took her seat again, still giving Xander a suspicious look.

“She’s very possessive of Spike,” Anya pointed out unnecessarily, watching Buffy with concern. “She wouldn’t allow anyone to hurt him.” Her eyes found those of the blonde vampire, who was staring at the table with a carefully calm expression throughout the discussion of his fate going on around him. He looked hesitantly up at her as she added pointedly, “Which shouldn’t be an option anyway.”

She saw the brief flash of gratitude in Spike’s eyes, just before he looked away again. They both knew that of the entire group, she probably held the least sway, and if the others were determined to stake him, she would not be able to do much to help him.

Still – the sentiment meant a lot to him.

“Quite right,” Giles agreed, much to their relief. “As long as he is under Buffy’s control, Spike is still quite harmless. And as long as they are bound to each other, we have no way of knowing what sort of effect it might have on Buffy if he were harmed.” He paused, sighing wearily. “This bears much research. We need to find out if there’s any way out of the claim without harming either party.”

Spike’s heart sank, a deep, throbbing ache seeming to come over him at the words.

He didn’t *want* the claim broken.

And judging by the troubled expression on Buffy’s face that she tried to conceal from her friends, and the uneasy, confused emotions he felt coming from her – neither did she.

“The problem is,” Anya went on quietly. “Buffy’s been – well – experiencing moments of – what seems like…”

“Possession,” Buffy supplied softly, her eyes wide and haunted as she thought back over the events of the past few days. When they all stared at her, stunned by the word, she explained quietly in a trembling voice, "It's like I'm -- totally not in control. Something just -- takes over me, and -- and -- the things I do..." She shook her head, unable to bring herself to elaborate.

Giles looked to Anya with a troubled, questioning frown.

She just shook her head. "I haven't been there for any of it. Not really. I know what she's told me, and -- and it seems like she gets pretty out of control...but it's only happened full scale when she and Spike have been alone."

The Watcher turned his questioning gaze on the blonde vampire. "Spike..."

Spike looked up at him coolly, making no attempt to respond.

"He can't answer," Willow realized suddenly, her eyes widening with understanding. "Because Buffy ordered him not to talk."

"Which is the only *good* thing that's come out of this," Xander muttered, glaring out of the corner of his eye across the table at Spike.

"Perhaps not at the moment," Giles mused, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully on the uncharacteristically subdued vampire. His gaze turned to Buffy, a slight challenge in his eyes as he went on with a quietly commanding tone. "Perhaps it would be good to hear from Spike on this matter, as he's the only one who's witnessed Buffy in these moments of -- possession, as it were."

Spike's eyes widened in surprise, going quickly to Buffy's face, apprehensive at her reaction to this idea. As he had thought, the Slayer looked almost panicked, trapped, knowing that whatever Spike would have to say on the matter would only serve to further condemn her. She seemed poised to refuse to remove her command of silence, and Spike felt the beginnings of disappointment coming over him -- until the Watcher spoke again, words that he knew the Slayer would not be able to find a reason to argue.

"Unless of course, Buffy -- you have something to hide."

Buffy stared blankly at her Watcher for a long moment, trying to think of a way out, before realizing with a sense of despair that she was hopelessly trapped by his words. If she refused to remove her order of silence from the vampire now, after what Giles had just said, it would look extremely suspicious to her friends – but if she *did* allow Spike to speak…

She could not even begin to imagine the humiliation.

What she did not consciously recognize was the other reason why she wanted to continue to enforce his silence. On some level that she was not really aware of, it bothered her to think of relinquishing her power over him, even in that small way. It felt like a loss, in the wake of the victory she felt she had gained the night before.

Or perhaps, some part of her subconscious was aware that if the whole truth came out, her friends would try to help her, and in so doing alter her power, the bond she had formed with Spike. And although she truly wanted help with her problem, was truly frightened and disturbed by the emerging force that seemed to be gaining control of her…

A part of her did not want to let go of it.

Of course, Buffy was not consciously aware of all of this in the moment that followed her Watcher’s subtle challenge. All she knew was that if the full truth came out to everyone, she would be completely and utterly humiliated.

And Spike would be dust, she added grimly in her mind.

Calmly, her voice hardly trembling at all, she boldly met Giles’ mildly questioning eyes and replied, “No, of course not. I have nothing to hide.”

With that, she turned to face the seated blonde vampire, who was watching her closely with a mixture of apprehension and expectancy in his eyes. She knew that he both wanted and dreaded the opportunity to speak; she could see the uncertainty in his expression as to just how much he wanted to tell these people, who really had no reason to be inclined to help him, regardless of how badly Buffy might be treating him.

That thought made her feel a little better. After all, if Spike decided to disclose the worst of what she had done, she could just say that he was lying, and she was confident that her friends would believe her over Spike any day. After all, lying, deception, manipulation – all things that Spike had been guilty of many times in the past. Her friends would easily believe her, for the simple reason that they expected that sort of behavior from Spike.

But not from her.

Buffy pushed aside the feeling of guilt that came along with that train of thought as she gave Spike a false smile that sent a chill down his spine at the menace thinly concealed behind it. She moved casually but purposefully toward him, and he tensed at her approach, his eyes wide with fear, but made no attempt to get away from her.

After all, he had been ordered to sit there, and was still bound by her command.

He flinched as she reached a hand toward the back of his neck, resting it there in a gesture that appeared casual and almost friendly – but was in reality anything but either.

“Spike,” she said in a deceptively gentle voice, her words slow and deliberate for her friends’ sake, making it clear that she was doing as they had requested. “Go ahead. You can talk. You have my *permission*.” She stressed the last word with a little smirk of satisfaction at the flash of helpless anger in Spike’s eyes.

Although she had just freed him to speak, and he was clearly furious with her at the moment, the none-too-subtle threat of her hand, in that dominating, possessive position, so dangerously near to her mark, was a warning that the others missed, but that served to keep him quiet for the moment, as he carefully considered what to say. The unspoken message was very clear.

He may have permission to speak, but the wrong words spoken would still be punished – and severely.

He lowered his eyes with a submissive nod of his head, an answer to her spoken words for the benefit of her friends, and to her unspoken command that he dared not ignore. She looked up at her friends with a satisfied nod of her own and an expectant look around at each of them in turn, her hand remaining at the back of Spike’s neck in what somehow seemed a very natural gesture.

The very “natural” but deliberate eye contact she kept with her friends prevented them from noticing the subtle, massaging motion of her thumb along the edge of her mark.

*Quiet,* she warned him in his mind…

…Just in time, as an intense wave of sensation flowed through him at the soft touch, and he forced back a low moan at the feeling, knowing that by the command she had just spoken in his head, she had not rescinded the freedom she had just given him, but meant for him not to reveal what she was doing at the moment.

The touch only lasted a moment or two, not long enough to draw the attention of any of the others, but the powerful mixture of emotions that it sent through him was overwhelming. In her touch he felt the promise of exquisite reward if he should please her in this situation, or terrifying punishment if he should fail, a dizzying sense of her power effusing it all, as he obediently fought not to allow any of it to show on his face.

As she smoothly removed her hand with a light caress, slipping into her seat beside him, he felt the loss of her touch intensely, almost as strongly as the touch itself. Her smug little smile told him that she knew how she had affected him, and he looked down at the table again, both in shame at his uncontrollable reaction to her, and in an effort to conceal the emotions no doubt obvious on his face at the moment.

“Spike?” The Watcher’s voice was uncharacteristically gentle as he tried to get the vampire’s attention in a mildly prodding tone. “Can you tell me anything about these periods of – possession – Buffy’s been experiencing? How does Buffy – behave – when this phenomenon occurs?”

When Spike looked up at the man’s face, he realized immediately that Giles had misread his downcast eyes, his apparent hesitance to speak. The pity, mingled with surprise, in the Watcher’s eyes was unexpectedly infuriating to the master vampire, reduced to such a state against his will, that an aging, stuffy ex-Watcher was feeling sorry for him.

And the fact that Buffy was trying to strong arm him into keeping his mouth shut about the whole thing – still trying to protect her “dirty little secret” from her friends – only increased his anger, born of hurt and rejection. Was she that ashamed of him – of claiming him – that she thought it would be the end of the bloody world if her friends found out about some of the…er…*changes*…in their relationship?

Because he knew that her Scoobies couldn’t care less whether or not the Slayer knocked him around a bit. No, the part that Buffy was so worried about hiding had to be the more personal bits – the need, the desire for him that she tried so hard to bury with violence and rejection again and again.

It was not the fact that she had hurt him – but the fact that she *wanted* him – that Buffy was ashamed of, he was sure.

And *that* hurt.

“Besides the fact that she’s a bloody bitch with a self-righteous attitude who thinks the whole soddin’ universe is completely centered around her and what she wants?” he smirked, anger flashing in his crystal blue eyes as he glared up at Giles, as angry at his sympathy as he was with Buffy’s abuse. “Because that bloody well sums it up!”

He glanced beside him at the Slayer, saw her hands in front of her on the table ball into fists, her jaw set with anger she was struggling to repress, and knew that he should be more careful with his words, that he should try his best not to anger the person that had complete power over him at the moment and, when all was said and done, would be taking him home when the meeting was over.

He also knew that at the moment he could not bring himself to care.

“You probably need to be a little more specific, Spike,” Anya offered matter-of-factly, without a trace of sarcasm. “I mean, that’s pretty general. She doesn’t really have to be in a period of possession to be like *that*. Or even just a *regular* period. Really, Buffy can kind of tend to be like that *most* of the…”

“Ahn,” Xander’s carefully calm voice interrupted her, his hand on her arm doing more than his words to silence her, and she looked up to see his eyes focused on Buffy, slightly widened and alarmed. “Maybe it’s not a good idea to insult the really stressed out, sometimes-scary-even-when-*not*-possessed Slayer until we know exactly what she’s being possessed *by*, okay?”

“Who’s insulting?” Anya shot back, hands raised in front of her defensively. “I’m just saying, he needs to give us something to work with that’s *different* from how Buffy normally is, instead of just…”

She stopped when her own eyes fell on Buffy, who was still seated, an expression of fury in her darkened green eyes. She looked as if she was focusing very hard at the moment on simply not hitting something – or someone.

When she spoke, her voice was frighteningly calm, though her eyes flashed dark fire. “See – this was a bad idea,” she said slowly, with an unpleasant little smile. “Spike’s favorite pastime now that he can’t bite anyone – chip or no chip...” she hurried to remind them when her friends looked poised to correct her. “…is to stir up as much trouble as possible. He’s not going to tell you anything useful, and if all he can do is sit here and insult me, then I’m about ready to make him shut up again…”

“Buffy,” Giles interrupted her cautiously. “Try to calm down. I realize this is a stressful situation, but we must attempt to find out what is happening to you if we are going to stop this. And, as you are apparently not in very much control of yourself during these – episodes – and no one besides Spike has witnessed them thus far – I dare say we need him to speak, for the moment.”

Buffy’s instinct for self-preservation -- for the preservation of her relationships with the people in the room, more specifically – won out, and she fought back the rage building in her, determined to keep control of the situation and not give her friends a first hand view of the “episodes” Giles was talking about.

She took a deep breath, her eyes closed for a moment, before letting it out with a nod of resignation. “Fine.”

“Now,” the Watcher went on, turning his attention back to Spike. “Without using any terms specifically designed to further infuriate Buffy – could you describe her behavior during these episodes?”

Spike thought for a moment about the best way to respond, remembering Buffy’s menacing wordless threat before – and his mind flashed back over the past few days. The violence – the hurtful words – the way she had used him with no regard for his feelings…

And suddenly…making her angry seemed worth the risk. As angry as *he* was, he really didn’t care.

“Let’s see,” Spike began, an exaggeratedly thoughtful expression on his face as he considered his response, and then began counting off on his fingers as he spoke, “Controlling…possessive…violent…unreasonable…” He paused, glancing up at her with a venomous look, hesitating for only a moment before he finished, “Oh, yes…and constantly desperate for a shag…”

He paused, smirking in spite of – no, *because* of – the shocked fury in her wide green eyes. “Oh, wait,” he shrugged carelessly, putting from his mind the knowledge that he was going to pay for his words later. “We’re talking about things that are *only* true during your possessed moments, aren’t we? That last one’s pretty much true all the time, in’nit?”

Not possessed at the moment, just utterly furious at Spike’s deliberate effort to embarrass her, Buffy’s eyes narrowed in anger and she drew back her fist as she moved toward the vampire, who for the moment was unafraid, glaring back at her defiantly, his own fists ready to strike.

“Dear Lord,” Giles gasped, his eyes widening as he stared at Buffy, taking in what Spike had just said, too stunned by his words and the disturbing images they called to mind to even notice the developing clash before him.

And his words drove the breath – and the rage – from Buffy, as she suddenly realized just how much Spike’s words had revealed. She froze as it hit her all at once, her fist opening as she covered her face with her hands.

“Oh, God,” she moaned, her words muffled by her hands.

“It’s not so strange,” Anya shrugged, frowning, not understanding what all the fuss was about. “It’s sex. They performed a freakin’ *mating* claim, for goodness sake. What do you *think* they’re gonna wanna do, bake cookies?”

“I can’t hear any more of this,” Xander announced, his voice trembling with anger as he stood up from the table. “This is – this is just…” His tone, his expression, as he shook his head and gave up on words, finished the statement for him. *Disgusting*, Buffy knew he had wanted to say.

“Look – I’m not Book Guy anyway. You guys don’t need me here. And *I* *really* don’t need me here,” Xander excused himself in a low voice of barely restrained fury. “I’m outta here.”

“Xander,” Anya tried, concerned, reaching for his arm.

He shook her off, snapping, “Leave it, Ahn. I need to be – not here.”

Torn, realizing that there was still much to be resolved, and she should be there, but wanting to be supportive of her boyfriend, Anya reached for her purse.

Catching the motion out of the corner of his eye on his way to the door, Xander turned and added impatiently, “And not with you…right now…okay? See you later.” Without waiting to see how his words were received, he stormed out the door.

Anya’s expression was completely still – calm. She had been a vengeance demon for a thousand years – she should be above the pain of human emotion. The rejection of this mere mortal that a year ago she could have destroyed with a word should not cause the utter devastation that a mortal girl might feel at such harsh words.

She kept telling herself as she stood there, just trying not to cry.

Anya’s words, however blunt, had sunk in for Giles, and he realized that however disturbing the fact of Buffy and Spike sleeping together might be for him, it *did* fall into what might be classified as “normal” for a mating claim such as they had initiated. And while he did want to do some studying and look into ways of breaking the claim – at the moment there was something that concerned him more.

“Anya is quite right,” he said quietly, drawing Buffy’s eyes up out of her hands to meet his in surprise. “The desire for intimacy with Spike is a part of the claim you’ve invoked. The – the thing that worries me, Buffy, is not that, but – but this violent rage that seems to overcome you at times. And that is the thing that I feel must be our priority to eliminate. The violence – that’s what I’m thinking about.”

Buffy stared at him with a dark, troubled look for a moment before turning her gaze to Spike, her eyes narrowing in anger. “That’s what I’m thinking about, too,” she replied softly.

Spike’s anger was softened by the intensity of the emotions in the room at the moment, not the least of which was Anya’s hurt, which he was too perceptive to miss. His temper had faded, and Buffy’s cold words, meant much differently than her Watcher perceived them, sent a shiver down the vampire’s spine.

Oblivious, Giles went on, “Willow – would you help me research?”

The redhead nodded without hesitation, her green eyes wide and sober with thought.

“I’m going to do some reading on the dominance ritual, as well as anything I can find on vampire sexual rites such as mating claims. We need to find anything that might explain the unusual – reaction – you seem to be having,” Giles went on.

Buffy nodded slowly. “I think we’ll just go home then,” she said quietly, calmly. “I’m – I’m really exhausted.” That much at least was true, Spike knew. “Let me know if you find anything.” Her tone suggested that she could care less at the moment what the Watcher might find.

Alarmed, Spike opened his mouth to suggest that someone go with them, that he stay with someone else, anything but that he go home alone with the Slayer. His pride didn’t seem to matter in that moment – not faced with the stormy fury building in her eyes, now almost black with rage.

Before he could say a word, he heard her soft but commanding voice in his head, *Quiet.*

He closed his mouth immediately, having no other choice, swallowing hard as he realized the situation he had made for himself. What was he thinking, deliberately baiting her as he had done? Had he really thought that revealing everything to the bloody Scoobies would be in the least bit helpful to him? How could it, when they didn’t even see him as a *person*, worthy of their consideration at all?

Their only concern was Buffy, and they would attempt to find a way to fix the situation, if only for her sake. But in the meantime, where did that leave him? The only answer that mattered at the moment was dreadfully simple.

No one really cared.

“Yes, Buffy, quite right,” Giles agreed, distracted, his mind already racing with various ideas and theories. “Go on home. We’ll let you know if we find anything worth reporting.”

“Thanks,” Buffy sounded equally distracted, a cold smile forming on her lips as she met Spike’s eyes with amusement and said casually, “Come on, Spike.” But she made it an order he could not refuse, and then headed for the door without looking back to see if he was coming.

She knew he would.

Helplessly, having no other choice, the vampire followed the Slayer out the door of the apartment and to whatever fate might await him on the other side.

If Spike’s heart had beat at all, it would have been pounding as he followed the Slayer out of the little magic shop, toward her house. Every instinct he possessed was screaming at him to flee, or to attack – anything but the obedience that seemed to happen automatically, his will subject to the command of his claimant. But he knew that the first option was impossible, and the second was insanity, considering how easily she could put a stop to any attempts to attack her.

And the consequences for such an act of insanity were something he did not even want to begin to consider.

Buffy did not say a word to him, did not even wait for him to catch up, as she stalked down the sidewalk toward her house; she knew that he would follow, having no choice but to obey her command to come with her. She needed no words at the moment, her very stance speaking of a terrible fury that he found very disturbing, considering that he would very soon be alone with her in a place private enough for her to unleash that fury if she so chose.

And he was pretty bloody sure that she *would* so choose.

He struggled to catch up with her furious pace, wanting to at least make the attempt to diffuse some of her anger before they reached her house. They were walking down the sidewalk of downtown Sunnydale, and though it was late, there were still a few people about.

He did not think that she would harm him in public, though the prospect of the Slayer being locked up for domestic violence was somewhat entertaining. Sunnydale’s rather inept police would not be likely to believe her excuse that he was not really a “person” – just a member of the evil undead – and therefore battering him was perfectly legal.

Of course – seeing said inept police attempt to actually take her into custody would be just as hilarious, he knew.

“Buffy,” he said, a bit breathless with nerves, not exertion, as he didn’t need to breathe at all, really. Scared to death of her reaction, but knowing that he just had to try, he tried to placate her in a quiet, cautious tone, just as he came up beside her. “Buffy, love – let me explain…”

As he caught up to her, without a word in response, the Slayer gripped his arm in an iron hand, turning suddenly and steering him forcefully with her into a darkened side alley off of the main street. Within a matter of seconds from the moment he had opened his mouth to explain, he was slammed hard against the brick wall of the building behind him, a hard hand over his mouth shoving his head back against it with a painful impact, and muffling his moan of pain.

He could feel the heat radiating off of the Slayer’s small but powerful body as she pressed in close to him, her eyes narrowed in anger as they met his. “I don’t want you to explain, Spike,” she informed him in a frighteningly calm, cold whisper. “I don’t want you to say a single word. It’s your freakin’ *mouth* that’s gotten you into this, and if you open it again before I tell you to…”

She removed her hand from his mouth, and he drew in a gasping breath – just before her fist smashed across his face in a blinding backhand blow that knocked his head into the wall again. He saw stars, and felt his knees buckle, struggling to stay on his feet as she gripped his hair and yanked him back up, leaning in close to his face to finish her threat with a cruel smile on her face.

“…I’ll just order you to keep it shut for good, Spike. How would you like that? Personally, loud mouth annoying pain in the ass that you are, always running your mouth – I think you’d stake yourself in a week if you couldn’t talk. Save me the trouble.”

The threat was terrifying to him, the thought of being permanently silenced, the knowledge that she could actually do it, sending a shudder of fear through him with the reminder of just how thoroughly buggered he really was in this situation.

Not daring to speak, he just shook his head desperately, emphatically, his blue eyes pleading with her not to carry out her threat, his silence a promise of his obedience. He hated being so completely under her power, but knew that defiance at this point would be no less than utter stupidity.

His submission seemed to calm her, and she released him, stepping back away from him a little. He leaned back against the wall for a moment, breathing hard, overwhelmed with relief, but not daring to move until she indicated that she wanted him to. He had quickly learned that the only way to bring Buffy out of the frightening state she was in at the moment was to yield to her the submission she desired.

But at the moment, it did not appear to be working.

His already rapid breathing quickened as she moved in close again, a slow smirk spreading across her face. His entire body tensed as she brought her hand up to stroke gently down his cheek, and he fought his instinct to pull away, knowing it would only infuriate her further.

Her smile widened slightly, and he could feel that she was pleased with his compliance, as her hand drifted down, gently pushing his head back, and he yielded to her touch, not moving as her fingertips fell lightly over her mark on his throat, caressing in a feather-light touch through the soft fabric that covered it.

The sensation of pleasure was all the more powerful for being so completely unexpected. He had thought that she would surely use the power of her mark to punish him, to remind him of her authority and make him pay for defying it before. But the intensity of the sensation he felt building inside him at the touch was not at all painful, and made him long for more, made him long not only for her hand, but her mouth, on the mark, reclaiming him and filling him with the powerful pleasure of belonging.

When she drew her hand back, he unconsciously leaned toward her, aching for the contact she had ceased, and a soft, throaty laugh rolled from the Slayer’s throat.

“You want me to touch you, Spike?” she said in soft mockery. “You want me to make you mine again?”

He nodded desperately to both questions, his eyes closed, gasping for breath. He dared not speak, but in his mind he was crying out. *Please…please, Buffy, yes…I need it…*

“Really?” she murmured, dark green eyes wide with false surprise. “You need me? You want to be mine?”

*Yes, yes…please…*

Her eyes narrowed with anger as she demanded, “Then why were you trying to ruin it?”

The light, almost tickling motion of her fingertips on his throat did not change, but suddenly the pleasurable sensation became tiny electric jolts of pain, and he felt a tremor of dread coursing through him. He shook his head pleadingly, knowing where this was headed, and desperate to head it off.

“Please…I wasn’t…please, Buffy…”

Instantly her hand smacked back over his mouth, and he winced with pain as she hissed, “Shut up! Did I tell you you could talk?”

He hadn’t even realized that he had – not aloud.

Not waiting for a response that she obviously did not want, she went on, “Why would you deliberately tell them something that you knew would only get them upset about the whole thing? Now Giles is looking for a way to break the claim! Is that what you want, Spike? You want this claim broken?”

He flinched from the cold threat in her words, a new fear coming over him at the thought, and he shook his head, swallowing hard and closing his eyes against the tears he felt rising. The claim was still for the most part one-sided. If she wanted to, Buffy could reject him – decide she did not want the vampire she had claimed after all, and send him away. His unaccepted claim would fade with time, and she would get over it.

But he never would. He was eternally bound to her by her claim, and her rejecting him would not change that.

*No…no…*

“Because if you want to be rid of me that badly,” she continued relentlessly, and he was surprised to hear a trace of hurt behind the bitter anger in her voice. “We don’t have to wait for them to find an answer.” Her eyebrows raised in a challenging smirk, as she suddenly released him completely, stepping back a couple of steps from him and adding, “You wanna go? Go on. I won’t stop you.”

His wide blue eyes focused on hers in stunned terror. He shook his head slowly, as he whispered, “No…no, Buffy…I don’t want…”

“What are you waiting for?” she interrupted him in a voice that trembled with fury, rising with each word as she taunted him. “You wanna go so bad? Get out of here! Go!”

His voice shook with tears that he did not bother trying to hide as he stepped toward her on trembling legs, still shaking his head. “No – Buffy, please – don’t make me…”

Instantly she was back upon him, gripping his arms and shoving him back again, pressed between the wall and her body, oppressively close. “Don’t make you what?” she asked in a low, hushed voice that sent shivers down his spine. “Don’t make you what? Leave me?”

He nodded desperately, tears streaking his face, as she raised a gentle hand to wipe one away.

“Thought that was what you wanted,” she said softly, a question in her expression, but the anger fading with her proven point. “I thought you wanted to get away. Isn’t that why you told my friends everything, after I specifically told you not to?”

“No,” he whispered miserably, choking back a sob. “No, Buffy, that’s not…I mean…”

“Then why?” she pressed him, her hands on his arms easing their painful grip, her voice softening with something resembling tenderness. “Why would you do what you did?”

“I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I’m sorry, Buffy…I just…I was just…”

“What?” she prompted when he stopped. “You were just what, Spike?”

He was silent for a long moment before replying in a barely audible whisper, “Afraid.”

Her hands slid gently up and down his arms in a comforting gesture, as she pulled him in closer to her, and he found himself leaning into her embrace automatically. He knew that he shouldn’t – knew that she was hurting him worse with this kindness than with her violence before – but he simply couldn’t help the overwhelming relief he felt at her acceptance, after the threat of her rejection.

“You don’t have to be,” she assured him in a tender whisper, one hand rising to stroke softly through his hair in a gesture that was both soothing and possessive. “You have nothing to be afraid of, if you do as you’re told.” She paused, before adding in a gently reproving voice, “If you’d done as I told you tonight, none of this would have happened. If you hadn’t made me so angry, telling my friends after I told you that I didn’t want them to know, I wouldn’t have hurt you.”

*It’s your fault,* the message behind her words echoed in his mind, and he fought not to allow himself to believe it, a part of his mind rebelling, though another part of him wanted to accept it as truth – simply because she had spoken it.

*Shouldn’t have told,* he told himself. *Not like they can do anything, anyway. Hers now…nothing anyone can do to change that.*

Although he had already accepted the truth of the matter, her next words, spoken softly in a calm, soothing tone, sent a chill down his spine.

“Besides – it’s not like any of them would care to help you anyway.”

He froze in her arms, feeling the trap tighten around him that much more. She was right. The Watcher, Red and the boy, none of them cared about what was happening any further than how it affected Buffy. They wanted to help her, but could not have cared less what happened to him. If she killed him in one of these spells, before they could bring her back to herself for good, it did not matter to them, so long as they managed to find an answer before she hurt someone who actually *mattered*.

Anya cared, and had made an effort to help tonight – and he knew that she would again, as soon as she managed to get her mind off her own personal problems with the self-centered boy she was dating who did not deserve her. She had been too preoccupied with Xander’s thoughtless rejection to even notice when they had left, and she was the only ally that Spike had at the moment.

After a few moments, the Slayer drew out of the embrace, slipping a possessive arm around Spike’s waist and leading him out of the alley, and down the mostly deserted street toward her house.

They made the rest of the walk in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. He could feel the difference in her, knew that although her anger had faded, she was still not quite herself, and was careful to remain quiet and compliant with her demands, not wanting to take a chance of setting off another violent outburst.

It worried him, however, that his submission had not yet brought the Slayer back the control of herself that it had returned to her the other times. It seemed that with each episode, the violence increased, and that even in her lucid moments, Buffy seemed to be more easily angered by him – less in control. He wondered if whatever malevolent force was controlling her was becoming more dominant somehow. If so, would it eventually take over?

Would Buffy lose herself completely to it?

As they entered the house on Revello Drive, Spike wondered idly when the Slayer’s mum would be returned home. Buffy had said that she was out of town on some sort of business trip, and that was why she had free reign of the house like this. He wished that the woman would return. He had only spent a brief amount of time with her here and there, but she had always been kind to him, and he knew that she would not approve of her daughter’s recent behavior toward him.

He wondered what Buffy planned to do with him once her mother returned. After all, what with Red being her roommate, and the whole utter lack of privacy in general that accompanied dorm life, she could hardly keep him with her in her dorm room on campus. And he was fairly certain that she would not want her mother to have any idea of what was going on. Perhaps, out of necessity, he would be granted a certain measure of freedom again.

*And the first moment I’m free of the nasty little bitch,* he thought bitterly. *I’ll leave this soddin’ town forever and never come back.*

*Yeah,* he added wearily a moment later, *and while I’m at it, think I’ll take up sunbathing, then take a dip in holy water to cool off.*

Buffy took off her jacket and hung it up on the rack just inside the door, while Spike waited nervously for some instruction from her, unsure of what she would expect of him now, and hesitant to act in any way for fear of invoking her wrath.

Because he could still feel the odd presence that seemed to surround her any time he did anything to rebel against the authority of her claim. He had done his best to obey her since leaving the Magic Box – and still he knew that she was not back in control yet. His nerves were so taut by this point that he thought he would lose his mind if something didn’t change soon.

And then – it did.

In the next moment, two things happened at once.

A familiar but unexpected voice was heard from upstairs, in combination with hurried footsteps heading toward the stairs. “Buffy? Is that you?”

The Slayer’s head turned toward the stairs in surprised recognition, not having expected the speaker to be home. And at the exact same moment that she became aware of the person’s presence, Spike was stunned to see an instantaneous change in her eyes – feel the instant release of the tension that was created by her altered state of mind. He could see the reality of the past few hours sink in for Buffy, her eyes widening in stricken shame and disbelief at what she had done, at the same moment as a slim brunette made her way bounding down the stairs to greet her older sister.

And Spike wondered with fascination what it was about the presence of the youngest Summers woman that had the power to bring Buffy back so suddenly. Really, when it came right down to it, he didn’t care *how* it had happened – only that it had, as the tremendous sense of relief washed over him.

Whether she knew it or not, the vampire had just found another ally in an unexpected place.

Dawn Summers.

“Dawn!” Buffy’s surprised greeting lacked some of its impact, due to her distraction, her mind still aghast at the thought of her own cruel behavior over the past hour or so. “What are you doing here?”

The fourteen-year-old pouted momentarily at the less-than-enthusiastic greeting from her sister, whom she rarely saw anymore, before replying dryly, “I still live here. Remember?” She glanced past Buffy, her expression showing surprise and excitement – quickly smothering the second emotion – when she noticed the rather shaken blonde vampire, still standing in the foyer.

“Hey, Spike,” she said casually, her automatic smile at him quickly fading as she took in his battered appearance. “What happened? Did you guys run into something scary on the way here? And *why* are you guys here, anyway? Not that you’re not *totally* scary,” she hastily added for Spike’s benefit, though utterly unconvincingly. “because you are – or – you would be – if you could – actually hurt me – but – anyway…”

Her awkward little ramble came to a slow stop as she reached him, and her soft green eyes took in his numerous bruises, his bleeding mouth, and the look of mingled fear and utter exhaustion in his wide blue eyes. She met his gaze with concern, as she asked softly, “What happened?”

Spike glanced anxiously up at Buffy, wondering if she had noticed the easy, comfortable manner in which Dawn was speaking to him. Primal-possessive-Buffy seemed to have taken a hike for the moment. Meanwhile, real-Buffy was too caught up in her own self-loathing to notice anything out of the ordinary about the interaction.

Relieved, Spike looked back to Dawn, a flood of memories washing over him at the sight of her.

He had first seen the Slayer’s little sister two years before. Just a glimpse, as Buffy had tersely ordered her upstairs as she had entered the house with him and her mother, just prior to the whole Acathla incident. The girl’s eyes had narrowed in defiance, her mouth had opened to object – but then, sharp emerald eyes had taken in Buffy’s furious face, and realized that something was seriously wrong.

In an act of obedience that Spike would eventually learn was most uncommon for Dawn Summers – especially when the command was coming from Buffy – the twelve-year-old girl had turned without a word and gone up the stairs, leaving the adults to discuss the literally life-or-death matter at hand.

But that had not kept her from hiding at the top of the stairs and listening as Spike and Buffy had made a plan to save the world. Buffy had not been aware that her little sister was within earshot – but Spike’s sense of smell, and the sound of Dawn’s racing heart, had alerted him to her presence.

He had known right then that the Slayer’s little sister was a stubborn one, and clever – and would one day be a force to be reckoned with.

The next time he had met Dawn Summers had been over a year later, in her mother’s kitchen, as he had sat pouring out his shattered heart to Joyce, who had displayed such gentleness and understanding to him in the wake of Dru’s infidelity and rejection.

That encounter with the youngest Summers had lasted only a few moments, as she had been sent from the room after following up their formal introduction by remarking on how, for a vampire, he really wasn’t very scary, crying over a mug of hot chocolate with her *mom* -- and was he *drunk*?

Joyce could not seem to get Dawn out of the room fast enough that night.

He was not sure if Buffy had ever found out about those brief, accidental encounters. If she had, she would not have been surprised by them. But he knew that she knew nothing of the other times he had spent with her mother and sister.

Buffy had found out about his presence in Sunnydale – again – over the whole nasty Gem of Amara incident – but what she did not know was that by that time, Spike had actually been back in Sunnydale for several months already.

When Dru had dumped him for the second time, he had known in his heart that it was really and truly over, and he had felt utterly lost – completely alone. Without Dru, he didn’t even know who he was – she had literally *made* him.

Her accusations of secret feelings for the tiny blonde Slayer in Sunnydale echoing in his mind, he had driven all night in his blacked out Desoto, no definite destination in mind – and found himself when he finally stopped to think, not only in Sunnydale, but driving slowly down the Slayer’s street. As soon as he realized where he had unconsciously ended up, he had cursed his own too-soft emotions and driven away.

But once he found out that the Slayer was living in a dormitory on campus across town, instead of at home, the temptation of Joyce Summers’ warm, nurturing manner and perfectly made hot chocolate had been too much for his comfort-starved heart to resist, and he had found himself once again outside the house on Revello Drive, ringing the doorbell with his heart in his throat – because Buffy had surely told her mother about that little kidnapping incident, and if she turned him away he would likely just stay there on the porch and meet the sunrise.

He had been that desperate, that alone – devastated by Dru’s betrayal after over a hundred years of his loyal devotion to her.

One look into his expressive blue eyes, and Joyce had welcomed him in without question, fussing over him like a long lost son, freely offering him the comfort that only a mother knows how to give. Her gentle manner had given him the freedom to open up to her, to cry on her shoulder, and before the night was through, he had somehow found the strength to go on again.

Of course – he would have been foolish to think that they would make it through the entire night without even a *mention* of the kidnapping.

When Joyce had given him that stern, maternal look and asked him what on earth he had been thinking, why he had done something so dangerous, he had felt an odd quiver in his stomach that he had not felt in well over a hundred years – not since the last time his own mum had caught him out at something.

“You saw me then,” he had protested in a beseeching voice, throwing himself on the mercy of the woman – who fortunately had more of it to spare than her daughter did. “I was a bloody wreck!”

“Over Drusilla – again.” Joyce had shaken her head with concerned disapproval, her eyes alight with protective anger – and the realization that it was over *him*, that she had subconsciously taken him as one of her own, brought an unexpected warmth to his heart. “She’s no good for you, Spike,” she had advised him gently. “That girl just gets you into trouble. You know, Buffy thinks you’re the one who’s so dangerous – but – I’ve never seen you do anything seriously wrong when it wasn’t about Drusilla, Spike.”

The obvious fact of the statement had made him chuckle. “Kind of the way it works, Joyce,” he had reminded her softly. “She’s my sire. She made me what I am to begin with.”

“See?” Joyce had taken his words as more proof of her own point. “That alone should tell you she’s bad for you. What you need is a girl like my Buffy.”

Spike had nearly choked on his hot chocolate. As it was, it scalded his mouth severely as he stared at Joyce, aghast. The very suggestion shocked and horrified him – perhaps a bit *too* much – as he remembered Dru’s fateful words again.

He had protested emphatically that the very idea was bloody insane. She was the Slayer, and he was a vampire – not to mention the fact that she drove him bloody bug shaggin’ crazy.

Joyce had graciously ignored the second argument, pointing out that that did not seem to be a problem for her daughter; she could get used to the fact that he was a vampire. She *liked* him, she had told him with a shrug. He would be so much better for Buffy than that horrible Angel. She never *had* liked *him*.

The satisfied smirk that rose at those words had died at the knowing look on Joyce’s face.

And the more vehemently he argued, the more convinced of her own theory Joyce appeared to become, though she wisely did not push the issue. He had left the house that night with an unsettled feeling in his stomach, troubled by the unspoken suggestion behind Joyce’s words.

But he had come back – again and again.

Many times when he had come over, Dawn had been around. As odd a match as it seemed, the three of them would sit and talk, or watch movies, just enjoying each other’s company, as he allowed their friendship to heal his broken heart, and Joyce and Dawn allowed him to become a surrogate son and brother in the absence of the Slayer, who was apparently very busy with her new college life – judging by the unimpressive frequency of her visits home.

Joyce seemed to have no problem whatsoever with Dawn spending time with Spike – and that simple bit of trust served to draw him in closer, tighter into the embrace of the Slayer’s family. Before long, he began to feel as if these two humans were *his* family, and ended up at their home most evenings.

The decided that it would be wisest not to tell Buffy. After the unfortunate drunken kidnapping incident, Buffy had been very emphatic with her mother about *not* letting Spike into the house. Joyce was a grown woman, with excellent instincts, and she had known upon first sight of Spike at her door that night, that he was a far greater danger to himself at that point than to anyone else.

She knew what she was doing, and did not need her daughter’s permission to choose a friend.

They knew that there was no way Buffy was going to understand. So, his friendship with Buffy’s family remained a secret – and, as Joyce tactfully did not bring the subject up again, Spike just tried to forget the troubling feelings beginning to surface inside him for the Slayer.

But he found that he could not forget.

With each day, his thoughts of her increasingly took over his mind, joined by a furious resentment at the fact that he could not seem to get her out of his head. In desperation, he had come to the conclusion that the only solution was to kill her -- but he simply could not bring himself to try. He told himself that it was because of Joyce and Dawn; they would never forgive him if he did it – and to a point, that *was* the reason.

But it was not by any means his *only* reason.

The nights when he was not with Joyce and Dawn, he began to spend on the campus of UC Sunnydale, telling himself that it was just a good hunting ground – he was not looking for Buffy! He *wasn’t*! But when he quite “accidentally” happened to find her, on occasion, he wound up sticking around to watch her in action, mesmerized by her grace and power, and wanting her more with each moment, though he never allowed her to know that he was there.

The point came when even the slight family resemblance between Dawn and Joyce, and Buffy, became too much for him, filling his mind with her image even when she was not there. Abruptly, he had stopped his visits to the Summers’ home – and as they had no idea where he was staying, there was nothing Joyce and Dawn could do to find him.

He knew that his sudden rejection had to hurt them, but he simply could not stand the constant reminder of the tiny, powerful, amazing blonde that he did not want to admit he wanted so desperately.

Not when he knew that he could never have her.

When he had met Harmony, in a bar one night when the Slayer’s image was particularly vivid in his mind, and she had come onto him very blatantly, he had jumped at the chance to distract himself from his doomed obsession, to put a new face on the blonde that haunted his dreams and waking moments – if only for a few hours.

Harmony had wanted more from him than a few hours, however. She had her own slightly schewed version of the American dream, vampire style, in her head; and while the chit was bloody annoying as hell, she was a good shag, and a welcome distraction from the *other* blonde woman in his life – the one who would never even consider him.

For a while.

When he had found the Gem of Amara, he had thought that this was his chance to be rid of the Slayer and her power over him once and for all. When he had approached her on the campus grounds, and overheard her discussion with Parker, he had been furious with jealousy – and it had shown in the power of his attack, even in the words he had chosen to bait her with during the fight.

And he might even have won that fight – except for two pivotal moments.

At one critical moment, his eyes met Buffy’s – and suddenly, he knew that something in him would not allow him to destroy this vibrant, passionate, incredible girl that he lov – was obsessed with. He just couldn’t.

But he *had* to! he told himself desperately. If he did not, he would never be free of her. A hundred years with Dru had taught him something about himself – when he fell, he fell hard – and he didn’t get up, he stayed “fallen”.

He had continued his attack with renewed power, until he was suddenly frozen yet again, by one look at the Slayer’s face. A subtle movement of her mouth, a flash of defiance in her eyes – and he might as well have been looking at Dawn instead of Buffy.

And it all just went to bloody hell from there.

Within moments, Buffy had beaten him, and he was running for cover, vulnerable to the sun’s deadly rays once again. He had been furious at his own failure, and at the *reason* for that failure. He was a bloody master vampire! He wasn’t supposed to be so soft that he’d lose to the Slayer because of some vague resemblance to a little girl he happened to be a bit fond of.

He had decided then and there that the next time they met, he was going to make Buffy pay for the wreck she had made of his unlife.

And then, he had been captured by the bleedin’ Initiative – and now, none of that mattered anymore.

He did not know what Buffy had told her family about him during the short time in which he was a prisoner in the Watcher’s house. All he knew was that the one time when Buffy had ended up bringing Dawn with her to Giles’ apartment for a meeting, the girl had not been surprised to see him there.

She *had*, however, been furious with him.

He had not liked admitting to himself how deeply the icy glare she shot him stung. He knew he deserved the look of angry betrayal in her eyes, as they shot daggers at him across the living room, while the Scoobies uselessly rambled on about the commandos, about whom they knew next to nothing.

Dawn had had several opportunities to confide in him, and she had taken them; he knew that she was deeply hurt by what she saw as her father’s abandonment, and she had told him enough that he fully intended to tear the bugger to pieces himself should they ever meet. He knew that at this point, he must appear to be just another man that she had come to trust and care about, who had then proceeded to leave her.

And that felt terrible.

*Why should I bloody care?* he had insisted to himself. *She’s nothing but a soddin’ Happy Meal! Little chit’s lucky her bleedin’ throat’s not – well – bleedin’!*

But still, he had desperately tried to catch her eye throughout the whole meeting – and the bereft feeling he got when she pointedly avoided his gaze made any attempts at pretending not to care utterly useless.

Finally, when the group had moved into the kitchen, they had failed to notice for a few minutes that Dawn had stayed behind. She did not say anything to him for a long moment, as she came to stand in front of the chair he was bound to, glaring at him with righteous hurt and anger in her eyes.

Then, she had kicked him in the shin.

Not very hard, a token blow, really – but he looked up at her, startled – and then, ashamed, to see that she was biting her lip so hard that a moment later he could smell her blood. Her eyes were very wide as she fought to repress a woman’s emotions, with a child’s strength.

It was in that moment that Spike realized – little Dawnie had a great big crush.

“Where did you go?” she had demanded in a voice that was vulnerable and trembling with tears – and his heart had broken to hear the pain he had caused her.

He had done his best to explain what he had no excuse for, and she had accepted his profuse apologies with childlike innocence, easily forgiving him, impulsively embracing him, until he had reminded her that Buffy could not see her hugging him like that, could not know of their friendship, now more than ever.

He was certain that after all that had happened, his recent attempts to kill both her and Willow, Buffy would not take the news that he had been visiting her mother and sister in their home very well, even if it *had* been several weeks since the last time he had.

The meeting had ended with another useless round of questioning by Buffy and her Watcher, filled with threats of pain and stakeage that he now knew to be completely idle – though he had not known that at the time.

But none of it mattered at the moment – Dawn had forgiven him. And she would tell Joyce his vague, evasive explanation for his absence of the past few weeks, edited for the child’s ears – and she would not believe a word of it.

But she *would* forgive him – and that would make everything all right again.

Now, he looked into that same innocent, searching gaze – and felt, for just a moment, that same feeling of reassurance and acceptance – that feeling that everything was going to be all right.

“Spike?” Dawn’s voice was questioning as she glanced between him and her sister uncertainly, increasingly troubled by their silence, and by the tears that glistened in both of their eyes.

Spike’s tears were of tremendous relief, the relief of looking into the face of someone, however powerless the teenager might be, who actually cared what happened to him. Buffy’s tears were an expression of the terrible guilt that filled her over what she had done to Spike.

As she expectantly looked between them, Dawn knew none of this – and was growing steadily more apprehensive about the whole thing with every silent moment that passed.

“Isn’t *somebody* gonna tell me what is going on here?”

“Buffy?” Dawn’s voice was increasingly uncertain, bordering on actual fear, when neither of the two adults in the room seemed inclined to answer her questions. “What’s going on? You guys are really starting to scare me.”

Her deep searching eyes met Spike’s – and he had to look away.

He wanted to ease her fears, to tell her that everything was all right – but he knew that she would see through that lie in an instant. He wanted to tell her everything – but knew that it was far too much for a girl her age to be expected to take in. And it was not as if she could actually do anything about it, anyway. And that was not even considering the reaction Buffy might have if he dared to reveal the secret to anyone else, especially her little sister.

But then – it was odd that Dawn’s presence seemed to have brought a sudden halt to Buffy’s out of control rage, instantly bringing her back to herself. It was possible that the simple fact that her little sister was present had been a call back to reality for the Slayer, who would certainly not want Dawnie to see the violence and disturbing darkness of her recent behavior.

Or – it was possible that it was something more.

“Spike?” Dawn pressed, calling him back to the current moment, and out of his pensive wonderings.

He opened his mouth to respond before remembering that he had absolutely no idea how – then closed it again, shaking his head and looking away.

After one more look between the two silent warriors, Dawn crossed her arms over her chest and let out a little huff of frustration. “Fine!” she snapped. “Don’t tell me anything! Spike’s hurt, and you’re both obviously pretty freaked – but neither one of you can think of anything to say? Come on, I’m not a child, you know! Pardon me for caring!”

Spike wanted to stop her as she stalked toward the stairs, and not only because she seemed to be the stabilizing factor that was keeping Buffy from smacking the crap out of him at the moment. Dawn was his friend, and he hated to leave her thinking that he was deliberately shutting her out.

But as far as Buffy knew, they were virtual strangers, and it would not seem to be his place to call after her, to attempt to stop her angry retreat.

That was Buffy’s place.

“Dawnie,” she called weakly, not really wanting her sister to respond. Like Spike, she had absolutely no idea how to begin to explain what was going on. And to her relief, Dawn did not respond, just continued up the stairs. A moment later the sound of her bedroom door slamming was heard.

There was a heavy moment of silence between them, neither knowing what to say in the wake of the evening’s events.

“Spike,” Buffy finally said, in a hesitant, heavy voice.

“Don’t,” Spike cut her off, his voice low and trembling, his eyes still downcast, avoiding her gaze. After a moment, he clarified softly, “Don’t say you’re sorry, Buffy. If you say it every time, you’ll be saying it for the rest of your life.”

It was not the note of sarcasm, but the flat resignation in his voice that stung her. “No,” she objected, moving cautiously toward him, stopping suddenly when he backed away from her, still without looking at her. Deliberately softening her voice, ignoring the guilty pang that struck her at his apprehensive actions, Buffy repeated firmly, “No. It’s not going to always be like this. We’re going to find a way to stop it…”

“Not if you keep lying to them, Buffy. Not if you – this – this *other* you – keeps trying to sabotage any source of help you might have,” Spike protested, finally raising his eyes to meet hers, troubled and serious. “And that’s what you did in there, tonight, Buffy. They wanted to help you, and you tried to sabotage it.”

“I did not…”

“Yes, you bloody well did!” he snapped, his voice trembling with anger. “Anytime Anya or I tried to tell them anything useful, you tried to shut us up!”

“Well, excuse me if I don’t want the whole world knowing about this!” Buffy shot back, her own eyes blazing with angry tears. “Forgive me if I don’t feel like announcing to all my friends that I had sex with you – that I *bit* you! Excuse me if I don’t feel like sharing how now I can’t be around you for five seconds without wanting to just…”

Her words broke off abruptly, as her emotions overwhelmed her. She looked away, shaking her head, but not before he saw the clear look of shame in her eyes.

It was more than he could take. He wanted to tell her that if that was how she felt, if she was so bloody ashamed of him, of having any sort of desire or feelings for him, then he would just make her happy and leave. He could do without the threats and the beatings and the general all around misery that went along with her claim, if that was what she wanted!

But he couldn’t.

Because in spite of it all – he simply could not bring himself to leave her.

“Look,” Buffy said in a quiet voice of exhaustion. “I can’t do this. I – I’m just going to go to bed. You can sleep on the couch – or wherever. I don’t care, just make yourself comfortable. But I just can’t deal with this right now. I’m so tired I can’t even think straight…”

*Yeah, ‘cause you were up all bloody night shaggin’ me senseless…*

The words were spoken only in his head, but Buffy’s explanation suddenly cut off, her mouth setting in a hard line of repressed anger. She turned suddenly and headed for the stairs without another word – and he was stunned at the desolate, bereft feeling that came over him with her unspoken dismissal.

He barely had time to register it before she was suddenly back, frighteningly close, pressing in close to him so that he quickly backpedaled into the door, his heart in his throat with fear at her unexpected nearness.

But he realized the next moment that this was still Buffy. She was still in control of herself, just deadly serious, as she reached a hand to press down on the mark on his throat, giving him that odd sensation he had felt a few times before that was not pleasure, not pain – simply a powerful pressure that demanded his attention to her.

“You will not leave this house,” she ordered quietly, firmly, with unquestionable authority – but there was no threat in her words. “And you will not touch my sister. I am not possessed, I am not out of control at the moment, but I am telling you, if you even think of hurting Dawn, I will find the slowest possible method of staking, and I will use it on you. Is that clear?”

Okay – definite threat that time.

Her command had carried the weight of her claim, and he could not have disobeyed it if he had wanted to – but it hurt him that she thought he might want to.

Of course, reason dictated that she had no reason to think otherwise. She knew nothing of the secret friendship that he had carried on with her mother and sister over the past few months. All she knew that he was a dangerous, currently unchipped master vampire who had only a couple of weeks ago attempted to kill her and her best friend. For all she knew, the emphatic command she had just given him was the only thing keeping him from hurting the vulnerable little girl upstairs.

She had no way of knowing how far from the truth that really was, he reminded himself.

Still – it hurt.

“I wouldn’t,” he said quietly, his voice low and his eyes averted in a struggle not to show his emotions. “I would never…” His words trailed off, as he was unable to go on.

But Buffy understood – or thought she did. It made sense to her that if the claim made him care for her, it might extend to those dear to her, at least in so far as to keep him from attempting to harm them. But she was not going to gamble with Dawn’s life, on that educated guess.

“Just making sure,” she said with unusual gentleness, as she released him, regarding him with a solemn sadness for a moment before returning to the stairs, and disappearing up them. A moment later, he heard her bedroom door quietly shut.

Feeling sad, afraid, and utterly alone, Spike walked into the living room and sat down slowly on the edge of the sofa, leaning forward with his head in his hands. He was trapped, completely and hopelessly. An eternal trap, from which there was no escape.

*What the bleedin’ hell am I going to do?* he wondered with a sense of despair.

Suddenly, he felt a light, soft touch on his shoulder, and jumped, startled, wondering even as he looked up to see the person who had touched him, why he had not been aware of the girl’s approach.

*Careful, mate,* he reprimanded himself grimly. *No matter how bad things get, won’t do to get that distracted.*

Dawn sat down beside him, her eyes focused on his with a calm concern that made her seem far more mature than her fourteen years. “Okay,” she said in a casual, matter-of-fact voice. “So how about you tell me what the heck is going on here?”

Automatically Spike’s eyes turned toward the stairs where he had last seen Buffy, anxious and a bit hesitant.

“Don’t worry,” Dawn assured him with a knowing smile. “Her Bitchiness has gone to bed. Her door’s locked and her radio’s on, and I’m pretty sure she won’t be coming out again tonight.”

Spike cocked an eyebrow at her in surprise at her perception.

“Come on,” she laughed softly. “I’m not stupid. You wanted to tell me before, didn’t you? But she didn’t want you to. Well, she’s gone now, and I won’t be telling her anything. So spill.”

“Sorry, pet,” he acknowledged the accuracy of her assessment with an apologetic little grimace. “ ‘S just that she’s pretty serious about nobody knowing about this. If she were to find out…”

Dawn’s eyes widened with stunned realization, quickly shifting to horror, as she took in his already nearly healed split lip, and the dark bruises that had faded some even since she had first seen them.

“Spike – did *Buffy* do that?” she asked in a hushed whisper of indignation and disbelief.

He looked away from her, suddenly uncomfortable. He shrugged too casually, as he replied evasively, “Not – not *Buffy* exactly…See, that’s the thing, pet. Your sis has got a – a bit of a problem. She’s not exactly herself lately. Not since – well – something happened, pet…”

“You two boinked each other,” Dawn stated flatly, without a hint of surprise. “Right?”

Now it was Spike’s turn to experience disbelieving horror. “Observant is one thing, but that’s just bloody scary, Niblet…how did you…?”

“I was listening at the top of the stairs,” she admitted readily without a trace of guilt. “So you two did it, and she liked it so much that now she wants it all the time – got that,” she went on, oblivious to the increasing dismay of the vampire beside her. “I mean, if it was me…” Her voice broke off, her eyes widening slightly before she attempted to recover, “…if I’d just done it with…with someone I really liked…I’m sure I’d like it, and – and wanna do it some more, too…because, you know…”

“Dawn!” Spike finally found the strength to protest. When she gave him an expectant, questioning look, he went on in a slightly shaken voice, “If I’m going to tell you this – it’s gonna be on one bloody condition, and that’s that you *never* talk about that sort of thing with me again!”

“Okay,” Dawn agreed with a shrug, more than happy to change the subject.

“Unless of course you’re actually *considering* it with some bloke – in which case I want to hear all about it including the little prat’s name and address so I can break his bloody willy clean off before it has a chance to touch you!” Spike amended darkly.

“Whatever,” Dawn rolled her eyes at his overprotective ramblings, though they secretly warmed her in a way she could not quite put into words. “We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about my sister, and why I’m gonna have to beat the crap out of her for beating the crap out of you. Why *did* she, anyway?”

“See, that’s the thing, pet,” Spike went on softly. “She’s – she’s not quite herself when she does – when she did it.”

“There’s been more than once?” Dawn’s voice darkened, her eyes narrowing with anger.

“There’s something,” Spike went on, ignoring the comment deliberately. “that’s been taking her over – making her do things that are beyond her control. And it’s only since…”

“You two made like bunnies,” Dawn finished for him.

He nodded grimly.

“There’s one thing I don’t get, though,” Dawn frowned thoughtfully. “Buffy said she – she *bit* you?”

Spike took a deep breath. This bit was going to be a little harder to explain. But he did his best to tell Dawn what they knew about the ritual and the claim, which really wasn’t a lot, as there was clearly more to it than they knew.

Dawn was furious when he finished. “This is all Buffy’s fault,” she fumed. “I can’t believe she had the nerve to think she was just going to *control* you like that! If she hadn’t tried that whole control spell thingy in the first place, none of it would have happened!”

Spike did not respond, silently acknowledging that she was right.

“So – she’s just gonna have these psychotic episodes or whatever, until we can figure out what went wrong with the ritual?” Dawn guessed with a little grimace of displeasure at the idea. When Spike nodded glumly, she added in dismay, “That could take forever.”

“But,” Spike remembered, his eyes widening as he looked up at her. “There’s something – whenever we came in here, and she heard your voice – knew you were here – something changed, Bit.” There was a note of hopeful excitement in his voice as he recalled it. “Something about – about you being there – seemed to make her – come back. Made this other – thing – retreat, somehow.”

“Me?” Dawn’s eyebrows raised dubiously. “*I* scared off this weird demon thingy?”

“I don’t know if ‘scared’ is the right word,” Spike gave an uncertain little half-shrug. “It was just sort of like – your being there put Buffy – back in control of herself.” He paused, and they were both silent, thinking it over. “It’s something to tell the Watcher,” he said thoughtfully. “Maybe it’ll make a difference. If I’m actually allowed to open my bloody mouth next time I see them again.”

He frowned, remembering Buffy’s command not to leave the house, that she had just given him – hoping it was just for that night. “*If* I bloody see them again.”

Dawn’s eyes widened with alarm at that suggestion. “Of course you will,” she assured him. “We’re gonna figure this out. And if something about me keeps Buffy from hurting you,” she shrugged easily. “I’ll just have to stay around so that you’re not alone with her.”

He laughed softly, a dark, unpleasant sound to it that worried her. “That’s gonna be a bit easier said than done, pet,” he warned her with a sad smile. “The very nature of this claim makes her want – well, to be alone with me – quite a bit, Niblet.”

“Well, Miss High-and-Mighty Big Bad Slayer’s gonna have to learn that she can’t always *get* what she…”

“Shh!” Spike suddenly hushed her, one hand upraised, his eyes fastened on the top of the stairs, listening for the soft sound he had just heard – of a door opening and closing. Then, they both heard soft footsteps from upstairs, padding toward the stairs.

On the edge of panic, Spike hissed, “Go!” to Dawn, gesturing toward the kitchen.

“But…” she whispered back, shaking her head.

“She’s gonna know I told you if she sees you here, Bit,” he hurriedly informed her in a whisper. “And she’s gonna be bloody well pissed off with me for it…”

“But maybe I can…”

“I’m not taking the chance with you’re safety, Bit,” he insisted firmly. “She went after Xander, and Anya – I don’t want her deciding she should be jealous of *you* -- now go!”

Reluctantly, Dawn slipped off the couch and into the kitchen, closing the door behind her, as Buffy’s footsteps started down the stairs.

He looked up at her uncertainly from the couch, swallowing back a hard lump of fear in his throat, not having the faintest idea what to expect from her at this point. Buffy stopped at the bottom of the stairs, just looking at him with a calm, sort of sad look on her face. She slowly approached him, reaching down a hand to gently touch his face, the sadness in her eyes deepening when he flinched away.

He tensed, his eyes focused on the floor, preparing for the fury he was sure he would experience for his small defiance – it seemed to take less and less to anger her all the time.

He was startled to find her suddenly kneeling in front of him, between his slightly parted legs, bringing herself to eye level with him. He stared at her, wide eyes searching, trying to understand what she was doing. Her eyes were uncharacteristically gentle, holding his gaze as she leaned in to softly, tenderly kiss his bruised mouth, her hand rising to the back of his neck to pull him in closer.

As the kiss deepened, he felt his hunger for her growing in spite of his determination to suppress it, and he slid his arms around her, remembering a moment later that he was not supposed to.

But there was no reproof, as she slid her arm around his waist, tenderly caressing her mark on his throat with her other hand – and this time, the touch told him in a way that her words could not, how truly sorry she was, how much she regretted hurting him.

Finally, she pulled back from the kiss, breathless and gasping, resting her forehead against his for a moment as she caught her breath.

“Spike,” she whispered finally, a desperation in her voice. “Come upstairs with me. I – I want you – please come upstairs with me…”

There were so many reasons why he should have said no – but he was afraid to, afraid of shattering this tender, beautiful moment that had come out of nowhere – and the truth was…

He didn’t *want* to say no.

Silently he nodded, and let her take his hand as she rose to her feet, let her lead him up the stairs to her bedroom.

In the kitchen, the teenage girl listened to the quiet exchange, not seeing, but aware of what was going on. An uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach, she made a quick decision and headed for the phone, dialing a number she knew by heart.

She waited through several rings until a very familiar voice picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Mommy?” Dawn said in a small, hushed voice, suddenly feeling about five years old again. “Um – I really think you need to come home.”

Buffy’s small hand was warm and soft in Spike’s, as she led him silently up the stairs to her bedroom. There was no hint now of the hardness, the cruelty, she had shown him before, as she sat him down on the side of her bed, solemn emerald eyes taking in the bruises, the blood dried around his mouth – evidence of the brutal beating she had dealt him in the alley – with a sense of deep sorrow.

She left the room for a moment, coming back with a soft, warm cloth, which she used to gently wipe the blood from his face. She was being so tender, so caring and compassionate with him, that he could hardly believe this was even the same girl that had threatened and abused him earlier in the evening.

And in a way – it was not. He knew by the look in her eyes, and the absence of the oppressive presence that he felt whenever Buffy went into one of the frightening spells that had begun since the claiming, that this was purely, simply Buffy – without the possessive, violent force that controlled her so often lately. This was just Buffy, the same girl he had known for the past two years.

And she wanted him.

He did not know what to think, how to react to the sudden shift in her behavior. He was relieved, and filled with a sense of warmth and comfort by her gentle, affectionate manner – but he was afraid to trust it. He knew it was only a matter of time before she returned to the same demanding, possessive behavior that seemed to have taken her over since the claiming.

Still, he could not make himself turn her away. He wanted her – desperately.

All traces of the blood she had spilt washed away, she laid the damp, stained cloth down on the nightstand beside her bed, moving in close to him, standing between his legs, one hand resting lightly on his shoulder, the other rising to caress his cheek.

He looked up at her with open, searching eyes, uncertain and vulnerable with the confusion of emotions and apprehensive thoughts that filled him in that moment. The warm, silken touch of her hand, feather light over his swollen cheek, felt so amazing – so reassuring, and – and *right*…

And yet, he knew that it was so wrong.

“Buffy,” he whispered, shaking his head slightly. “Buffy – we shouldn’t – I mean – I don’t want to…”

“Shhh,” she whispered, leaning down and bringing her other hand up to his other cheek, tipping his face up and lowering his mouth to cover his in a slow, sensuous kiss that nearly drove all his misgivings away. As their lips parted, she met his eyes with a smoldering look of intense desire, over a gently knowing smile. “Of course you want to.”

*Bloody hell, but she’s right,* he realized with a sense of blissful despair. *I’m lost to her…and I want to be…*

Her hands slid down from his face to his chest, slender fingers working the buttons of his shirt, sliding the fabric back off his shoulders and to the bed. He kept his eyes focused on her face, but could feel his desire heightened as her eyes traveled slowly over his pale torso. A look of dismay and regret came into her eyes when they feel on the purple bruising that discolored the ivory flesh of his stomach.

Tenderly, her hands continued their downward path, caressing lightly over the injured area. He tensed slightly in anticipation of pain that did not come. One of the Slayer’s smooth, warm hands slid around to his back, the other rising to lightly hold the back of his head as she kissed him again, slowly, intently, taking her time to explore his mouth with her tongue, her lips.

He closed his eyes, losing himself in the sensation, savoring her taste, his hands slipping up to her hips. Suddenly, they dropped out from under his hands, and he felt a slight pressure on the back of his neck, her lips pulled from his for just a moment. He opened his eyes, a question unformed on his lips, to see that the Slayer was kneeling in front of him, in the same pose she had taken in the living room a few minutes earlier.

His lips parted to voice the question in his mind – but were immediately invaded by the Slayer’s tender kiss, as she drew him in again, her hands running up and down his back, sliding gently around his sides to his stomach, as she broke the kiss, pulling back and looking into his eyes with a sad, affectionate smile. He could see the regret, the sorrow there, that he had asked her not to express.

As if reading his mind – which, actually, she may have been -- she murmured softly, “You don’t want me to say it? Fine. I’ll prove it. For tonight, Spike – for tonight – I’m yours. I owe you that much.”

And she left him to take in those stunning words, as she leaned back on her knees, lowering her mouth to tenderly caress the smooth alabaster skin of his chest, gliding slowly downward to lave the tender, bruised flesh of his stomach with the soothing, moist heat of her mouth, her hands at his waist pulling him in nearer to her.

He let out a soft moan at the achingly pleasurable sensation of her heat against his cool, sore flesh, and his hands lowered, one to rest on her shoulder, the other instinctively behind her head, instinctively gripping her hair and guiding her head gently downward. Neither was aware that it was subconsciously a possessive gesture – a gesture that should have had Buffy’s primal, controlling side screaming to the surface in a rage.

But she was nowhere to be found.

Buffy – just Buffy – relished the firm comfort of his touch on her head, a relief, a silent statement that she did not *have* to be in control. As her mouth dipped lower, her tongue sliding teasingly around and into his navel before lowering again, he gasped softly at the unexpected contact with the sensitive, rarely touched area.

“Buffy – oh, God, Buffy…” he whispered, leaning back as her hands gently pressed on his abdomen to push him back on the bed so that he was lying down, with his knees hanging over the side of the bed, before moving to unfasten the button on his jeans, her mouth still edging lower.

He knew that he should have stopped her. As awkward and embarrassing a conversation as it would be, he knew that he had to talk to her about what had happened that night – now, while she was reasonably rational, not controlled by the dangerous force that might take her over again at any moment.

Reason told him that they had to find a way to sort this out – a way to determine what things that they were doing were a normal result of the claim, and what parts were a result of whatever had gone wrong with the ritual – and what, if any, was due to something else entirely. Perhaps – just maybe – their own personal feelings might have something to do with this.

But as long as his thoughts were lost, swept away by the feeling of her touch, there would be no figuring out the situation. They would both just continue swirling deeper into confusion.

And what sort of a message was he sending her, what was he telling her about the abusive behavior that was becoming more and more frequent, if he could give himself to her like this so easily, when less than an hour before she had been viciously beating him in an alley, bruising and breaking the flesh she was so tenderly caressing now?

Then, he felt her hands at the waistband of his jeans, gently tugging downward, and his mental objections seemed to fade with the anticipation, the desperate need for what she seemed to be offering. He raised his hips slightly, the weight of his body braced on his arms on the bed, as she slid the garment down off his hips, allowing it to lie in a tangled heap about his ankles.

His burgeoning erection exposed to the cool air of the room thrust upward toward her, seeking the warmth of her touch, but she did not touch him – not for a few moments. He raised his head with a soft pleading whimper, “Buffy…” aching for her touch – and felt his arousal deepen at the sight that met his eyes.

She was kneeling there between his legs, her arms slack at her sides, staring at the swollen evidence of his need for her with a smoldering look of desire in her eyes. Her lips were full and dark, and as he watched, she slowly ran her tongue across them in an unconscious gesture of need that left them glistening with moisture.

When her darkened eyes suddenly rose to meet his, hooded and hazy with her arousal, he felt his own desire deepening for her, and released a groan as her hands came to rest high on his thighs, gently spreading them further apart as she moved in closer.

“Buffy,” he groaned softly. “God, Buffy – please – need you, love…”

It was very clear what she was about to do, but it stunned him to think of it. According to the general rules of vampire relationships, such an act was generally considered to be very submissive, and as Buffy was clearly the dominant party in this pairing, he was surprised that she would even consider it.

But he was very, very glad that she was.

When she rose slowly from her knees, leaving him leaned backward over the bed, he felt a nearly overwhelming sense of disappointment. He wanted her, needed her, so badly, and to have her make such an offer – and then pull it away…

Conscious thought left him as the coarse fabric of her clothing rubbed across his sensitive erection, as she leaned up over him, catching his wrists in her hands and crossing them carefully over his head. The look in her eyes was affectionate and reassuring, as she met his uncertain gaze, fearful at being positioned in such a vulnerable way.

She kissed his lips, slowly, tenderly, with an intimacy that promised so much more to come, before pulling away to look him directly in the eye. “Don’t…move…” she ordered very softly, without menace or demand, a teasing sparkle in her eyes. Her hands trailed slowly down his raised arms, down his sides, to rest at his hips for a moment as she rose off of him.

“Just let me make you feel so good, Baby,” she whispered, her forefinger and thumb tracing the arc of his hips, her thumbs sliding slowly inward and pressing gently down into the sensitive flesh just above his groin.

He moaned softly, arching upward toward her, but obediently trying his best not to move, as her thumbs began a slow, circular pressure on the rarely touched erogenous zone of his sensitive inner thighs, simultaneously pressing his legs further apart and heightening the sense of vulnerability, and sensitivity, for his fully erect, but so far ignored member.

“Buffy,” he whispered desperately. “Please, Buffy…”

“You don’t have to beg me,” she said softly, and though his head was resting on the bed and his eyes were closed, he knew how near her mouth was to his desperate, aching member, by the warm brush of her breath against the sensitive skin. “I’ve hurt you and used you and taken what I wanted from you without caring about what it did to you – but tonight – all I want – is to give you pleasure, Spike.”

The very words, spoken in that warm, throaty voice of honest sincerity, made him groan with pleasure, feeling his erection harden further -- and he wondered how such a feat was even possible, considering the power of his longing for her already.

And in the next moment, he was no longer capable of wondering at all, as he felt the soft, wet heat of her tongue, sliding slowly around the tip of his erection, sending a surge of hot pleasure from the point of contact up through his entire body.

“Buffy – God -- *Buffy*…” he gasped, arching up on the bed, thrusting instinctively toward her, needing to be more completely inside the inviting warmth of her mouth.

But she pulled back immediately, her hands resting lightly on his thighs and looking down at him with a tolerant smile. “Uh-uh-uh,” she gently reproved him, shaking her head as he looked up at her through desperate, pleading eyes of sapphire blue. “Don’t move, Spike. Just let me do this…”

“God, Buffy,” he groaned, leaning his head back against the mattress, gasping for breath. “Buffy, I don’t – I don’t know if I – I – can’t…”

Perfectly understanding his barely coherent words, Buffy smiled. “Of course you can,” she murmured softly. Then, she placed one soft but powerful arm high across his thighs, pinning him down with a gentle strength, as her free hand rose to lightly trace down the length of his aching shaft, finishing with a torturously tantalizing circle around its tip.

He bucked instinctively up toward her hand, but could not actually rise up from the bed, restrained by her powerful arm – and the total loss of control, when it was in a situation of safety – and for some strange reason, at this moment, he felt completely safe – only served to heighten his arousal.

She removed her hand, her fingers tracing with an almost tickling lightness up and down the silky sensitive skin of his inner thigh, as her mouth descended over the tip of his erection, taking it into the searing heat of her mouth, and causing him to moan at the sensation and buck up against her again – uselessly – held motionless by her restraining arm.

He felt her lips form a smile around him, and it only increased his desire, as he groaned out her name, “Buffy…God…sweet Buffy…yours, Buffy…I’m yours…”

The words were rewarded as she took him deeper into her mouth, her tongue swirling slow circles around him, edging him ever nearer to the peak of his desire. She surprised him with a light, playful nip that made him nearly come right then and there at the unexpected pleasure/pain sensation.

“Buffy,” he whimpered. “Yes…yes, Buffy…”

He longed to lower his arms, to fist a hand in her hair and urge her to take him deeper, to touch her while she did this for him – but he dared not move from the position she had required him to assume. And the utter lack of control, the complete submission to her, while frightening and unsettling, was also exciting and arousing.

She ceased all motion for an instant, and he looked up with anguished eyes into her own wide, serious gaze.

*Shhh…* she reminded him in his mind, as her mouth was a bit preoccupied at the moment. *Impressionable young ears in the house…* Although he knew she meant it, her eyes were sparkling with mischievous mirth, as if the idea of possibly being caught only made the whole thing that much more exciting.

And the truth was, it did.

Of course Buffy did not know that Dawn already knew the nature of their relationship, and even had she known, it still would not have been appropriate to allow the teenager to overhear their uncontrolled screams and cries of passion. Spike obediently stifled the cries of pleasure that rose to his lips.

With a few more minutes of expert attention, drawing him suddenly completely into her mouth and swallowing hard, Buffy exerted that last little bit of pressure that was needed to bring him to completion. He came hard, down her throat, biting down hard on his lower lip to stifle a scream of intense pleasure, his crossed hands fisted in the bedspread above his head as he struggled to fulfill her demands of silent stillness.

His body shuddering in the wake of the powerful orgasm that had consumed him, he hardly noticed when gentle hands drew his away from their grip on her quilt, pulling him with her to lie lengthwise on the bed, his arms gently around her, and her own arm wrapped around his neck, her hand playing soothingly through his disheveled blonde curls, her other arm cast comfortably across his stomach.

She gazed at him with a calm smile of satisfaction, studying his flawless features, altered with the emotion of his pleasure and passion for her, with a sense of awe and pride.

He was *hers*.

As the power of the moment passed, he finally opened his eyes to meet her gaze, staring up at her with a stunned, overwhelmed expression.

“God – Buffy – that was – my God, Buffy, you were – amazing,” he whispered breathlessly.

She just smiled down at him, a rare tenderness in her eyes – and that tenderness prompted a question, though he could scarcely put it into words.

“Buffy,” he whispered, shaking his head slightly, glancing down before looking back up at her again. “Why…?”

She was silent for a long moment, and her smile faded slightly, her eyes growing serious. She shifted slightly, becoming more comfortable, her hand playing through his hair lowering to lightly caress his face.

“Because,” she replied finally, in a soft, hesitant voice. “Because I wanted – I wanted to. I wanted *you*. No…” She frowned, struggling to find the right words. “Spike – I wanted to make you happy. It’s like I said – all I’ve done since this whole thing started is – is make things harder on you, and – and I wanted to make you feel *good*.”

He smiled, a soft, ironic smirk, as he met her gaze. “You did that, love,” he assured her.

She glanced down, a bit abashed, again reassuring him that this was the real, true Buffy, and not her evil alter-ego. There was nothing of the brash, dominating sexual confidence that marked that other Buffy – this was the same insecure, inexperienced girl whose confidence had been so broken by Angel and Parker.

“I did?” she whispered, uncertainly.

“Yes,” he whispered. “You did.” As he spoke, he raised a hand to tenderly push back a loose tendril of damp blonde hair from her face.

She smiled softly at the contact, leaning slightly into his touch for just a moment, before her smile faded slightly, and she met his eyes again, her own troubled. “I just – I wish I hadn’t done it, Spike.”

He felt his heart drop with a feeling of panic, of desolation. “What?” he forced himself to ask in a low whisper. “You wish you hadn’t done – what?”

“The claim,” she whispered, confirming his fears. When she saw the look on his face, she quickly amended, “I mean – not like that. Not – for that reason. Spike – I’ve been attracted to you. You know that. Ever since…”

A sense of cautious relief came over him with her explanation of her words. “Red’s spell?” he guessed, knowing that for him, it had been much longer.

Buffy nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah. I think that must have been it. So – so I know I felt *something* for you – even back then – but – but then came this whole claiming thing, and – and I just wish I knew…” She stopped, shaking her head, unable to find the right words.

Spike knew; he was struggling with the same question.

“Which feelings came from where?” he suggested softly.

Buffy studied his expression for a long moment. “Yeah,” she agreed with a slow nod. “Exactly.”

They were both silent for a long moment, lying there, lost in their thoughts.

Finally, he spoke in a soft, vulnerable voice. “Does it matter?”

She frowned, her own voice hushed in the late stillness that was falling over the room. “What do you mean?”

Slowly, he clarified, in a carefully controlled voice, trying not to give too much away, “If you feel them – the emotions – does it matter where they came from?”

*Yes,* she thought automatically, feeling troubled by the suggestion. Of course it mattered, whether what she was feeling for Spike was her own true feelings that might have developed on their own, or something artificial, manufactured by the claim she had made.

And yet – she knew by the vulnerability in his voice that he was trying so hard to conceal, that was not the answer he needed at the moment. But she could not outright lie to him, because she knew that she was going to have to find the answer, sooner or later.

“I don’t know,” she said softly, her fingers tenderly caressing the fine lines of his face again, enjoying once again the comforting thought that no matter what, he *was* hers. “I – I just don’t know what it all means, Spike. I don’t know why I feel this way. I don’t know why I’ve been having those weird spells. I don’t understand any of it.”

“Well,” he suggested in a hushed voice, barely over a whisper. “Perhaps it’s best to start with what you *do* understand.” He leaned up slowly on his elbow to look her in the eye again, his expression solemn and utterly sincere. “I’m yours, Buffy. Out of this whole bloody complicated mess, that’s the one face we know for sure. You claimed me, and I’m yours.”

She stared at him, in the dim light of the room, he could see her eyes well with tears, her lower lip trembling as she opened her mouth, then closed it again, hesitating, before she finally asked in a whisper, “Do – do you *want* to be?”

“Yes,” he answered without hesitation. “Bloody hell, Buffy, *yes*!”

She studied his eyes for a long moment, biting her lower lip anxiously, until she seemed satisfied of the truth in his eyes, and nodded slowly. “Okay,” she whispered.

With her hand around his head, caressing his face, she gently pulled his head back down onto the pillow beside her, kissing him tenderly, and he could taste the salt of her cooling tears on her lips. Their lips finally parted, both exhausted beyond measure by the tumult of the day, as they felt themselves drifting off to sleep.

There was so much to figure out. So many problems arisen from the foolish actions she had taken. But together, they clung to the one truth they knew for certain out of the whole thing – and for that one night – it was enough.

It was late morning when Spike awakened to the dim glow of sunlight seeping through the closely drawn curtains on Buffy’s bedroom window. He opened his eyes slowly, and they fell immediately on the peaceful face of his slumbering Slayer.

The momentary apprehension he felt as his mind raced back over the trauma of the previous day melted away as he took in the stunning stillness of her beauty, her smooth brow free of the tension that had marked it so frequently these past few days, her slow even breaths gently rustling a few stray blonde hairs that fell down over her eyes.

He thought back over the unexpected tender moments of the night before, drinking in the peaceful, contented expression on her face – and wondering how long he would have to enjoy it this time.

His sensitive hearing picked up the quiet sounds of Dawn moving about downstairs, and he suddenly remembered their unfinished conversation of the night before. He had yet to ask Buffy how much she wanted Dawn to know, but he was certain that what he had told her was already too much. At the very least, they had to work out a game plan of how to conduct themselves around Buffy, considering the secret but very close friendship that she did not know that they shared.

Very, very slowly, he slid out from between the warm, soft arms of the Slayer, not wanting to awaken her – unsure which “Buffy” he would be awakening if he did. She did not stir, as he got to his feet and reached for his clothes, where they had been discarded by her on the floor the night before – the same clothes he had worn for three days now, he realized with disgust.

He thought absently that he would have to return to the mansion at some point to get the rest of his clothes, and bring them – here?

He frowned in pensive wondering. Was the Slayer intending for him to stay here now? He had a feeling that if she knew the whole story, Joyce would not mind – but he was certain that Buffy had no intention of telling her anywhere near the whole story, and how did she plan to explain to her mother why a vampire she had openly and vocally hated for years was suddenly moving into the house with them? And wasn’t Buffy living in a dorm room with Willow at the moment anyway?

He had a feeling that all of these questions would soon be answered – and there were going to be a lot of changes.

He made his way quietly down the stairs to the kitchen, where Dawn stood at the counter with her back to him, pouring herself a bowl of cereal. He noticed as he casually approached her that her hands were trembling, sending little dribbles of milk over the sides of the bowl. He felt a pang of guilt, realizing that his going upstairs with Buffy, after the conversation they had just had regarding her recent behavior, must have given the girl a bit of a scare.

“Morning, pet,” he said softly, not wanting to startle her.

But he *did* startle her, and she jumped with a little shriek, dropping the bowl to the floor with a shatter and a splash, sending Fruity Pebbles and milk flying through the kitchen, as she whirled around to face him with wide, fearful eyes.

“God, Spike, could you *not* do that whole scary silent vampire thing?” she gasped in genuine annoyance.

“Bloody hell!” he muttered under his breath, glancing anxiously up the stairs as he crouched down to begin picking up the shattered pieces of glass from the floor. “Sorry, bit,” he added with an apologetic grimace. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Dawn was leaning back against the counter, catching her breath. “It’s okay,” she gasped out in relief, as she retrieved a dish cloth from beside the sink and began mopping up the mess on the floor, walls, counter – pretty much everywhere. “You just – just startled me. I mean…” As she went on, her eyes were carefully focused on the floor that she was half-heartedly wiping at. “I guess – after last night – I just…”

As she spoke, Spike quickly discarded the shards of broken glass he was carefully holding in his hand, returning to her in time to cut off her words by putting his arms around her gently. “It’s all right, Nibblet,” he murmured, holding her close to him. “She didn’t hurt me, pet. She didn’t.”

She suddenly pushed him back, the sopping dishcloth in her hand leaving a darker mark on his black shirt, as she fixed him with a fierce, blazing look that seemed to see right through him – a Joyce-look if he had ever seen one.

“Say that again,” she ordered calmly, but leaving no room for argument, her eyes focused searchingly on his.

He was suddenly very glad that he was telling the truth, knowing that had he been lying, she would have seen through it in an instant. Slowly and emphatically, holding her gaze unflinchingly he repeated, “She didn’t hurt me.”

She stared at him for a moment longer, and he could see the satisfaction and relief in her eyes when she decided that she believed him – but something was still clearly bothering her. Without a word she turned and finished wiping up the spilt milk and cereal, tossing the sopping dishcloth carelessly in the sink before sitting down at the counter with a sort of dejected air.

“So what’s up, pet?” he asked plainly, taking the seat beside her, crossing his arms on the counter in front of him and looking at her sideways, trying to read her expression.

He had long since known that Dawn had a bit of a crush on him – well, more than a bit, actually – and realized with a pang of guilt that if she had any inkling of what had gone on the night before in Buffy’s room, that might be what was responsible for her mood now. And the girl was not stupid; she had to know.

But this seemed to be about more than that.

“Come on, now, Niblet,” he pressed her gently. “What’s wrong?”

She opened her mouth to respond, then shut it again, and he could see something in her close off as she decided not to ask her question – but then changed her mind again. Finally, she replied in a low, reluctant voice, “I just don’t get it.”

Spike could not help but laugh, though he knew the reaction was probably not helpful to the situation. When Dawn glared at him reproachfully, he stopped laughing, his smile warm and apologetic as he explained, “I don’t either, pet. I’m so bloody confused at this point I don’t even know what it is I’m supposed to be getting that I don’t get.”

That at least earned him a weak smile.

After a pause, he sighed softly, “Could you just be a bit more specific, pet?”

Dawn frowned thoughtfully. “Well – here’s the thing. You came in here last night looking like shit…”

“Language…”

*Bloody hell, I’ve become soddin’ Joyce Summers in her absence!*

“Crap,” Dawn amended without missing a beat, her tone agitated and building up steam as she went along. “And said that Buffy did it. Okay, she’s not herself, she’s possessed or something, so we don’t hate Buffy. *I* do. *We* don’t. Just so that’s clear.”

Spike suppressed a grin that he knew would only provoke her further in this mood, nodding seriously.

“But the point was,” Dawn continued, meeting his eyes questioningly. “You were scared of her.”

When Spike opened his mouth to indignantly protest, she held up a hand to silence him, going on, “And don’t give me that ‘I wasn’t the least bit bloody scared, I’m the Big Bad,’ bull crap. You were scared. It doesn’t make you any less of a man so let it go.”

Her quick, matter-of-face words left no opportunity for argument, and he closed his mouth again as she went on, “But then, next thing I know, you’re upstairs in her bed, getting it on, letting her pretend that everything’s just fine!”

Astonished and horrified at the girl’s seemingly impossible knowledge, Spike stared at her in shock. “How could you…?” he began.

She waved a hand dismissively at the details as she interrupted to answer, “Next door bedroom – thin walls – very *not* stupid teenager – you do the math. *I* did.”

“Anyway, that’s not the point!” she insisted, stopping suddenly to draw in a deep breath she had not paused long enough to take, and now desperately needed. When she spoke again, her voice was softer, calmer – sadder.

“Why are you letting her do that?”

“I told you, pet,” he reminded her quietly, feeling suddenly very tired – and somehow, ashamed. “It’s not like I can help it. It’s the bloody claim. I’ve gotta do what she says, whether I want to or -- *what*?” He stopped, frowning at the look on her face. “Bit, what?”

Dawn’s eyes were wide with horrified shock. “You…” she whispered, aghast. “You – didn’t want to, and she – she…”

“*No*!” he quickly objected, horrified by the suggestion – though the very real fact that if Buffy took a notion to do such a thing, she could, made him feel a strange sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. “God, no,” he went on, softer. “I wanted to, pet. I did. Not – not that it’s anything I ought to be discussing with you. Your mom would be looking for that axe again if she knew.”

Dawn ignored that, frowning, deep in thought.

“But – if you only wanted it because of the claim – then – isn’t it still…?” Her voice trailed off, as she saw the oddly guilty, trapped expression on his face – and read it perfectly.

“Except,” she concluded softly, “It’s *not* all just because of the claim. Is it? You really like her.” Her words were slow, flat with the effort not to reveal the truth that he already knew, of how badly it hurt her to know it.

Spike looked at her intently for a moment, trying to decide how to respond – before deciding that regardless, Dawn was his friend – and only the truth would do. The truth might hurt her, and her girlish feelings – but not as badly as a lie would hurt her.

“Like her?” he repeated with a soft, bitter laugh at the childish term that did not begin to describe his obsession with the Slayer, even before the claim. “There’s times when I hate her, Bit. But – but I’ve always – wanted her. Cared for her. Since – well, since long before this bloody chip.”

Dawn was silent, forcing herself to take it in without displaying too much of her emotions.

It was one of life’s cruelest tricks, played on many a teenage girl, that the one she idolized, adored and dreamed of, should have just such a fascination with her older sister – who happened to treat him like nothing more than dirt on the bottom of her shoe.

*I should write a teen novel,* Dawn thought cynically. *Everyone would love to read about the disaster that is my hopeless, non-existent love life.*

She suddenly decided that the best thing at this point in the conversation was to change the subject.

“So – yeah,” she said aloud. “*About* that ‘bloody chip’! What’s up with *that*, anyway?”

Spike shrugged easily, relieved as she was to change the subject. “Bloody well buggered if I know,” he replied, shaking his head.

“Do you think it stopped working when she claimed you?” Dawn speculated, getting up and getting the cereal from the counter. “Want some?” she asked as she opened the cupboard.

“Sure, pet,” he replied distractedly, before answering her original question. “And I really couldn’t tell you, come to think of it.” He frowned, remembering. “The chip was already turned off by the time we ever got to that. See, in order for the dominance ritual to work, I had to be able to fight her – so – they knocked out the chip before the whole thing ever started.”

Dawn raised her eyebrows in another expression a la Joyce Summers – God, how Spike wished she was there! – as she sat down at the table, setting down two bowls of cereal as she did. “How did they manage *that*?” she asked skeptically.

Spike took a bit of his cereal before replying with another shrug, “One of Red’s spells. She managed to turn off the chip temporarily for the fight…” His eyes widened with realization, his spoon poised halfway to his mouth. He lowered it slowly, thinking.

“Or not so temporarily,” Dawn finished dryly. “Trust a Willow-spell to go majorly wonky.”

“Do you think that’s got something to do with what’s happening to Buffy?” he asked, eyes wide as he thought about it.

Dawn shrugged, her eyes focused on her bowl as she took another bite. “It sure sounds like it might. I mean, come on. When has Willow ever down a spell that went totally *right*? They ought to just keep her away from magic, permanently.”

“That could very well be it,” Spike nodded, getting excited about the prospect of finding a solution to the problem at last. “If it’s something in the spell she did, then – then we can get her to undo it – and Buffy could get back to normal. Get rid of whatever that – that *thing* is that’s controlling her.” There was a bitter anger in his voice, not directed at Buffy, exactly – but at whatever unknown force was causing her to hurt him.

Dawn nodded. “Sounds good. Let’s talk to Buffy when she wakes up – assuming she’s sane,” she amended as she stood up, taking the empty bowls and spoons to the sink. “And take it to Giles. Maybe he can help figure it out.”

Spike nodded slowly, staring at the table, deep in thought, as Dawn gave his shoulder a supportive squeeze, before going around him toward the stairs to go get dressed. He did not even notice when she left the room, still staring down, his mind racing with the new possibilities opened up by Dawn’s suggestions.

*Bloody magic,* she thought, shaking his head in disgust. *Best left alone by soddin’ children who don’t know what the bloody hell they’re doing.*

“Consequences,” he murmured aloud with a weary sigh. “Always consequences.”

“To what?”

The soft, husky voice behind him sent a chill down his spine, as he immediately recognized the dangerous note of anger to it. She had managed to get unsettlingly near, directly behind him, before he even knew she was there. Instinctively, he moved to get to his feet, to turn and face her.

Before he could, however, a strong hand on his shoulder shoved him back down into his seat, her arm snaking around his shoulders and pinning him there as she crouched behind him, her other hand clamping tightly over his mouth to prevent his calling out for Dawn.

Not that he would have. He wanted Dawn as far as possible from this deranged, dangerous girl.

“Consequences to what?” she whispered, her mouth so close to his ear that he could feel her malicious smile against his cool skin. “Talking about me behind my back? Plotting against me?” The menace in her voice was terrifying, though he knew that he was innocent of her accusations.

*Buffy,* he whispered in his mind. *Buffy, please – I wasn’t…*

He could not hold back a small, muffled cry of pain as she jerked his head to the side, pulling at the wound on his throat as she exposed it to her. “Don’t lie to me,” she ordered in a cold whisper. “I heard you, Baby. I heard you talking to *her* about getting *rid* of me!” she practically spat the words out with hatred in her voice.

A cold chill went down his spine with the realization that this was not even Buffy that was speaking to him. This was something that had not happened before, even in all the strangeness of the past few days.

It was her voice, her mouth, but the entity that was controlling her was addressing him directly.

“You can’t get rid of me!” she sneered. “Not without killing her! And we both know you don’t want that!”

*Who are you?* Spike demanded, his anger rising with the realization that some *thing*, some outside force, was controlling and even threatening his Slayer.

She leaned her head around to give him a falsely sweet, wide-eyed smile. “You know who I am,” she smirked. “I’m Buffy.” Her expression became very serious as she added, “You’re starting to scare me, Sweetie. You’re talking crazy. Better be careful about that.”

The phony smile faded and she leaned in close to his ear again to snarl softly, “ ‘Cause you wanna make this my word against yours – you know who’s gonna win!”

He knew she was right. If it came right down to it, almost anyone he tried to tell about this would not believe a word of it if Buffy denied it. True, her friends had witnessed some odd behavior, were convinced that she was in trouble – but they had not been convinced enough of the danger he was in to actually take any measures to protect him.

Or perhaps, they just had not cared.

“That’s right, Spike,” she said softly in response to the thoughts he had not known she was listening to. “You hit the nail on the head right there. They. Don’t. Care.”

*Dawn.*

Her name flashed into his mind unbidden, a reminder that at least someone *did* care – even if that someone was not really able to do much to help him. And in the next instant, a flash of fear, as he wondered if Buffy had read that thought – and what, in her possessive rage, she might feel compelled to do about it.

His fears were not unfounded.

A low feral growl rose in Buffy’s throat, and suddenly, her hand on his shoulder rose to viciously dig her fingernails into the sensitive flesh of her mark, mercilessly punishing his daring to even think of relying on the affections of someone besides her.

His helpless cry of pain was stifled by her hand still over his mouth, and he was oddly grateful for it. He did not want Dawn to hear it, did not want her to come to his aide, only to get hurt herself.

“You know,” she sneered close to his ear, smiling maliciously again. “It doesn’t matter if she comes down here or not. I can find her. If I wanted to hurt her, I could. And there’d be nothing you could do to stop me.”

Fury rose up in him, and he struggled against her restraining arm – until she viciously assaulted the mark again, and his body went rigid under her grasp, then still, trembling with pain that coursed through him.

“Don’t worry, Sweetie,” she whispered, her hand rising to caress his hair in a mockery of tenderness. “She doesn’t matter to me. She thinks she can help you. She thinks you *belong* to her…” With those odd words, the seething hatred in her voice seemed to intensify, as she turned her head slightly to glare up the stairs, before looking back to Spike.

“But it doesn’t matter. *She* doesn’t matter. She’s not even real.”

The words made absolutely no sense – and yet they angered Spike in a way that he could not explain. Unexpectedly, he jerked his mouth out from under her hand, one hand rising to grip her wrist and hold it away from her mark, twisting quickly and managing somehow to escape her grip, toppling the chair in the process.

But it was between them.

He faced her warily, eyes wide and searching for any escape. Buffy was clearly out of control – out of control? She had left the building entirely for the moment. All he could think was that he had to get himself and Dawn away from her as quickly as possible.

And his fledgling plans were dashed in an instant, with a quiet, authoritative command from his claimant.

Dark eyes blazing with wrath, the thing inhabiting Buffy at the moment, glared at him with menace as she said softly, “Still.”

Spike’s mind screamed at him to run, to fight, to do something -- *anything* -- but what he did – was to keep still.

He stood there, helplessly frozen by her command, struggling to overcome it, but unable to disobey, as she slowly approached him, kicking the chair between them across the room with savage force, shattering it into pieces against the far wall.

Spike was vaguely aware of Dawn’s hurried footsteps on the stairs, her concerned, small voice calling his name, drawn by the crashing sound. He was more aware of the steadily advancing Slayer, his doom glittering in her feral, furious eyes.

She reached him, stopping just a foot or so away from him, looking him up and down with a cruel smile.

“Buffy,” Dawn’s small, trembling voice called from the bottom of the stairs, then again from a few steps nearer, “Buffy, don’t!”

The Slayer stretched a deceptively tender hand toward him, caressing lightly over the mark, and although he did not want to respond, wanted to reject her hold over him – his head tipped back and to the side, allowing her access, acknowledging wordlessly that he was hers.

Her hand at his throat suddenly jerked him closer to her, and she spoke softly but with overwhelming intensity, her lips, her eyes, bare inches from his own.

“You…are…*mine*.”

She released him then, taking a step back, looking him up and down. He was aware the instant before it happened of the vindictive fury, the desire to punish him in her eyes of jade – knew what she was going to do.

Her fist smashed down once again across the side of his head in a blow of such power that it felled him to the floor, struggling for consciousness, Dawn’s terrified screams in the background sounding hollow and faint to his assaulted ears.

And in the next moment, he was barely aware as the kitchen door opened, and someone entered – until he felt the shock go through his claimant, felt every inch of her emotion.

Shock – guilt – fear – and finally, sorrow and shame, as the feral dominating creature was driven back by the strength of the girl’s bond with the person who had just entered the house.

And with the single word that echoed through the Slayer’s mind, and thus through his own, Spike felt an intense sense of relief. He did not know how, but he knew that everything was going to be all right, when he heard that single whispered breath of thought in Buffy’s timid, confused mind.

*Mommy?*

Buffy felt as if she were drifting out of a dense fog in which she had been lost, just barely able to *see* what had been taking place during the past few minutes, but unable to take any real part in it – to control it. And yet – she had the vague sense that it *was* her who had done it. Overwhelmed by a powerful rage, a force that had taken her over...

And left her to take in the damage she had done – without meaning to – without even realizing that she had.

Her mother stood in the doorway, staring at her in wide-eyed shock and horrified dismay; her little sister stood by the stairs, her eyes huge as she looked at Buffy with an expression of confusion and terror that made her feel sick inside. They both looked at her as if she were a stranger – as if they had never really known her at all.

Maybe they hadn’t, if she was capable of something like…

*Oh, God…Spike…*

Her eyes came to rest on the fallen, dazed vampire on the floor at her feet – where her fists had driven him. His eyes were fastened on the floor as he fought the haze that surrounded him, warring for his consciousness against the violence of her attack. His body was trembling as he tried to pull himself up on weakened arms.

Why should he be so weak? she wondered with alarm. She had only hit him once. But then she remembered – she had also attacked him through her mark on his throat, through the bond that made him hers, using it deliberately to cause him the most excruciating pain that she could, to punish him for…for what?

What had Spike done to merit such violence?

The answer was painfully clear to her: nothing at all.

These thoughts all rushed through her mind in a matter of moments, and in the next instant she crouched down in front of Spike, reaching a trembling hand toward him, with the intent of helping him up.

He flinched back away from her with a sharp intake of breath that revealed his fear, but then froze, not daring to pull away from her any further. She could see it on his face – the cautious expression, deliberately calm, keeping perfectly -- *obediently* -- still, as he struggled with his instincts, not to resist her, not to give her any further reason to hurt him, even with such a small defiance.

Buffy’s hand stopped, her heart smote with the truth of the matter. He *expected* her to hurt him now, after all she had done to him already. He was afraid of her, afraid of angering her simply by pulling away from her touch on *his* body – which was his right – wasn’t it?

And *she* had placed that fear in him.

*Oh God…what is happening to me? What am I becoming?*

Joyce had no way of knowing anything about her daughter’s internal turmoil of the moment. All she saw was Buffy’s powerful fist viciously striking the vampire to the ground; then crouching down beside him to touch him again. Whether the touch was intended to harm, or to help, did not matter. Joyce saw Spike’s instantaneous reaction of fear to Buffy’s touch, before his entire body went rigid and he forced himself to not resist.

She was across the room in an instant, gripping Buffy’s arm none-too-gently and pulling her up and away from the fallen vampire.

“Get away from him,” she ordered sharply, a note of anger and disgust in her voice that made the little girl inside the Slayer quail at her mother’s disapproval.

As Joyce knelt down at Spike’s side, Buffy stepped back, feeling useless and ashamed and awkward and completely clueless as to what she should do. She wanted to help, but knew that her help was not wanted at the moment – and understandably so. She was still dazed from the whole experience, too much so to wonder about the tenderness in her mother’s eyes as she looked at Spike.

She did realize, however, that her mother did not really seem surprised by the whole thing. Spike must have told Dawn what had happened, and Dawn must have contacted her. Buffy was just too overwhelmed by all of it to try to figure it out now.

She felt a strange mixture of emotions – dread, shame, relief – like a child who knows she’s going to be in trouble for wandering off, but is still so very grateful to have been found.

“Mom,” she began weakly, feeling like she should try to explain – but having no idea what to say.

“Buffy, please be quiet,” Joyce cut her off in a quiet, terse voice that made Buffy flinch. For the moment, her concern was completely focused on Spike.

Over the past few months, the blonde vampire had become a welcome fixture in her home – an extended part of her family, like one of her own children to her, though in reality he was over a century older than her.

In some ways, the emotional, expressive creature, who wore his heart on his sleeve, and tried sloppily to cover it up with a façade of bravado, was every bit as vulnerable in her eyes as either of her daughters – every bit as much in need of love and – well, mothering.

When Dawn had called her and given her a shaky, uncertain description of what was going on between Spike and her older daughter, she had found it difficult to understand – but the fear in her youngest’s voice had been enough to make her cut her trip short and come home early.

She had worried about Spike when he had seemingly dropped off the face of the planet about a month earlier, and had worried still more when Buffy had mentioned finding him, apparently rendered unable to so much as defend himself against humans, let alone feed.

It was clear from the start that Buffy held no sympathy for the situation of the essentially crippled vampire, and Joyce had thought it wisest not to mention his friendship with her and Dawn – at least not while he was the captive of Buffy and her Watcher.

She was quite certain that Buffy would be furious over the whole situation. Whether or not she would recognize the reason behind her anger, Joyce knew that it would be the idea of being deceived by her mother and sister that would bother Buffy the most.

But Spike would be the one to pay the price.

Buffy had responded to her mother’s subtle questioning by saying that she could not stake Spike in his current helpless condition – she just would not feel right about hurting a creature that could not fight back, and Joyce had felt at the time that she was sincere. So, she had kept her mouth shut and hoped for the best, determined however to intervene the moment it seemed that Spike was in danger.

And that moment had come when she had walked through her front door, just in time to see the helpless vampire crumpled under the power of her daughter’s brutal fist.

“Spike,” she said softly, crouching down beside him where Buffy had been, her serious, concerned eyes seeking his downcast gaze.

His mouth was trembling as he drew in short, shallow breaths, obviously in pain and clearly badly shaken by the incident, but managing to keep an impressive amount of control over his emotions, considering the circumstances.

She leaned forward, edging nearer and reaching toward him with a gentle hand. “Spike,” she repeated firmly. “Are you okay?”

She was surprised, and a bit hurt, when he jerked away from her – but realized an instant later that it was not her he was afraid of, when his eyes shot up anxiously to Buffy’s face, obviously trying to gauge her reaction to what Joyce had done. He drew back cautiously against the base of the center island, trying to make it unmistakable to Buffy that he and Joyce were not overly close.

Not anywhere near as close as they actually were.

He had no way of knowing what small, innocent thing might set off her jealous, possessive rage next.

Joyce turned wide, stunned eyes on her daughter, as intuition revealed to her the reason for Spike’s fear, and the look of anguished disbelief on her mother’s face struck Buffy like a blow, as Joyce shook her head slowly in dismay.

Then, her mouth set in a firm line, and she said in a calm but severe voice, “Buffy – I think you’d better leave the room for the moment.”

Buffy’s eyes widened, a cold feeling of fear beginning in the pit of her stomach – she was beginning to feel like an outsider in her own home. This thing inside her, whatever it was, was turning her *into* an outsider.

“But – Mom…” she protested in a weak, trembling voice.

“Buffy!” Joyce snapped, lowering her voice when Spike flinched almost imperceptibly beside her – presumably not because of Joyce’s anger, but because of Buffy’s potential reaction to it. “I am your mother and this is my home. And I am telling you to leave the room. *Now*.”

Buffy recognized the tone of her mother’s voice, knew that there would be no room for argument, and turned to slowly, dejectedly obey.

“Buffy Anne Summers.”

Her mother’s firm voice stopped her in the doorway, and she turned around, biting her lower lip, a faint glimmer of hope in her tearful green eyes. The look on her face, while completely genuine, had rarely failed to get her her way in the past.

It did this time.

“Do not leave this house,” Joyce said quietly, a warning note to her voice. “You don’t need to be here right now. But we *are* going to discuss this, young lady. Tonight. So don’t go far.”

Buffy nodded, her head lowered in subdued disappointment, before she turned and went up the stairs to her bedroom – still just as she had left it when she had moved into the dorms on campus.

As soon as she was out of sight, Joyce saw Spike visibly relax, his whole body trembling as he leaned his head back against the island, breathing out a deep, shaky breath of relief. Joyce watched him cautiously for a moment, trying to gauge his condition. His mouth was bleeding and bruised from Buffy’s blow, but other than that she could see no visible wounds on him – and yet, he appeared to be in pain.

Slowly, silently, she reached out a hand and took his firmly. Instinctively he started to jerk it back, before remembering himself and relaxing his hand in her gentle grip, bringing a second cool, shaking hand to cover hers in a desperate need for reassurance. At that silent signal that it was all right, Joyce slid a little closer to him.

Dawn took the cue as well, and moved eagerly closer. “Are you okay? Spike, are you all right?” she asked anxiously, her voice trembling, afraid and uncertain.

Joyce held up a hand to silence her daughter, but Spike nodded shakily, opening his eyes to look up at Dawn with a weak smile. “ ‘M all right, Bit. ‘S all right. I – I’ll be okay in – in a minute.”

His breath was still coming hard, and he winced painfully as he finished speaking, leaning his head back again, his hand rising to cover the still-throbbing mark on his throat, concealed from Dawn and Joyce by his shirt. He had no idea what Buffy had done to him. This was different from the other times she had used her mark to punish him. The pain had lessened since she had done it, but was still coursing through him in ever-weakening waves – too slowly weakening.

“What is it?” Joyce asked gently, aware that something was wrong that was not immediately obvious, edging in nearer and putting a comforting arm around his shoulder as she looked him over more closely with a concerned frown. “Where are you hurt?”

He shook his head weakly, not knowing how to answer her question simply, and his mind too full of pain to come up with a proper answer. “It – it’ll pass…” he whispered. “It’ll…”

His voice trailed off, as another wave of pain hit him, weaker than the last – but still strong enough. He pulled away just slightly from Joyce’s arm around him, uncomfortable with her gentle affection. He was in physical pain, and his emotions were so raw and near to the surface from the past few days of abuse he had endured, that he was sure that any more tenderness would cause him to break down completely.

And that was the last thing he wanted, especially in front of Dawn.

Joyce looked at him closely for a moment, and then followed her usually accurate motherly instincts. She did not loosen her gentle arm around him, only pulled him slightly closer, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. She looked up at Dawn as she edged closer to Spike.

“Dawnie, Honey…could you give us a few minutes? There’s something I’d like to talk to Spike about.”

Dawn frowned, reluctant to obey. She did not want to be sent from the room like a child, so the “grown-ups” could talk. Spike was as much her friend as he was her mother’s. But then – Dawn’s instincts were nearly as good as her mother’s, and she sensed that this call on her mother’s part was the right one. She nodded silently and headed toward the door.

Joyce turned her attention back to Spike, who had just drawn in a sharp breath as the latest wave of pain, much milder now, coursed through him – so neither noticed the girl’s moment of indecision. She had planned on waiting in the living room with a bit of mindless television, but she stopped at the base of the stairs, looking up them thoughtfully. As she did, her jaw slowly set in a hard, angry line, and her eyes narrowed as her decision was made.

Quickly and purposefully, Dawn made her way up the stairs.

Oblivious to her daughter’s decision, Joyce turned her full attention on Spike, who was still breathing hard with the exertion of Buffy’s punishment on his body, but had an expression of relief on his face – as if the pain had finally passed. Joyce gently sat forward, placing her hands on his shoulders and urging him to sit up, to face her. His eyes were still down, and he swallowed hard, realizing that the moment of truth, so to speak, had come.

“So what happened?” Joyce asked softly, but intently, seeking his gaze.

He still kept it stubbornly averted, his jaw set in determination – but still trembling just a bit, his hand still unconsciously resting at his throat.

Joyce noticed that immediately, and took one hand from his shoulder to gently tip his chin up to meet her eyes. Reluctantly, he complied; he could resist Joyce Summers no better than he could have resisted his own mum as a boy.

His eyes widened in alarm, and he swallowed reflexively, as he saw her intent in her eyes, before she took her other hand from his shoulder to close around his wrist, gently pulling it down away from the spot he was so carefully covering. He shook his head slightly, a pleading look in his eyes, but her eyes were so full of compassion and understanding, and he knew beyond all doubt that if there was one person he could trust completely, it was Joyce Summers.

Reluctantly, he allowed her to move his hand, to carefully pull the soft fabric of his shirt collar down far enough to reveal the glaring red mark on his throat; he turned his head away, his eyes closed in unexplained shame, not wanting to see her reaction to what she would see.

Her eyes widened in silent shock as she took in the puncture wound, healed very little since the moment it was inflicted, and at the moment appearing livid and inflamed – most likely as a result of Buffy’s touch only moments before.

After a moment, she released his shirt, allowing the fabric to cover the mark again, and he winced slightly at the twinge of pain at the contact.

“We need to take care of that,” Joyce said softly, a bit briskly, obviously trying to put off thinking about the truth she already knew of just how that ugly wound had been inflicted, by focusing on taking care of Spike. “We need to…”

Spike shook his head listlessly, his eyes still downcast. “Can’t take care of it. Won’t heal,” he explained softly. “ ‘S permanent.”

Joyce’s eyes widened again as she took that in, with all its implications, in the light of what Dawn had told her on the phone – which was all starting to make a lot more sense now.

After a moment, she forced herself to ask for the confirmation of what she already knew. “And,” she said in a voice barely over a whisper, “*Buffy*…?”

He nodded weakly, his eyes closed against the tears that welled up in his eyes. “She claimed me. As – her mate. I’m hers now. Forever. Like – like – marriage.”

He steeled himself inwardly for the reaction he expected, to his best attempt to explain the situation in human terms. There was no way that this beautiful lady would see a creature such as himself as a fit eternal mate for her lovely, intelligent, powerful daughter – a Slayer, no less.

But Joyce’s reaction was nothing like he expected.

There *was* anger in her voice when she spoke – but it was not directed at him.

“And this is the sort of behavior that Buffy thinks is appropriate in that sort of relationship?” she said in a voice that trembled with outrage. “Her father and I didn’t always get along. In the end we couldn’t make it work out. But he *never*…” She paused, shaking her head, fighting for control of her emotions. “I would never have even *considered*…” she tried again, finally giving up and pulling the slightly resistant vampire into her arms.

His body was stiff, rigid in her arms, as he valiantly tried to keep from breaking down – but her sympathy, her concern and love were just so much what he had needed the past few days – he could feel the tremors rising up in him, beginning in his stomach and shaking through him.

“It’s okay,” Joyce whispered softly as she felt his physical reaction to the emotions that were overcoming him. “It’s okay. She had no right to do this to you, Spike, and we’re gonna get this worked out.”

*There’s no way to work it out,* he thought despairingly, as he lowered his head to Joyce’s shoulder, gasping in an attempt to hold back his tears. *It’s done…it’s done…forever…no way to…*

“It’s gonna be all right,” Joyce’s gentle reassurance broke into his negative thoughts, her hand rising to the back of his head in a supportive, motherly gesture that made his struggle for control that much harder. “It’s okay. And no matter what happens, I’m not gonna let her hurt you, Spike.” She paused, and he felt the emphatic shake of her head against his.

“I don’t care if she *is* my own daughter,” she went on softly after a moment, slowly rocking back and forth in a soothing motion, holding him close to her. “Nobody messes with *my* family – even – well – my family.”

Her awkward words made him laugh softly in spite of himself – shaky, shallow laughter that suddenly became deep, wrenching sobs, as the power of being accepted, being included in such a way – her *family* -- created such a contrast with the savage possession of the bond he had found himself in, as to make control no longer possible.

He broke down, allowing himself to relax against her, sobbing against her shoulder, shaking, as she held him close, rubbing her hand slowly up and down his back as she had done to Dawn and Buffy countless times in moments of sorrow or sickness.

She was a mother – it was sort of her job.

She gave him all the time he needed to get out the pain, the confusion and torment of the past few days, not saying a word, just holding and soothing him until he was finally able to regain some control of his emotions. When his tears had ceased, she pulled back gently, her head tipped downward until she caught his eye, and he reluctantly looked up at her, a subdued, uncertain question in his eyes.

“Okay,” she said softly, rubbing a tear from his cheek with her thumb, a soft, sympathetic smile on her lips. “Better?”

He nodded slowly. “Feel a right ponce,” he muttered. “But – yeah. Better.”

She smiled, shaking her in silent dismissal of his negative self-assessment. “Now,” she said quietly, leaning back against the counter, her hand sliding down from his shoulder to supportively take his hand.

“Why don’t you tell me how this happened?”

Spike let out a soft, sort of sad laugh at Joyce’s question, before asking softly, “Where do you want me to start, love?”

He scooted back a bit on the floor, leaning back beside her against the counter, admittedly feeling much more relaxed than he had before her arrival. In all honesty, he did not know just how much Joyce would be able to do to actually keep her word to protect him from her daughter.

In fact, he was kind of afraid to see what might happen if -- *when* -- the need arose and she actually tried. It filled him an uncomfortable anxious feeling to think about it, knowing that with Buffy as out of control and unpredictable as she was at the moment, her mother stood a very real chance of being hurt in the attempt.

After all, Joyce was determined and definitely a force to be reckoned with when it came to her family – but she was no Slayer.

Still, her very presence made him feel secure and safe and so very relieved – at least, as much as was possible to feel while knowing that his unstable and unpredictably violent claimant was upstairs – away from him for the moment, but certainly not for good. What was even more unsettling was the fact that even now, he did not *want* her gone for good.

In spite of everything, a part of him wanted to leave Joyce here in the kitchen and seek out Buffy.

“How about the beginning?” Joyce suggested softly, her mild words and the gentle squeeze of her hand on his drawing his thoughts back to the conversation.

He took a deep, shaky breath, steeling himself to answer a single, simple question, for which he had no simple answer. There were parts of the story that he was desperately afraid to tell her, some because he knew they would shatter her image of her daughter – others, because he was afraid of how it would affect the way she saw him.

He felt a cold sense of fear clench around his stomach, not the physical fear he held of Buffy at the moment – this was something different. Having grasped at the slim piece of hope that Joyce had held out to him the moment she had walked through the door of her house and into the scene she had interrupted, he did not want to do anything to spoil it – and he was terribly afraid that some of the things she was asking about might make her give up her resolve to help him.

And if he lost *her* support now – well, he might as well just walk out into the sun, as he had threatened to do the morning before, in this very kitchen.

He almost wished he had.

“Well,” he forced himself to begin, his eyes focused on the floor in front of him and his voice lower than usual to disguise its shaking. “S’pose the whole thing began when her Watcher got it in his head that I needed controlling…”

“I said the beginning, Spike.” The quiet interruption, spoken in a voice that was patient, but unyielding, made his stomach do a funny little flip, as he realized that he was not going to get anything past Joyce Summers – might as well not even try. “As in, when you pulled your amazing disappearing act and scared me and Dawn half out of our minds worrying about you.”

Spike grimaced slightly at those words, feeling a pang of guilt at the pain his denial had caused them. “I’m sorry, Joyce,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to…I just…” He wanted to be completely honest with her, but he simply could not bring himself to explain why he had suddenly avoided her and Dawn.

She seemed to understand, nodded and prompting gently, “What happened while you were gone? Buffy told us something about some…secret, government…commando types or something?” A frown of confusion marked her awkward, vague remembrance of Buffys’ equally vague explanation.

Relieved to be granted a bit of a reprieve on the part of the conversation where he explained how he had stopped seeing them because he was secretly in love with Buffy and trying to work up the nerve to kill her to get over it, Spike took another deep breath and launched into his explanation.

“Bloody army blokes. Captured me, and – and – I really don’t remember much of – of what happened – while I was there,” he said quietly, avoiding her eyes. Her silence indicated that if she did not believe him, she was not going to push it, so he went on. “Got away…but found out…um, right away…they done something to me while I was in there. I – I couldn’t – couldn’t feed, or – well, couldn’t hurt a human at all, or I got this…this pain in my head…”

He deliberately skipped over the explanation of exactly how he had found that out, his voice softening with the pain of remembering the suddenly helpless situation he had found himself in. In a quiet, halting voice, he explained to Joyce how confused and frightened he had been – how terrifying the feeling of being unable to even defend himself, even to feed to survive…

Joyce slipped her arm around his shoulder, swallowing back a hard knot that had arisen in her throat at his words, her eyes troubled and dark with anger at the strangers who had damaged one of her own. It did not seem to register with her that that “one of her own” was a vampire, and that the damage had been to prevent him from killing humans.

They had made him helpless, and afraid – and to her, that was unforgivable.

“Why didn’t you come to me?” she asked quietly, a gentle reproof in her words. “You know I would have helped you, Spike.”

“I – I didn’t want – after I’d just – just taken off like that,” he tried to explain weakly, his eyes welling with tears at the affection in her voice and her mothering hands. “I – I did,” he told her suddenly, as if in defense of his actions, meeting her eyes for a moment before looking down again. “But – but you and the bit weren’t home, and – I guess you were out of town or something…”

Joyce frowned, then nodded slowly, remembering. With Buffy away at college, she had taken Dawn with her to an art showing in L.A. She felt a brief, unreasonable pang of guilt that she had not been here for Spike, realizing that in a way, that was what had led to his current situation.

“So you went to Buffy, instead,” she surmised.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Thought – thought at least she’d be fair about it. Knew she wouldn’t stake me – not if she knew how bloody pathetic I’d become…”

His voice carefully calm as he fought against the pain of his memories and the Joyce’s gentle affection, not to give in to his emotions again, Spike explained to her about the couple of weeks he had spent as a captive in the Watcher’s home. He avoided saying too much about that time, but she could hear it in his tone, and the words he did not say – the fear, the helplessness, the indignity and shame of being treated like less than human.

Joyce’s eyes narrowed with anger, her jaw setting in a firm line, though she did not say a word, as she took in what her daughter and her friends – and even the Watcher for whom she had held a certain amount of respect – had done to Spike.

*Oh, no, couldn’t stake him if he’s helpless!* she thought darkly. *But holding him prisoner – slapping him around – treating him like nothing but garbage – all that’s okay in my daughter’s moral code. Buffy and I are going to have quite the little talk later,* she resolved as Spike went on with his story.

“So – let me get this straight,” she broke in with restrained anger a few minutes later. “For some reason, Buffy and her friends felt like even though you couldn’t hurt humans at all any more, couldn’t even *defend* yourself – they still had to come up with some other way to control you?”

Spike shrugged slightly, with a dejected little nod. “Didn’t make any bloody sense to me, either,” he muttered shakily.

His story slowed down a bit, and he struggled over the words, as he tried to be as honest as he could while explaining to Joyce about the ritual and what it had entailed. She was silent, not interrupting, as he spoke, and he could not meet her eyes, so he had no idea just exactly how she was reacting to the information of what her daughter had planned to do.

“The claiming,” he said softly, his voice barely over a whisper. “That – that was my fault, Joyce. I – Buffy just thought she was – just doing what the ritual said…I – I was trying to get the better of her…and – and I made her think I had already lost, and then – then I – bit her – tried to claim her. I – didn’t think – I – I just didn’t think,” he admitted in a trembling, fearful voice. “I’m sorry…” he whispered.

“Why should you be sorry?” Joyce interrupted suddenly, and he swallowed hard, fighting back tears when he heard the fury in her tone.

Was that sarcasm in her voice? Oh, bloody hell – he’d done it…he’d said too much, he’d crossed a line with what he had done – or tried to do – to Buffy, and he’d lost her support, her friendship…

He flinched slightly as her gentle hand turned his face up to meet hers suddenly, his eyes averted. He could not stand to see the anger, the accusation that had to be in her eyes at that moment.

“Look at me,” she said softly.

He swallowed hard, fighting his instinct to bolt – to flee from the rejection that would simply be too much for him to bear. But he knew that it would do no good – he was irrevocably bound to at least one Summers woman – and would always end up back here, no matter how hard he tried to get away.

He looked up at her through desperate, pleading eyes – and was stunned by the tears, the sorrow he saw in hers. Yes, there was anger there too, and plenty of it – but it was not directed at him.

“Why should you be sorry, Spike?” she asked him, holding his gaze firmly. “She tried to make you – a – a slave, basically. She tried to take away your very free will – and on top of all that, she was willing to – to *force* you into a sexual act against your will to do it.”

The harsh reality of her words was stunning to him, and he looked away for a moment, his eyes wide as he took it in.

Her voice drew his eyes back up to hers as she went on. “Why should you be sorry for doing *whatever you could* to keep her from doing that?” She paused, shaking her head slightly as she continued, “No, it wasn’t the wisest choice, all things considered. But at the time, you probably felt like it was all you could do. And you knew what you were doing…didn’t you?”

He frowned, confused by the question.

“You knew it was a *mating* claim you were initiating – not a dominance claim – didn’t you?”

He was stunned, not expecting her to have called him on his true intentions so openly, and he looked away again. He nodded slowly, unsure of what her reaction would be to those words.

Her voice softened as she stated calmly, “You could have kept fighting her. And you probably could have won. You could have made my daughter *your* slave – and she would have deserved it after what she did to you. But – instead, you tried to make her something else entirely.” She paused, before going on, “You tried to end the dominance ritual by making her your eternal mate.”

He was silent, not denying the words, waiting for her point – which was not long in coming, and struck him with a powerful impact.

“You love her – don’t you?”

Spike was silent for a long moment, in useless debate over how to respond – because the woman knew the bloody truth already…there was no point in denying it. He lowered his head, closing his eyes against fresh tears.

“Yes,” he whispered, his pain clear in his trembling voice. “I – I love her. I have – for a long time now…”

“That’s why you left – isn’t it?”

Bloody hell, but the woman was just too sharp! He grimaced slightly, then nodded his admission.

“I couldn’t – just couldn’t take – every day, seeing – and not…”

Joyce put her arms around him again, allowing him to cease his achingly desperate, confused rambling attempt at explaining what he could not put into words. She just held him for a long moment, as his cautious hands clung to her waist, his head buried in her shoulder again.

When he had regained some semblance of control, Joyce pulled back, a puzzled frown on her face. “So,” she asked softly. “Why doesn’t Buffy – have…I mean, if you bit her first…”

Understanding dawned in the vampire’s eyes – with fresh pain at the answer. “You’ve got to accept the claim for it to be permanent – got to say that you accept it. She,” he began softly, struggling over the words. “She – didn’t accept my claim. She said – no, she didn’t want to be mine. And then she said that – that I was hers, still – and bit me…and…and…”

“And you accepted hers,” Joyce concluded, anger building again in her voice and eyes.

“Yes,” he whispered. “I – I wanted – so bad…to…to be…”

He could not finish, but Joyce understood. Spike had genuinely loved her daughter, even then, though he had tried to conceal it. For him, the chance to be hers, to belong to her and be with her forever – well, as much as forever as the Slayer would have – had been worth the risk.

She wondered if he still thought it worth it.

Buffy had callously run over his feelings, using them against him to make him a virtual slave to her whims, with no compassion or concern for his feelings – even going so far as to extend to the physical abuse that Joyce had witnessed earlier.

“And she’s been – treating you like this – ever since?” she asked, her voice cool with a dark note to it that drew his eyes up to hers sharply, alarmed.

He knew exactly what she meant, and answered cautiously, “Not – all the time. She can’t control it, Joyce. It’s not her fault.”

Her eyes softened with compassion, as she raised a gentle hand to touch his cheek, and smiled sadly. “That’s what they all say, Sweetie.”

Her soft, clear words were simple, but impactful. He knew there was more to it than Joyce realized – but still, he could not help but think that she had a point. Even before all of this had taken place, Buffy had had a tendency toward violence with him. This whole ritual had intensified it, yeah – but he still felt that in a way, even in the worst of it, when something else seemed to have taken her over, it was still somehow -- *Buffy*.

“But it stops, Spike,” Joyce said firmly. “It stops tonight.”

She stood up, and he looked up at her for a moment, before accepting her extended hand to help him to his feet. He studied her face uncertainly for a moment, unsure what she intended to do – unsure what she *could* do.

“Me and the *Slayer* are going to have a little talk,” she declared, and the caustic tone with which she spoke her daughter’s title spoke of her current disgust for its violent implications. “I want you to wait down here, Spike. I’ll be back in a little while.”

He nodded, uncertain, but obedient, as she headed toward the stairs, stopping at the base to look back at him with determined fire in her eyes, taking in the fading bruise on his cheek, the fear that should not have been in his eyes.

“She will *not* do this to you again.”

While her mother was downstairs sitting on the kitchen floor, comforting the one she had unintentionally yet cruelly victimized, Buffy lay facedown, sideways across her bed, her face buried in her crossed arms in front of her, sobbing quietly.

It did not occur to her just then to wonder at the oddity of that fact – that her mother was so concerned about the traumatized vampire, and so angry with her for traumatizing him. Really, all her mother had observed was a single blow – really not that unusual of an action for a Slayer to take toward a vampire. True, her mother knew that Spike could not fight back – but she was under the impression that it was for entirely different reasons than it actually was.

If Buffy had been thinking clearly, her mother’s behavior would have clued her in to the fact that there was more to the situation than she was aware of – given her some hint of the friendship that had been kept a secret from her to this point. But, in her own guilt and shame over her violence and cruelty toward Spike, she subconsciously *expected* the accusation, the anger, she had received from her mother.

She was not surprised by the horrified reaction her violence had received – as she was horrified by it herself.

It still all felt so surreal, so distant and strange to her – and yet at the same time, painfully real and intimate. She remembered clearly every single word she had spoken, every cruel way in which she had hurt Spike, during the moments when she had not been in control of herself – and the most frightening part was that in a way, she had the odd sense that it *had* been her doing and saying those vicious things to the defenseless vampire, that she had rendered helpless by the thoughtless, reckless action of claiming him as her own.

Her own *mate*.

God, that single concept alone was still mind-boggling!

As if matters were not complicated enough, in addition to the powerful possessive rage that compelled her to keep Spike under her control – to prove any time her claim was even slightly challenged, that he was undeniably *hers* -- there was the tender side of the bond that joined them as mates, the link that made her want to protect and cherish him above all others. She was utterly horrified every time when she would come to herself in the wake of a violent attack on the vampire, resolving that no matter what, it *would not* happen again.

And yet it did – over and over again.

And her guilt was intensified not only by her normal sense of morality, but by the manufactured feelings that she now had for Spike, due to the mating claim that bound them.

They *were* manufactured feelings – right? Only there because of the claim?

Like everything else in her life at the moment – Buffy simply did not know. She was confused and afraid, and felt more alone than she had ever felt in her life. Her fear and pride, and the strange force within her had all worked together to keep her silent about the true nature of her dilemma when she had had the chance to reveal it to her Watcher and friends.

Now, no one but her really knew the extent of her fear, her confusion and helplessness in the situation she was trapped in – and now even her own mother saw not what she was going through, but what she was *doing* -- and was disgusted by it.

She just lay there, crying softly, facedown on her bed, the picture of despairing, dejected misery.

Or, the picture of over-dramatic self-pity, as it appeared to Dawn, standing in the doorway of her sister’s bedroom, casting a narrow shadow over Buffy’s prone form.

“Quit feeling sorry for yourself,” she snapped in a voice that trembled with derisive anger. “You’re not the one who just got the crap knocked out of him for no good reason!”

“I *feel* like I did,” Buffy mumbled without raising her head.

Dawn smiled sweetly. “Well if you *had* -- there would have been a *very* good reason,” she assured her.

Buffy looked up at her sister blankly, showing no reaction to her snide remark, wondering vaguely why Dawn was so angry with her. She knew that it was the struggle between her and Spike, just before she had hit him, that had drawn Dawn downstairs to see what was going on – so all the girl could possibly have seen was the same typical Slayer behavior her mother had seen – that single punch.

Of course, Buffy remembered suddenly, the very thing that had set off the possessive force within her was the revelation that Spike had confided in Dawn about what had been going on between them. So perhaps Dawn had a bit more of a reason to be upset with her than she had thought at first. She wondered suddenly why Spike would have confided in the teenager about the very adult situation he had found himself in.

Something was trying to fight its way through her fog of depression and despair, a fact trying to make itself known to her, as she began to wonder, finally, about the strangely easy, casual manner Spike seemed to have with her family. But the truth was, at the moment, she did not even feel like she had the energy to try to figure it out.

She could not even bring herself to care.

“Go away, Dawn,” she muttered, her voice muffled as she lowered her head back down into the comforting cradle of her arms. “I don’t feel like talking about this right now.”

Dawn’s eyes widened in disbelief at her sister’s dismissive words – and then narrowed again in an angry challenge. “Well, that’s just too bad! Because you’re *going* to talk about this, whether you like it or not!” she declared as she stormed into her sister’s room, her arms crossed over her chest in a gesture of determination.

“Dawn – just leave it,” Buffy insisted in a tone of weary, overwhelmed impatience, raising her head but not opening her eyes to face her sister. “You don’t have the first clue about what’s going on. You don’t know anything about this, so please just go away and leave me alone.”

“Spike told me…”

“I don’t care *what* Spike told you,” Buffy snapped, suddenly looking up at Dawn with tears that could not mask the defensive irritation in her eyes. “You have no idea what I’m going through right now!”

“Yeah. I can imagine,” Dawn said dryly, her arms slowly uncrossing and her hands going to her hips as she gave her sister a disgusted looked before commenting calmly and clearly, “It must be such a nasty bitch to be – well – a nasty *bitch*.”

Buffy’s jaw dropped, and her eyes widened in disbelief at her sister’s shocking words. She was not used to hearing Dawn use that kind of language, anyway – and to hear it in the midst of such a heated personal accusation – she was struck speechless for a very long moment. And as she stared into her sister’s cold, furious eyes, Buffy realized two things.

The first was that somehow, Dawn knew a lot more about the situation than she had assumed. And the second – was that she *cared* a lot more than Buffy ever would have guessed.

“Just how much did Spike tell you?” she asked, her voice barely over a whisper, and full of a suspicion – and a fear – that only seemed to intensify the anger in her sister’s eyes.

“Why do you wanna know?” she demanded in a trembling, accusing tone. “So you know how hard to hit him later?”

Buffy flinched, although that had been the furthest thing from her mind. “Dawn,” she whispered, shaking her head, unable to meet her sister’s eyes. “That’s – that’s not fair. If he told you anything – he must have told you that I didn’t mean to…”

“He told me,” Dawn interrupted, a bitter note to her voice as she recalled how her friend had defended his abuser. “He was sure to make it very clear that it wasn’t your fault. That you didn’t *mean* to hurt him.” She paused, her teeth worrying her lip for a moment as she considered her next words. Finally she went on, “I’m just not clear on which part he was talking about. The part where you smacked him down in the kitchen a few minutes ago – or where you beat him up in an alley last night…”

She paused, her hard, piercing glare forcing her older sister to meet her eyes as she concluded coldly, “Or the part where you decided to make him your *slave*, when he was already helpless – just because you *could*. Did you *mean* to do that, Buffy?”

“I made a mistake, okay?” Buffy burst out, her voice shaking and on the verge of losing control, as she stood up, turning her back on her sister and walking toward the window, trying to put a little distance between herself and the painful truth her young sister was stating, her arms crossed over her stomach defensively. “I made a big, stupid mistake…but I’m paying for it…”

“*Spike’s* paying for it…” Dawn corrected.

“*I’m* paying for it, too!” Buffy nearly shouted, whirling around to face her sister again, eyes blazing with frustrated pain and anger. “You don’t have any idea how – how scary this is! How scared I am and how confused and lost and – and…” She struggled for control, turning away again as a wave of tears rose up in her throat and her eyes, and she finished in a lost, lonely whisper.

“…how bad this hurts.”

Both girls were silent for a long moment. Buffy was trying desperately to regain control of her emotions, and Dawn was unsure of how to respond. She had seen Buffy only as the bad guy in this situation, the person who was hurting her best friend – but there was no denying the sheer agony of emotion in her sister’s voice, her expression, as she studied her unexpectedly vulnerable face, her tear-filled eyes and trembling mouth.

“No one has any idea,” Buffy whispered finally, shaking her head, a desolate, aching despair in her voice.

After a long moment, Dawn spoke in a much gentler voice than she had used with her sister thus far. “That’s not exactly true,” she reminded her pointedly.

Buffy looked up at her, surprised by her words. When she said nothing else, Buffy looked away again, taking in what she had just said, remembering with a pang of guilt that Spike certainly understood what she was going through – and yet, he probably felt every bit as alone as she did. She wondered suddenly if she had been going about this whole thing all wrong.

Why should either of them have to be so alone in this hurtful situation?

Since discovering the dangerous alter ego that she had developed as a result of the claim, she had been struggling with how to act around Spike, what was the appropriate way to treat him. Besides that one tender encounter they had shared the night before, she had spent most of the time she had had when she had been in control, avoiding him, trying desperately to keep from hurting him.

But was she hurting him simply by staying away?

Whether she liked it or not, she had irrevocably bound him to her. Their connection to each other was something that was not going to go away, no matter how badly she wished it would. She wondered suddenly, if perhaps her avoidance and failed attempts to distance herself from him were only making things worse.

The claim was eternal; he needed her desperately, and she hated to admit it, but she needed him, too. And yet, she realized with an aching empty feeling inside – in a way, she hardly knew him. They had spent most of the time that they had known each other trying to kill each other – or at least professing to – and since he had become unable to hurt her, she had hardly spoken to him except to tell him to shut up.

She frowned, troubled and thoughtful.

Eternity was a long time to spend with a stranger.

*Maybe it’s about time I actually started getting to *know* Spike – my mate,* she realized in an unexpected moment of clarity.

“Buffy?”

Dawn’s quiet, questioning voice drew her back to the moment, and she looked up at her sister with startled eyes.

“You have to find a way to stop this, Buffy. You can’t keep doing this to him,” the younger girl insisted. There was more compassion in her voice for her sister now – but her tone was still unyielding. She refused to just stand by and watch as Buffy destroyed her friend, little by little.

“I know that,” Buffy agreed in a whisper, her eyes downcast. “Giles is working on…”

“Breaking the bond, I know,” Dawn finished for her. “But – I don’t really get the impression that the bond is the only thing going on here, do you? And what good does it do if he breaks the claim – if while he’s working on it, you end up killing Spike?”

Buffy cringed at the voicing of the very real fear that had been in the back of her mind. A few months ago, “killing Spike” would not have seemed like such a terrible idea to her. They *were* mortal enemies, after all. But now, the very thought struck a cold sense of terror deep into her heart.

It stunned her, the power of the feelings for him that flooded her at the thought of losing him – ironically, at her own hand. A protective affection filled her, and her eyes widened in surprise at the power of the emotion.

*That’s not going to happen,* she thought with a fresh determination. If she had to abase herself, had to admit everything, before her friends and her Watcher – no matter what she had to do, she was not going to *let* that happen.

“That’s not going to happen.” Her mother’s voice from the doorway, speaking her thoughts, startled both girls before Buffy could respond aloud to her sister’s question.

As Joyce stepped through the door into Buffy’s room, her arms crossed over her chest and a determined set to her lips, she added firmly, “I’m not going to let it.”

“Dawnie, honey – please go downstairs with Spike,” Joyce said calmly, her words a request, but her tone a command, as she spoke to Dawn, but kept her eyes focused on Buffy.

“But Mom…”

“*Now*.”

With an irritated huff, Dawn turned and headed down the stairs. At least, if she could not watch the extreme tongue lashing that Buffy was about to receive, she could pass the time offering what comfort she could to her physically and emotionally injured crush-slash-friend.

Joyce closed the door firmly behind her younger daughter, before turning to face the older girl again. Buffy stood near the window, a wide-eyed, trapped expression on her face. Clearly, she was terrified.

*Good,* Joyce thought, trying to keep the instinct to rush forward and comfort her child at bay, reminding herself that Buffy was not the one who had been wronged. *I’m sure Spike’s spent every moment of the past few days terrified – won’t hurt Buffy to know what it’s like.*

Desperately seeking to hold off the conversation she knew was about to take place, Buffy blurted out, “You sent Dawn down there to wait with *Spike*? His chip doesn’t work anymore, Mom! He can hurt her!”

“He won’t,” Joyce replied without hesitation, and the certainty in her eyes was startling to Buffy.

She knew deep down that it was true. First of all, there was her order to Spike not to hurt Dawn, which she knew that he could not have disobeyed if he had tried. But beyond that, there was a surety deep within her, telling her beyond all doubt that regardless of her command, Spike would never harm those nearest and dearest to her heart.

She had assumed that it was because Dawn was *her* sister – that Spike would not hurt Dawn merely because he knew that to do so would be to hurt *Buffy*. But now, faced with the certainty in her mother’s eyes, her unwavering belief that Dawn was safe in the company of the master vampire in their living room – the master vampire that she had just gone out of her way to comfort and was now ready to defend so fiercely…

Buffy had to wonder if it was more than his connection to *her*, that restrained the vampire from harming her defenseless little sister.

Unaware of her daughter’s rising suspicions, Joyce went on, “I really don’t think he’s the one that’s dangerous right now, Buffy! You’re the one who’s been hurting *him*, when he can’t lift a finger against you! So don’t even *start* trying to push this off on Spike. This is not his fault!”

“Yeah – let’s argue about whose fault it is while he’s down there eating my little sister!” Buffy snapped, unable to keep a petulant note from her voice, as she desperately tried to cling to the only subject she could find to stand between her and her mother’s judgment.

Her mother would have none of it.

“Dawn is probably safer than I am right now, Buffy, so just stop trying to get out of this!” Joyce snapped, losing patience with her daughter’s attempts to divert her attention, as well as with her attitude of self-pity and accusations aimed at anyone but herself.

Buffy flinched from the harsh statement, wounded by the suggestion that she might be capable of harming her own mother. But – she had threatened to hurt Dawn – hadn’t she? She remembered her own words to Spike in the kitchen with an uneasy sensation in her stomach.

Even now, as the pieces of the story that had been hidden from her began to come together in her mind, she could feel the dark anger and suspicion building insider her, gaining strength, as she began to realize that her mother and sister had deceived her, and questions filled her thoughts.

Why was Dawn so furious with her for hurting Spike? Why was her own mother acting as if she had committed some heinous crime, simply by attempting to control a dangerous vampire? And why did her mother seem to trust Spike with her youngest daughter’s safety, knowing that there was no chip to restrain him?

She seemed to trust him more than she trusted *Buffy* at the moment.

A feeling of jealousy rose in her at the thought, though she was not sure exactly who she was jealous over – her mother or her mate. As she began to question the nature of her family’s unusual manner with *her* vampire, she could feel the possessive force within her surging up furiously, screaming for release.

“How can you say that, Mom?” she demanded in a voice that trembled with hurt and accusing anger. “This is *Spike* we’re talking about! As in ‘tried to kill me more times than I can count’ Spike! How can you know for sure that he won’t…”

“Buffy,” Joyce interrupted angrily. “I don’t need you to question my judgment on this! This is not about why I trust Spike…”

“You *trust* Spike?” Buffy’s voice was higher than she meant it to be, and a bit shrill with her rising emotions. She had known as much already, but to hear it said aloud only made her own insecurities and suspicions that much more real to her.

“I don’t need your permission to trust whomever I decide is trustworthy,” Joyce informed her in a heated tone of quiet warning. “And when it comes to this family, Spike is as trustworthy as they get. He would *never* hurt your sister.”

Buffy’s eyes narrowed in accusation. “What makes you so sure?” she asked pointedly, a chilling anger in her darkened green eyes, making it clear to Joyce that she was wondering about the odd connection the vampire had to her and Dawn, which was obvious now. The Slayer’s fiery eyes demanded an explanation.

“Buffy,” Joyce began quietly, a tired, sad sound to her voice, “if you’d been home at all over the past few months, maybe you would already have known this.”

She paused suddenly, surprised and alarmed, as she looked into her daughter’s eyes – and saw a stranger glaring back at her. With a chilling realization, she recognized the frightening power that Spike had told her of, the terrifying force that took Buffy over and made her do such violent things.

Joyce’s eyes narrowed in an expression that was almost defiant, as she spoke with slow certainty, deliberately addressing that force, rather than her own daughter. “Spike is my friend. I trust him with Dawn because he loves her – and me…” She opened her mouth to go on, but stopped before the words “and Buffy” could leave her lips.

That was how much a stranger this person in her daughter’s body appeared to be.

“And we love *him*, too. And I’m *not* going to let you hurt him,” she continued instead, her words a solid declaration against the force that seemed to desire to crush the vampire completely – to utterly possess him, or to destroy him.

Not on Joyce Summers’ watch.

Buffy was struck speechless by the words, confused and frightened by the force of the possessive anger she felt, screaming inside her with rage at her mother’s words. Intense, outraged words circled through her mind in a tumult of powerful, violent anger, just barely restrained by Buffy’s last measure of self-control.

*Spike is *mine*! No one else’s! You can’t keep him from me! He’s mine!*

She struggled to fight back the fury, the feelings that terrified her with the desire to lash out, to challenge any claim of any sort that any other person might feel they had to *her* mate. But – even her own *mother*? She couldn’t – she had to…

Oh, God, she was so confused!

“Buffy?”

Her mother’s voice was guarded but uncertain, as it tried to draw her out of her darkening thoughts. Joyce watched her closely, a sense of apprehension tight in her chest, as she became acutely aware of the violent power that was inherent in her daughter, and how very dangerous she could be if she chose to turn that power on her. Every instinct she possessed screamed at her to flee.

Every instinct – but one.

Joyce took a slow, cautious step toward her obviously hurting, very troubled daughter.

“Mom,” Buffy whispered, shaking her head in confusion, as if trying to clear it. “I – I’m sorry. I don’t – I mean – something’s…”

She stopped speaking, just shaking her head, unable to come up with words that made sense through the fog of the presence that was trying to take her over again. The threat it had made, through her lips, against her sister – the fury she felt at her mother’s perceived threat to her claim, and the horrifying desire to eliminate that threat – terrified her, and made her fight that much harder for control.

*I don’t care who or what you are,* Buffy thought with bitter anger. *You *won’t* make me hurt my family!* Her hands rose unconsciously to fist in her own hair on either side of her head, as she turned away from her mother, then back toward her, caught in a losing battle for mastery of herself.

“Buffy?” Joyce’s tone now was one of concern, as she drew slowly nearer to her daughter, placing a steadying hand on one of her trembling, upraised arms. “Buffy – honey – what is it?” she asked in a hushed, cautious voice.

Suddenly, like an elastic band stretched to its very limits, and then suddenly released, Buffy felt the tension of the struggle within her snap – and suddenly, she was in full control again. She stared up at her mother through wide, disoriented, almost panicked eyes, as her arms lowered slowly back to her sides – and then reached out desperately toward Joyce, whose initial impulse was to draw back in alarm.

A stricken look in her eyes, Buffy stared at her mother with a lost expression of hurt confusion.

“Mommy,” she pleaded in a desperate, trembling whisper. “Help me – please help me.”

Joyce’s mother instincts – and pure love for her daughter – took over, and she moved forward without hesitation to take the Slayer into her arms.

Once in the shelter of her mother’s arms, Buffy broke down, sobbing out a barely coherent stream of tearful apologies, pleas, attempts at explanation. Her heart aching for her little girl, but feeling helpless to actually change her situation, Joyce just held her close and allowed her to let it all out – exactly as she had done for Spike, only minutes before.

“Oh, honey,” she said finally, when Buffy had been silent for a few long moments. Her voice was soft and sad and full of regret. “Why would you do something like that, Honey? Why in the world did you think that that ritual was even necessary?”

“I don’t know,” Buffy sobbed, her plaintive words muffled against her mother’s shirt. “Giles and the others just kept saying that Spike was still dangerous, and he was always – always *there*, and – and I thought I should do it if that’s what Giles said, and I didn’t know it was going to turn out this way, and I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, Mommy!” She gasped for the breath she had lost as the words had poured from her in a single, sobbing rush.

“I’m not the one you need to tell, Honey,” Joyce reminded her in a voice of gentle but unyielding reproof. “Spike’s the one that’s been hurt by all this.

Her sobs finally subsiding completely, Buffy looked up at her mother through solemn, tearful eyes. “Mom,” she informed her in a tone of bitter self-disgust. “That’s all I’ve done since this whole thing has started is tell him I’m sorry.” She paused, amending, “Hurt him, and say I’m sorry and promise not to do it again. But – but whatever this is – I – I can’t control it. It always *does* happen again!”

Fresh tears welled in her eyes as she leaned her head against Joyce’s shoulder again, falling to soak her mother’s blouse as she sobbed, “I’m so sorry! I wish I hadn’t done the stupid ritual! I’m so, so sorry!”

Joyce was quiet for a long moment, just letting her daughter cry. Finally, she spoke in a soft, firm voice of resolve. “But you *did* do the ritual, Buffy. Not quite the one you meant to, from what I understand – not that either one of them would have been a good thing,” she added pointedly with a little frown.

“But – what’s done is done. And now, all we can do is try to find a way to fix it if we can – and deal with it in the mean time.”

That had been all that Buffy had been trying to do from the moment she had discovered the dangerous side effects of her claim – but somehow, the words were more soothing and reassuring coming from her mother’s mouth. It just made sense. Panic, despair – neither would help her.

This was her situation, and there was nothing for it but to deal with it.

She sat up slowly, regaining her composure and turned a fearful, but calmer, gaze upon Joyce’s serene face, as she realized the one problem – she hadn’t the first clue how to go about “dealing with it”.

“So – what can I do?” she asked in a very small voice with a sheepish little grimace.

“Well,” Joyce began. “I should think that you and your friends need to be trying to figure out what you and Spike may have done in the course of the ritual that’s not an actual part of the ritual – what might have gone wrong. Because neither the dominance ritual you *meant* to do, or the mating claim you *actually* did should have caused this whole possession thing.” She paused, before adding as an afterthought, “Or Spike’s chip to fail. Maybe the two are connected somehow?”

“I’ll talk to Giles about it,” Buffy nodded thoughtfully. “If we can find out what went wrong, then maybe we can fix it. Figure out what this thing is and where it came from, and get it out of me…” Her expression darkened, her eyes and mouth becoming hard in a true Slayer glare as she finished with determination in her voice.

“So I can kill it.”

Joyce nodded slowly, completely understanding her daughter’s anger. If this sinister thing wreaking havoc in her baby’s life and abusing her surrogate son was not actually *inside* her baby at the moment – and if she had the Slayer-strength her daughter did to actually kill a demon – Joyce would have taken it on herself, whatever it was.

But there was more than that that Buffy had to deal with; the conversation was far from over, as far as Joyce was concerned.

“And until you do?” she prompted Buffy softly, catching her gaze with a searching look, her eyebrows raised expectantly.

Buffy’s eyes widened as she took in what her mother was asking – and realized that once again, she had no idea. She looked away, thinking it through carefully, while her mother patiently waited. She remembered her thoughts earlier, during her conversation with Dawn, about how she had spent next to no time actually getting to know Spike – about how hurt and lonely he must feel because of the way she was treating him.

“Well,” she began slowly, thinking it out as she went along, “Because of the claim – Spike and I are drawn to each other. And I mean *really* drawn to each other,” she clarified grimly, lest her mother misunderstand. “There’s no getting around that. He needs me. I think – if we spend some time together, maybe I can – I don’t know…”

*Get to know him better…try to make it up to him…*

“…figure out what’s causing me to go off like I do…find out a way to control it maybe?”

Joyce frowned, her disapproval for that idea clear on her face. “And at what cost, Buffy?” she asked. “Think about that for a second. How are you going to figure out specifically what sets these violent fits off – without *actually…setting…them…off*?”

Buffy’s eyes widened; she had not quite thought of that.

Joyce shook her head, taking advantage of the silence to assert her own authority. “No,” she declared. “No, Buffy, you don’t need to take chances like that with his life. Anything could set you off. Until we figure out how to fix this, you two need to be separated.”

The sudden flow of defensive rage that began to course through Buffy took her by surprise, as her eyes shot up to her mother’s, blazing with defiant fire – but she said nothing.

Joyce stood her ground, though she realized that she was walking into a dangerous area with her words. “Buffy, you know it’s true,” she said. “You need to go back to school – and Spike can stay here. You don’t need to be with him right now.”

Buffy glared at her mother silently for another moment, and Joyce could actually see her eyes darken with an unnatural rage at the woman’s intention to separate her from her mate. For a moment, she was actually afraid that her daughter might strike her – so much so, in fact, that when Buffy moved suddenly, she flinched slightly.

But the Slayer did not move to strike a blow; before Joyce knew what had happened, Buffy had shot past her, out the bedroom door, heading down the stairs. Realizing suddenly with dismay what was happening, Joyce hurried after her.

“Buffy!” she called in a shaking, warning voice as she rushed down the stairs after her daughter, almost falling in her haste. “*Buffy*!”

By the time she reached the bottom of the stairs, Buffy was standing beside the sofa, grabbing Spike’s arm in a grip that had to be painful as she yanked him up from his seat beside Dawn, where the two of them had been innocently talking, completely unsuspecting of the danger that was building upstairs all the while.

“Buffy,” Spike said softly in a clear effort to soothe her, his eyes searching hers, wide with the effort to keep his expression calm, but full of trepidation. “Buffy, love – what is it…?”

“Shut up,” she snapped. “We’re leaving, *now*. Come on.”

He had no choice but to go with her, his mind racing as he tried to fathom what might have happened to set her off this time, what he had done to earn her wrath from clear across the house. But when they reached the front door, he began to put the pieces together – to realize that for once, maybe this was not about him or anything he had done.

Joyce stood in the doorway, her hands on either side of the doorjamb, her feet planted firmly, glaring at her daughter through eyes that were fearful yet utterly determined – not to be moved. Spike’s heart sank, as he felt the violent surge of rage that rose up in the Slayer at the next words her mother spoke.

“Buffy Anne Summers – I swear on my life I am *not* letting you take Spike out of this house.”

The Slayer’s eyes widened in surprise at the older woman’s emphatic declaration, taking in her firm stance in the doorway, the determination in her face that said that there was no way she was going to allow Buffy to get Spike alone and at her mercy – not while she was standing and able to attempt to prevent it. Then, those glittering green eyes narrowed in menacing anger.

The Slayer had other ideas.

“Do you really think that you can stop me?” she asked in a soft, low voice that to Joyce Summers, only vaguely resembled the voice of her daughter. Deceptively calm, yet full of a terrible threat, that voice continued, “Because I think it’d be very interesting to see you try.”

“Mommy?” Dawn’s timid, trembling voice from where she stood near the stairs drew Spike’s attention for a moment. The girl was staring with wild, panicked eyes between her mother and her sister, edging nearer, then drawing back, unsure of what was going on or what to do to stop it.

Spike was very sure that there was nothing the child could do. A sense of alarm came over him as he began to realize how very badly this situation could go. There was no trace of the sensitive, caring girl in Buffy’s eyes at the moment; she was not in control at all. He knew that she would be horrified when she returned to herself if she had hurt her mother while under the influence of this – this thing. She would never forgive herself.

And neither would Spike.

“Buffy,” he said softly, his voice trembling with fear that he tried to conceal. “Buffy, please…let’s just wait and…”

His words were cut off in a stifled yelp of pain as Buffy’s free hand – the one that was not already holding his arm in a painful viselike grip – fisted in his hair and yanked his head back, hard.

She leaned in very close to his ear, a cold smile on her lips as she spoke softly, with false patience. “Didn’t I just tell you to shut up, Baby?”

Her voice was dripping with menace, and he could feel the fury rolling off her, knew that he was going to pay for his disobedience, later, once they were alone. Because there was no way the Slayer was going to lose this little battle of wills, he realized with a sinking heart. She was simply too powerful. Despite Joyce’s concern and good intentions, there was no way she could hope to keep her daughter from doing whatever she wanted to do.

The best he could hope for was to get himself and Buffy out of here without any harm coming to Joyce or Dawn.

He nodded quickly, as best he could, his breath coming shallow and ragged as she jerked harder on his hair. His scalp felt as if it was on fire.

“Then don’t you think you’d better do it?” she continued in a patronizing near-whisper, her eyes wide and innocent, but brimming with malice.

“*Buffy*!” Joyce gasped in horror. “Stop it, let him go!”

He nodded again, his eyes closed, swallowing hard – his mind racing trying to come up with some way out of this situation. He wanted to tell Joyce to let it go – though he knew her well enough to know that there was no way that she would. And to attempt to talk again, now – well, it would be sheer suicide.

And there was no telling how the unstable Slayer would react if she accidentally killed her vampire “possession” – or who would fall victim to the rage that would certainly consume her when she realized that she had.

At his submissive response to her threatening words, Buffy smiled coldly in satisfaction as she released her grip on his hair, still holding onto his arm in a controlling way as she turned to face her mother completely.

Joyce stared at her, aghast at her actions, but seemingly unafraid for herself, as Buffy moved in closer to her in an attempt to intimidate her mother, eyes narrowed over a small, predatory sort of smile.

“Get out of my way,” she ordered softly.

Joyce was silent for a moment, taking in the utterly changed countenance of her daughter with sorrowful, bewildered eyes, before her jaw set and she shook her head slowly. “Buffy,” she began quietly, a resignation in her eyes that said she was willing to face whatever consequences might come from her next words. “I won’t. I can’t let you do this, Sweetheart. I love you. But I can’t let you do this.”

The cruel sneer that twisted the Slayer’s pretty features at those words was hurtful to the older woman, who could not repress a slight wince, as she reminded herself again and again in her mind, *It’s not really Buffy – it’s not her, it’s whatever’s controlling her – not Buffy…*

“Buffy – Buffy please stop!” Dawn’s shrill, childish voice pleaded from the stairs, edging a step or two closer uncertainly.

Behind Buffy, Spike emphatically held up his free hand, without turning to look at the child – and she stopped her advance in an uncharacteristically obedient move, much to the vampire’s relief. In this frame of mind, he knew that Buffy would not hesitate to hurt her little sister if she got in her way.

Buffy edged even closer to her mother, and Spike winced slightly as in her anger, she unconsciously tightened her grip on his arm, pulling him forward with her.

“I’ll say it one more time,” she said in a dangerously low, quiet voice. “Get out of my way.”

Anger flashed in Joyce’s defiant eyes at the tone her daughter was using with her. Possessed or not, it did not make the utter disrespect, the menace in Buffy’s tone any easier to hear. She stood up a bit straighter in the doorway, planting her feet more firmly, and met her daughter’s gaze head-on.

“Buffy,” she said with a quiet certainty. “*No*.”

The thing wearing Buffy’s face smiled maliciously. “Fine,” she replied in a tight, angry voice, releasing her grip on Spike with a little shove that sent him back a few steps as she closed the slight remaining distance between herself and her mother – and drew back her fist to strike.

In the next moment, time slowed to a crawl for all but the Slayer, as the shock of what was about to happen assaulted their minds.

Joyce’s eyes widened in disbelieving understanding, as she realized that her daughter was about to strike her – but she did not yield. She stood her ground, unwilling despite the very real danger that was suddenly coming to pass, to allow her daughter to make Spike her victim yet again. Her body tensed in anticipation, and she flinched slightly at her daughter’s raised fist – but she did not move.

Dawn moved forward without thought for her own safety, though she was too far away to reach them in time to do anything – not that she could have done much, anyway. She was still quite a bit shorter than Buffy, and no match for her strength.

The only one close enough to do anything was Spike. And in that moment, the threat to his own safety did not matter. All he knew was that he could not let Joyce be hurt for him. In her current state, Buffy was probably not considering the strength she possessed, great enough to stun a super-human being with a single blow…

…or to kill a human.

Spike knew very well that a single, powerful blow from Buffy’s hand could do enough damage to Joyce’s head to kill the courageous woman – and he simply could not let that happen, regardless of the consequences to himself.

Acting on instinct, not allowing himself to think about what he was doing, he rushed forward, grabbing Buffy’s arm and spinning her around to face him, simultaneously raising his own fist and smashing it down across her face, not sparing his strength. He did not want to *really* hurt Buffy, even now – but if he knocked her unconscious at this point, it would be a good thing, he thought grimly.

She was the Slayer – she could take it.

Not unconscious, but dazed and stunned by the unexpected blow, Buffy jerked out of his grip, stumbling back a step or two – away from the door, away from her mother. Spike now stood between her and the woman she would have struck moments before.

A slow burning rage began to build up in her at his unexpected act of defiance. It had not occurred to her that Spike might actually hit her. She had trusted in her claim and the threat of physical harm to keep him from attempting anything of that nature. What she had failed to remember was that now, with the chip not working, and no specific order to prevent it, he was free to fight her.

Until she made him otherwise.

A cruel smile came over her lips, as she raised one hand to wipe the blood away from her mouth, slowly advancing toward him.

“Buffy,” he said in a quiet, intense, imploring voice. “Buffy, *think*! This is your *mother*. You don’t want to hurt her, love! You’ll bloody well *know* that in just a few minutes and the very moment you realize what you’ve done you’re gonna…”

“Silence.”

He immediately obeyed, recognizing subconsciously the difference in her tone. This was a claimant’s command, not to be disregarded. As she reached him, slowly stretching a hand toward him, he reflexively jerked back in alarm before she lunged toward him, gripping his arm and yanking him back toward her, her eyes glittering hard and angry.

He wisely did not resist her, preferring not to move by his own choice, rather than by her command – as the Slayer’s deceptively gentle hand rose to caress his cheek in a striking contrast of tenderness, trailing slowly down to slide around the back of his neck in a possessive, dominating gesture.

“Do you have any idea,” she said in a soft, affectionate tone that was a chilling contrast to her words. “what I’m going to do to you?”

At the moment – Spike was pretty sure he did.

He swallowed hard, releasing a soft gasp of dread and anticipation as her hand at his neck suddenly gripped his hair and yanked his head back in a gesture that was becoming all too familiar. The mark on his throat burned with an intensity of longing that was overwhelming, and he arched his head back into her hand, silently pleading – though he knew that when she did what he was aching, yearning for, it would be a punishment rather than a pleasure.

Still, something in her called to him, and he could not help but respond.

In an instant, without a moment to prepare or even think of defending himself, Spike felt her teeth viciously tear into his flesh, and his entire body went rigid as he let out a strangled cry of pain and – and something much deeper, some emotion that defied any definition.

She eased up for a moment before biting down harder, drawing his blood forcefully into her mouth, swallowing the cool fluid down, as her hard, punishing hands clutched him closer to her. Spike felt weakness stealing over him, a mixture of pain, blood loss, and the simple power of her claim – and the world around him became hazy and dim as he sank to his knees on the floor, his claimant sliding down with him, her teeth still clenched in his throat.

Dawn and Joyce both stood where they were, frozen by a combination of the shock of the offense Buffy had come so near to committing, and a mesmerized sense of fascination at the surreal scene that was playing itself out before them. The two super-human beings were playing out a primal connection that seemed -- *was* -- far beyond them, and something in them recognized that they were powerless to intervene.

Weren’t they?

Joyce tore her horrified, fascinated gaze from her daughter and the vampire when she saw movement out of her corner of her eye – Dawn, heading slowly but certainly toward the pair.

“Dawnie,” she gasped weakly, shaking her head, afraid to speak louder for fear of disturbing the violent creature within her daughter – afraid that what was happening was far beyond *anyone’s* control, and possibly could not be stopped at all – but most of all, afraid of what was going to happen in the next moment, as her younger daughter edged closer and closer to her older daughter, her small trembling hand outstretched toward her.

“Dawn,” Joyce said, her voice a bit stronger, urgent, but still soft. “Dawn – don’t…”

It was as if Dawn was pulled, drawn toward Buffy and Spike by some unseen force. She did not acknowledge – possibly did not even hear – her mother’s voice, as she closed the gap between herself and the Slayer, standing over them for a moment, staring down at them blankly.

Then, her hand reached out, hovering a breath away from her sister’s arm, scarcely daring to touch her – yet compelled to.

“Buffy…” she whispered, at the moment of contact...

And suddenly…Buffy’s eyes shot open, her mouth still closed over her claimant’s mark, as she realized all at once where she was – and what she was doing.

She drew back suddenly, scrambling to her feet in a desperate backpedal, wide horrified eyes taking in the damaged flesh on the vampire’s throat. With a soft little moan of protest, Spike reached out for her, trying instinctively to pull her back to him; but he was badly weakened by the encounter, and collapsed forward onto his hands as Buffy drew back, shaking her head in dismay as she remembered what had just happened.

*Everything* that had just happened.

Her eyes moved from the broken, kneeling creature at her feet – to the stricken expression of hurt and betrayal in her mother’s eyes – to the strangely serene look on the guileless face of her little sister.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered, her eyes welling with tears, shaking her head in denial of the truth as she pulled back from Dawn’s gentle hand. “No – oh, God, no…” Her gaze fell on Joyce again, and she moved quickly toward her on shaking legs, her hands out in supplication.

“Mom – Mom, I’m so sorry…” she pleaded in a trembling voice that was almost a sob. “Mom…”

Joyce moved to take her daughter into her arms, not really blaming her, aware that she had not been in control of her actions and prepared even now to offer her the comfort that she needed.

But not before Buffy saw the flash of fear and anger that passed over her face before she could drive it back.

Buffy backed away again, the tears in her eyes falling to stain her cheeks. “I – I have to go,” she whispered. “Mom, you’re right – I can’t be here – I have to go…”

“Buffy?” Joyce’s voice held concern, and a note of alarm, wondering where it was her daughter intended to go. In this emotional, guilt-stricken state of mind that had suddenly overcome her, Slayer or not, Buffy’s safety would be an issue.

Buffy recognized the motherly worry in her voice – and it only made her hate herself more. She did not deserve the compassion and concern she heard there. She was the villain of this piece, not the victim, she thought with bitter self-disgust. She needed to get out of here, like her mother had said, before she hurt someone.

Worse than she already had.

She looked down at Spike who was staring up at her in confusion as the haze slowly faded from his eyes. “B-buffy?” he whispered breathlessly, uncertainty in his voice.

She could hear the need, the desperation in his voice – emotions that she had thoughtlessly awakened in him, and now had to leave unfulfilled. She crouched down before him, accepting the sharp pain she felt as no less than she deserved, when he flinched as if expecting a blow.

“Spike,” she whispered, a gentle hand stroking his cheek and drawing his eyes back to meet hers. “Spike – I need to go. I can’t be with you right now. I – I’m trying not to, but – but all I do is hurt you, and – and I need to go.”

The alarm he felt at her words, her plan to leave him, even with two people he loved as much as he loved Dawn and Joyce, was greater than any fear that she might harm him. He needed her, desperately – longed to be close to her – and for some reason, at this moment, the thought of separation left a deep, empty ache in the pit of his stomach.

“Buffy,” he whispered. “No…you don’t have to…”

“Yes, I do,” she interrupted firmly, tears still streaming from her eyes as she studied his face, hoping to make him understand.

He did understand – but that did not make it any easier. “I…” he whispered in a voice that shook slightly, thick and hoarse with emotion. “I need you, Buffy – I need to be – *with* you…”

Buffy closed her eyes against the hurt, the plea she saw in his wide crystal blue eyes, lowering her head and breathing hard, as she fought the desire she had to give in, to just take him by the hand and lead him out of here – now, while her mother was too stunned to stop her – while she could without hurting anyone…

Anyone but Spike.

“No you don’t,” she argued softly. “You need to stay here, where you’re safe. I’ll – I’ll be back. I’m not sure – when, but – I’m gonna call in the morning. We’ll figure something out. I…” She hesitated, before stating simply the sum of all her useless words, attempts to explain.

“I just can’t hurt you anymore, Spike. I *can’t*.”

He lowered his eyes, but not before she saw the tears welling in them. He nodded slowly, silently, not trusting himself to speak.

Buffy did not know what to say – but she knew that she could not leave him like this. Before he could react, before either of them knew what she was doing, she had reacted on instinct, lowering her mouth to her mark again.

Joyce gasped in dismay and fear – but the expression on Spike’s face, as a low moan escaped his lips, was nothing even resembling fear or pain, as the Slayer slowly, tenderly, lavished the injured spot with kisses, laving the wound with her tongue, her lips, sending a sensation of intense pleasure that was yet soft and soothing all through him, as she did what she could to undo the pain she had caused him.

As she drew back, he whimpered slightly with longing for more, realizing with some surprise that the pain had ceased, the livid redness that had remained on the spot since even before this most recent attack – vanished.

She did not draw completely away, covering his mouth with her own in a tender, intimate kiss which he hungrily returned, before she finally, slowly pulled back, meeting his eyes with tenderness and affection.

“You’re still mine,” she whispered, and the seemingly odd choice of words was exactly what he needed to hear. “I’m not leaving you. I’ll never leave you,” she assured him, and he knew that she was telling him the truth.

She rose to her feet, turning her attention to her mother, her eyes downcast as she slowly approached her again. “Mom,” she said, her voice still soft and with a pleading note, but steadier now than it had been. “You’re right. I have to go.”

Joyce frowned with concern, reaching forward to place her hands on Buffy’s arms. “Buffy –are you going to be…?”

“I’ll be fine, Mom,” Buffy assured her with a forced but firm smile. “I’m just going to the dorm. I’ll just – think for a while. Maybe finally come all the way clean with my best friend,” she added with a little grimace at where her dishonesty had led her. She forced a light tone, to solidify the effect that she was going to be okay, as she shrugged and added, “There’ll probably be ice cream involved.”

She cringed inwardly at the flippant words, in the wake of what she had done – but she had to convince her mother that she was going to be all right. She had to get away, *now*, while she still wanted to – before she could do any more damage.

Either her ruse worked, or Joyce just understood the necessity of Buffy’s going through with the determination she had made to get away, because after a long, firm hug, and a few whispered words of forgiveness, love, and reassurance – Joyce let her go.

They all knew that for the moment – it was how it had to be.

“Spike? Are you okay?”

Dawn’s small, trembling voice sounded distant and hollow to the blonde vampire as he physically felt the increasing distance that separated him from his claimant. The weakness that had come over him when Buffy had drunk from him was now nearly overwhelming, as he felt himself wobbling, losing his balance even on his knees, until he fell forward, bracing himself on one unsteady hand.

“Mom!” Dawn cried out in alarm. The trance that had led her to her sister’s side seemed to be broken, and she was once again nothing more than a frightened little girl, afraid and uncertain and wanting her mother to make it all better.

Joyce raised distracted eyes from their focal point on the floor, looking up at Dawn – and then her eyes widened as she was pulled from her shock to deal with the situation at hand – her badly shaken, apparently injured friend.

In an instant she was at Spike’s side, kneeling beside him and pulling him up to lean his weight against her. She was alarmed at how heavily he leaned against her, allowing her to almost fully support him, as much as she was by the distant look in his listless eyes, drifting open and shut again as he seemed on the verge of unconsciousness.

“Blood!” Joyce said suddenly, looking up at Dawn. “He needs blood, she nearly drained him! There should be some in the back of the refrigerator.”

Dawn immediately rushed to obey, concern for her friend hastening her steps as she grabbed several bags of blood that Joyce had kept in her refrigerator for Spike’s frequent visits. When she rushed back into the living room, she was surprised and dismayed to see the vampire struggling, albeit weakly, against Joyce’s gentle arms.

“Let go…” he gasped as he tried uselessly to pull away from her. “Buffy…I need…Buffy…please…”

Joyce’s expression was compassionate, but firm, as she held onto him with all her strength, suddenly grateful that Buffy had drained him as much as she had. Had Spike been even the slightest bit stronger at the moment, there would be no way that she would have the strength to restrain him – and she had no intention of allowing him to follow after her daughter, as he obviously wanted to do.

“No, Spike,” she said firmly. “You can’t go to her right now. It’s too dangerous. Buffy would want you to stay here.”

“But – but I need – I need her…” he whispered, eyes closed, pulling harder against her, barely coherent in his nearly feverish desire for Buffy. “I need – to – let me go…”

“You *need* this,” Joyce informed him in a stern, motherly tone that left no room for argument, as she took one of the bags from Dawn’s hand.

Dawn had opened a corner already with a pair of scissors, and though it was cold and unappetizing, the scent still drew Spike’s attention. As drained as he was, he instinctively knew that he needed it – if he was going to get strong enough to escape Joyce’s hold and get to Buffy.

He drained three bags in a matter of seconds, ravenously gulping down the thick red liquid, as Joyce held him, supporting his weakened body against her. Almost immediately, he seemed more lucid, more alert and aware of what was going on around him, and the tremors of weakness that had gripped him faded away, as he slowly sat up, looking at Joyce as if seeing her for the first time.

An instant later, he had broken her grip and was on his feet – though unsteadily – and on his way to the door.

“Spike – no!” Joyce said, scrambling up from the floor and intercepting his escape, taking his arm and turning him back to face her, a bit alarmed when the sudden motion nearly pulled him off balance.

The blood had yet to cure him of all of the effects of his claimant’s bite.

“No,” she reiterated softly, holding his gaze with a deep, penetrating look. “You need to stay here, where it’s safe, Honey. You don’t need to be around her – not until she’s found a way to control this – this thing.”

He stared at her blankly for a moment, his mind trying to process her words over the shouting voice in his head that repeated over and over that he *had* to get to Buffy -- *now*! Understanding began to dawn in his wide blue eyes, and he hesitated, uncertain – but his gaze turned back toward the door with longing.

“She’ll only hurt you again if you’re with her right now, Spike. You need to give her time to figure this out.”

*No – I need her – have to be with her now – I need Buffy…*

He looked back at her, a troubled expression in his eyes, as he raised his free hand and gently but firmly caught her wrist, exerting slight pressure until she was forced to relinquish her grip, but without any pain.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said with a sad sort of smile and a little shrug. “Need her. And she needs *me*.”

Joyce watched in helpless dismay, realizing that although Spike would never hurt her, she was not strong enough to keep him from going to Buffy – even if he was going to his own death. And after the display of violence from her daughter that she had just witnessed, she knew that that was a definite possibility if Spike should put himself in Buffy’s hands just now.

“Spike,” Dawn’s small, trembling voice called out, on the edge of panic, as she saw what he was about to do and headed toward the door.

Her small, warm hand came to rest on his arm, and he turned to face her, a startled look in his eyes as he stared at the point of contact for a long moment, before raising widened eyes to study hers, a silent question in his gaze.

“You can’t,” she whispered earnestly, and the sincere fear in her voice – for him – nearly broke his heart. “Please – don’t let her hurt you again. Don’t go. If she needs you – what’s gonna happen to her if she loses control and – and kills you, Spike? You *can’t* go!”

He had to acknowledge the truth of her words, even through the powerful sensation, defying description, that coursed through him at her touch. He had been too lost in what was happening between him and Buffy to realize what it was that had stopped the Slayer’s assault before – but now, he vaguely remembered Dawn’s approach…the fear he had felt that Buffy might harm her little sister, though he had been powerless to do anything about it…

And suddenly – he began to wonder about the seemingly helpless, innocent child before him.

“Besides,” Dawn added with a half-apologetic little smile and a shrug, her voice soft. “It’s daylight.”

Spike and Joyce both stared at the door for a long moment in shock, and that at each other, eyes wide with grim realization. Neither of them had even thought of that, Joyce in her terrible fear of the danger her own *daughter* posed to the vampire, and Spike in his desperation to get to Buffy.

It was disturbing to think, now, how near Buffy had come to actually killing him, albeit accidentally. In her possessive rage, her desire to get him as far as possible from the woman who had wanted to separate her from him, Buffy had not even considered the deadly sunlight she was about to take him into.

But then – neither had he, he acknowledged. The power of the claim had drawn him to her with such a strength that he had nearly committed a quite accidental suicide. He had been so intent on getting to Buffy that, had Dawn not stopped him, he would have walked right out into the sunlight – and to his own death.

But – why hadn’t he?

He glanced down again at the small hand on his arm, wondering at the sudden sensation of peace that had come over him. He still wanted Buffy – craved her – but the desperation that had fueled his doomed attempt at escape had vanished. He could see the reason of Dawn’s words, and felt his rampant emotions soothed, softened somewhat, by the simple touch of her hand.

He looked up into her eyes, his head tilting slightly to the side, and his own eyes narrowing slightly with wonder, bordering on suspicion -- although without fear. He suspected that the girl might be more than she seemed – but he had no thought that she might be dangerous or sinister.

His voice was soft, almost awed, as he spoke slowly, “How did you…?” His voice trailed off, his head shaking slightly, as he found that he had no words for the feeling that she had given him.

Her own eyes clouded with confusion, as she looked away, a bit taken aback by the question. After a moment’s consideration, she shook her head too, replying, “I – I don’t know…”

Joyce frowned, unaware of what Spike had felt, seeing only that somehow, her youngest had managed to calm Spike, and hopefully, to make him abandon his plan to go after Buffy – at least for the moment. Her mind played over the events of the past couple of hours, remembering how Dawn had had a similar effect on Buffy. It was just another thing that she would have to remember to ask Mr. Giles to look into.

That is – if he was still breathing when she got through with him.

She planned on having a very serious conversation with Buffy’s Watcher, first thing in the morning. From what she was hearing, the domination ritual had not been Buffy’s idea to begin with; it was something that she had been led to believe was necessary, and it had led to an extremely permanent, extremely dangerous conclusion.

As far as Joyce was concerned, *someone* had some serious explaining to do.


The “someone” in question was currently in the middle of a busy little rush at his shop across town, and did not notice the Slayer’s entrance until she was face to face with him. She was standing so near, and her expression was so solemn and determined, that he jumped back a bit, startled and a bit unsettled.

“Buffy!” he exclaimed with relief. “You frightened me...” He paused, taking in her expression with a frown of concern. “Is – everything all right?”

“No, Giles,” Buffy replied immediately in a tired, heavy voice. “*Nothing* is all right. I need to talk to you.”

“Yes – yes of course, Buffy – if you’d just give me a few minutes,” he said, a bit distractedly, as he looked away from her to finish wrapping the purchase of the customer in front of him.

“I may not have a few minutes,” Buffy countered in a short, clipped tone. “I need to talk to you *now* -- before someone gets hurt.”

The customer gave her a look of alarm at her odd, unsettling words, and Giles cleared his throat a bit uncomfortably. “Er – yes, Buffy, of course…if you’d just go in the back please – I’ll be right there.”

He hurriedly finished wrapping the package, accepting the customer’s money with a slightly awkward polite smile, before relinquishing the register to Anya’s very capable hands and heading toward the back room, wondering anxiously what new trouble had arisen that was so very urgent.

He had had little success so far in figuring out what could have happened to Buffy during the ritual, and therefore how to undo it. It just seemed as if something just didn’t fit – some vital piece of information was missing…

When he entered the training room, carefully closing the door behind him, he turned to face his Slayer – whose back was turned halfway to him, her eyes downcast, her profile pensive and troubled.

“Buffy?” he said slowly, cautiously, having no need for any further question.

She was silent for a long moment, nervously fidgeting with something in front of her, before she spoke softly without looking up or turning around. “I’m dangerous, Giles. We have to figure this out – right away – or I’m gonna end up hurting someone.” She paused, swallowing hard, before admitting, “I already have.”

Giles’ eyes widened in alarm as he stepped toward her. “Buffy – what happened? Who…”

“Spike.” She spoke his name incredulously, as if that should have been obvious to her Watcher, giving him a sharp sideways look.

His obvious relief irritated her, as he visibly relaxed and said, “Oh, yes…that’s right, you told me – but – then – you’ve harmed no one else? No one – human?”

Buffy’s jaw set in anger that she tried to repress; the fact that Spike was not human no longer seemed to matter so much to her. Maybe it was just an effect of the mating claim that made her view him as someone whose pain mattered – was important to her – but Giles’ clear disregard for what happened to him was infuriating.

She pressed the anger back, however, and offered through gritted teeth the information that she knew would be more likely to secure her Watcher’s help.

“I almost hit my mother tonight, Giles.”

The Watcher’s involuntary gasp made her lower her gaze again. “Buffy – is she – is she all right?”

“I said ‘almost’, Giles.” Buffy was silent for a long moment before continuing in a quiet, heavy voice, “She tried to get between me and Spike. She tried to stop me from hurting him. And – and I…” Her voice trailed off, as she fought for the courage to continue. Suddenly she looked up at her Watcher, an intense urgency in her eyes.

“I could have killed her, Giles. I was completely out of control, and I almost hit her with my full strength, and – and I could have killed her.”

The Watcher was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, it was in a tone of shock and anxious helplessness. “I – I haven’t found anything yet, Buffy. I don’t know…”

“There’s a lot you don’t know,” she cut him off flatly. “And I need to tell you about it. I – I’m not going home tonight.”

“You’re returning to your dormitory?” he guessed with a nod, already sure that that was the answer. His expression was taut with mild anger, but he did not seem surprised by the fact that she had not yet told him the entire truth of the matter.

“I – was kind of hoping to stay here,” she corrected him, looking away again, still fidgeting with the unseen object in her hand.

Giles was surprised. “Whatever for, Buffy? We can stay here as late as you need to, of course – to go over…whatever it is you’ve withheld from me…but don’t you think you’d be more comfortable in your dorm room to sleep?”

She nodded slowly. “I know I would,” she admitted. “The only problem is…” She stepped slightly to the side, revealing to her Watcher the object she had been turning over in her hand – the set of iron manacles attached to the wall in front of her. “…my dorm room doesn’t have these.” Her lips quirked upward in a slight smirk. “I don’t think they’re allowed,” she quipped, though there was little life to her humor at the moment.

She looked up at Giles through serious, troubled eyes, and he was stunned to see the depths of guilt and fear that resided there as she spoke her fears and intentions.

“I don’t trust myself, Giles. Sooner or later, I’m gonna lose control, and I’m not gonna get it back before it’s too late. I need to stay here tonight – and I need you to chain me up.”

Buffy visibly relaxed a little as she felt the cool metal lock around her wrists, and Giles realized with alarm just how frightened she must be of her own potential for violence, that she felt *relieved* at the thought of being restrained.

She pulled experimentally on the chains that held her wrists down near her sides. Attached to the wall about three feet from the floor, and extending about two feet outward, they allowed her enough room to sit, or even lie down, to be reasonably comfortable for the night.

And yet, they were magically enhanced, designed to be strong enough to hold anything of supernatural origin that they might come across that was dangerous and needed to be restrained, but for whatever reason, could not be simply slain.

At the moment – she fit the bill.

Satisfied that the chains would restrain her should she lose control again, Buffy faced her Watcher with a sigh and a grim nod of satisfaction. She frowned at the expression on his face as he silently moved a wooden chair across the room and placed it near her so that she could sit down.

It was obvious to her that the sight of his Slayer in chains like this made him uneasy, even though she was only a prisoner by her own choice. But she knew that the dark mood her Watcher had slipped into was not only because of that. True, there were many things about this situation, even what little of it Giles already knew, that were extremely troubling – but that did not explain the unexpected anger she had seen in his eyes.

Silence filled the room as he brought a second chair and set it down facing her, before taking a seat and looking her in the eye without a word, quietly expectant of her explanation. The anger seemed to have quickly faded from his eyes, leaving only a weary sort of disappointment.

That was so much worse.

“*What*?” she finally demanded in a defensive tone, her eyes welling with unexpected tears. “Why are you mad at me? You shouldn’t be mad at me yet! I haven’t even told you why you should be mad at me at all!” She realized that she sounded petulant and childish and that her argument did not make much sense.

She didn’t care.

“I’m not angry with you, Buffy,” Giles sighed, relenting a bit already.

He never could stand to see her hurting or in tears. It awakened a protective fatherly instinct within him – a feeling that he had never been able to drive back, no matter how hard he had tried – even when it cost him his official position as a Watcher.

“It’s just that if you’d only *told* me what you were dealing with from the beginning instead of keeping secrets -- *again* -- we could be much closer already to finding the solution.”

Buffy recognized the truth of his words, but also knew that this entire situation was by no means *completely* her fault.

“Well, if you hadn’t sent me off to perform a ritual that wasn’t even necessary and ended up messing up my entire life -- *again* -- then we wouldn’t need a solution in the first place!” she retorted, both gratified and guilty when her Watcher flinched slightly at the reminder of the one time he had truly failed her – an incident which was, truth be told, never far from his own thoughts.

“Buffy,” he said quietly, in a voice of carefully controlled emotion. “If you had performed the ritual as it was intended to…”

“I’m sorry.”

Giles stopped talking, meeting her eyes again with a calm acceptance in his own, acknowledging that her accusation was deserved, in spite of his attempts to defend his actions. No matter how badly it hurt to hear it, he knew that now, as then, a great deal of the responsibility for what had happened lay with him.

“I’m sorry, Giles,” Buffy repeated. “I shouldn’t have said that. You have made that up to me in so many ways since then, and I’ve messed up too, and it’s just not fair to even bring that whole thing into this, but…”

She took a deep breath before continuing in a quiet, shaky voice, “It’s just – I’m so – frustrated, and – and scared – and I don’t know what I’m gonna do to fix this. I know I messed up. But with all due respect, I don’t need you telling me how when you really don’t even know half of what’s happened in the past few days.”

Giles was silent, taking in her words for a moment and considering them, before nodding slowly. “Quite right, Buffy,” he agreed with a heavy sigh, leaning back a bit in his chair, the expectant expression returning to his face. “So why don’t you change that?”

Buffy looked down, taking a deep breath, bringing her chained hands around to rest in her lap as she gathered the courage to respond – to finally come completely clean with her Watcher, once and for all.

“Why don’t you just – start at the beginning? What happened, from the moment we dropped you and Spike off at the mansion that night?” Giles prompted her gently. “In complete detail. Any small thing could be important to unraveling just what went wrong.”

Buffy gave him a dubious look. “When you say *complete* detail…”

“I mean as complete as you can,” Giles clarified, closing his eyes for a moment as if to shut out the offensive images her words conjured up against his will. “…without making me want to kill myself with one of the many sharp instruments conveniently at hand.” A casual wave of his hand indicated her various pointy weapons here and there around the training room.

Buffy smiled in spite of herself, nodding as she drew a deep breath in preparation. Her expression became serious as her mind went over the disturbing events of the past few days, her pride rebelling at the idea of revealing the truth -- *all* of it – to her Watcher.

Finally, she managed to work up the courage to speak, and after a few halting hesitations, began to tell him exactly what had taken place that night in the mansion. She left out a few choice details as to specifics, but nothing that was necessary in order for him to understand the significance of what she and Spike had done.

She told him about the fight that had turned to more, and the sequence of events that had taken place – the vampire’s rejected claim over her – and her mating claim, accepted by Spike.

An acceptance he probably sorely regretted now.

She could not look at Giles as she explained what had happened afterwards, when Spike had tried to leave her – but she forced herself to at least try to make him understand. She described the overwhelming desire to control and dominate the vampire, her uncontrollable rage at any small act of defiance he might commit – and the frightening threats and violence she had used to bring him further and further under her control.

When she finally finished, Giles was silent for what felt like a very long time, as he processed her words. Her curiosity almost overcame her shame, as she longed to look up at him, to see his reaction to her words.

But at the same time, it was the thought of that reaction that terrified her – hence the “almost”.

When Giles finally spoke, she was startled and dismayed by his words. “If that bloody vampire hadn’t attempted to initiate a mating claim in the first place…”

“No,” she protested sharply, glaring up at him indignantly. “It wasn’t Spike’s fault!”

Giles raised his eyebrows skeptically, obviously disbelieving of her claim. “No?” he questioned. “And you would have attempted to claim him as your eternal mate if he had not attempted it first?”

“I – I don’t know,” Buffy stammered, looking down again, honestly unsure as to the answer to that question. “Maybe – I…”

Giles laughed then, a surprising soft, bitter sound. “Buffy,” he said in a sadly gentle tone. “I highly doubt that you would have ever willingly…”

“I started the physical – um, *sexual* -- stuff with Spike,” Buffy interrupted suddenly, blurting out the words in a rush, her downcast eyes avoiding his gaze. “I – I kissed him. In the middle of the fight.”

“I may regret asking this, Buffy,” Giles said in a tired voice when she paused, taking off his glasses and wiping them as he went on. “But whatever possessed…” He stopped, correcting his unfortunate wording. “Whatever made you do a thing like that? I’m assuming that you *were* still in control of all of your actions at that point?”

Buffy nodded with a little grimace as she thought about her answer to that question. “I – I think so – I’m not sure,” she replied quietly.

The simple answer was that she had been losing, and had needed to distract him. But that did not really serve to answer his final question, the answer for which she really did not know. She had *thought* that she was in control at the moment – but then, why had there been such intensity, such passion, in that s ingle kiss? Why had her lips hungrily sought after his when he had eventually pulled away?

Why could she still taste that first kiss every single time that she remembered that moment?

All of that fell into the category of “information likely to drive Giles to suicide”.

“I was losing,” she stated simply. “I needed to distract him.”

“And there were no other means of – distraction – at your disposal?” he asked skeptically.

“Well, sure,” Buffy shrugged as she gave her sarcastic reply. “but I try not to do things like that with guys I hardly know who also happen to be trying to kill me at the moment.” She rolled her eyes at Giles’ expression of shock, and added flatly, “He had me pinned. I couldn’t get away. He was going to win.” She paused. “The kiss distracted him enough to allow me to get the upper hand.”

Giles nodded, accepting that, though it was clear that he still disapproved of her methods.

Buffy hesitated for a moment, trying to decide what to say next – and finally giving in to the truth. If she wanted Giles to be able to help her with this, she was going to have to be honest with him, no matter how embarrassing it was.

She took another deep breath before adding quickly, before she could stop herself, “And also I sort of wanted to kiss him.”

Giles frowned, a bit alarmed by those words, trying to understand exactly what it was that she was saying. “So you think – you may have been possessed by whatever this is that early on?”

She shook her head uncertainly; she was just figuring it all out for herself as she went along.

“No – I don’t think that’s right – because – at the start – it wasn’t so – so *violent*. I didn’t want to hurt him. And I didn’t seem to be *forced* to do anything; I was still in control. I just…” She felt the heat of a fiery blush rise to her cheeks, looking away, as she made herself continued, “I just -- *wanted* him.”

She was silent then, glancing sideways at her Watcher to make sure he understood what she was saying; his only slightly uncomfortable nod indicated that he did.

“It’s so weird, Giles,” she whispered, shaking her head slowly as she looked away again. “I really don’t even know how to explain it. Sometimes – it feels like…” She paused, struggling to put the feelings into words. “I’m split into three parts in here. There’s this – jealous, possessive freak who can’t stand the thought of anyone trying to take Spike away, or – or his defying me – and just loses it if I think either of those things are happening…”

Giles nodded silent encouragement, noting the information that Buffy had previously withheld in her statement – the apparent trigger for her violent, out-of-control behavior – and waited for her to say more.

“Then – there’s the second part of me – the part that still sees him as mine, I guess because of the mating claim – and *wants* him to be mind, but – but that part of me is totally horrified by the fact that I’m hurting him – that part of me wants to protect him and take care of him – gets furious when someone else tries to hurt him…”

She fell silent again for a moment, as they both remembered the scene in the store just the night before, when she had attacked Xander when he had been about to hit Spike.

“And then,” she finished in a soft, subdued sort of voice. “there’s the third me. *Me* me. The one that’s just confused and frustrated and – and guilty, and has absolutely no freaking clue what is going on here – but can’t seem to do anything to stop it.”

Giles was quiet for a moment, considering all that she had said, before he reminded her gently, “But Buffy – you must remember – the only one that is truly you, under your own power and with your own true feelings, is the third one. The first is clearly whatever entity has been controlling you, and the second is the feelings that have been created by the mating claim. You are only truly responsible for the actions of the third, as it is the only one that is truly you.”

Buffy frowned thoughtfully; somehow, as welcome as that thought was – it did not ring true to her. She knew that, if for no other reason than that she had *allowed* it to continue this long, without taking the measures she had just taken to control it – she *was* responsible for the pain that Spike had been forced to endure at -- *her* hands.

And the tender, affectionate emotions she felt for him, did not feel like some fake, manufactured feelings; they felt completely and totally real to her. Even while under Willow’s will-be-done spell, although she had been thoroughly convinced that she was in love with Spike and he was going to be hers forever, and that was how it was *supposed* to be – she had still had the vague niggling sense that something was not right.

The feelings she felt for him now felt true and genuine. She knew beyond all doubt that he was *hers*, and would be forever, hers to cherish and care for and treasure – and that thought filled her with a deep sense of security and happiness like nothing had made her feel for a very long time.

No – these did not seem one bit like “fake” feelings.

“See – that’s the thing, Giles,” she said slowly, dawning realization in her eyes, before looking up to meet his gaze with wonder and slight bewilderment. “It feels like it *is* me – all the time. Even when I don’t like what I’m doing after the fact – while I’m doing it, I know what I’m doing. *I* make the decision to do it.”

“But – you said it was beyond your control…” The Watcher frowned in confusion, not liking the sound of this at all.

“I know,” Buffy continued, frustration evident in her voice. “And it is – I think – I don’t know. It’s so confusing, Giles, I don’t know of any better way to explain it. But – but I think it *is* me – in a way…I just don’t know…”

Giles was quiet, trying to understand the very difficult concept she was trying to express. “Perhaps…” he speculated softly. “…something is – infecting your emotions? Causing you to feel things that you would not normally feel? Not an actual entity inhabiting you?”

“Maybe,” Buffy shrugged helplessly, discouraged. “I don’t know.”

She glanced up at him, suddenly remembering something she had heard mentioned earlier – when she had overheard Dawn and Spike’s conversation in the kitchen, in the moments before she had so brutally attacked him.

“Oh – Giles! Earlier – Spike was saying something about – since his chip has stopped working…maybe it’s something to do with Will’s spell? Maybe something went wrong with that, and that’s why the chip never started working again. And if *that* went wrong – then maybe that has something to do with what’s happening to me!”

The Watcher nodded slowly, his eyes lighting up with hope at that suggestion. “I honestly don’t know why I hadn’t thought of that.” He stood up, looking with sympathy at his bound and miserable Slayer, sitting dejectedly in the little wooden chair.

“We’re going to find the answer, Buffy,” he assured her quietly. “I promise you that.”

She did not respond, not nearly as hopeful as he was about it.

“I’m going to go call Willow and have her come over so that we can examine the spell. I’ll be right back,” he told her, turning and heading toward the door to the store.

While she waited for him to return, Buffy wondered about the implications of her thoughts that it could really be *her* that was doing all this, a devastating sense of guilt coming over her at that possibility. She wondered if it was Willow’s spell that had done it, and if it could therefore be undone as easily.

But most of all – she wondered if the chains that bound her would really be strong enough to control her if she flew into a rage such as she had been prone to lately.

Because although she had only been away from her vampire for a few short hours – she could feel the irresistible desire slowly building up in her again – and had no idea how long she might have before the fiercely possessive creature that had done so much damage before came out again to protest the fact that she was being denied what was rightfully hers.

As the very thought of Spike seemed to increase the desire she was feeling – she had the sinking feeling in her heart that it would not be very long at all.

Just as Giles was picking up the phone to call Willow, it rang under his hand, and he jumped, muttering a soft, “Bloody hell!” under his breath.

The disconcerting conversation he had just had with Buffy had left him unusually jumpy and unsettled. The violence that Buffy had described was very troubling to him, and he knew that they had to find a solution, and quickly – before someone got hurt. But it was going to be very difficult to find a solution when they really had so little understanding of what the problem was.

It was difficult for him to comprehend how Buffy could feel as if she was being controlled by some force other than herself, and still feel at the same time that the violent actions she had committed were truly her own. He could not seem to reconcile the two ideas in his mind. He hoped very much that Willow’s input as to just exactly what spell she had used and how she had used it might shed some light on the entire situation.

And then, there was the other troubling issue to the whole situation, the one thing that he had been trying very hard not to think about since this whole matter had come to light the night before – the fact that his Slayer was eternally, irrevocably bound by a mating claim to an evil, soulless vampire, who currently had nothing but that claim standing between him and his next killing spree.

Buffy’s dominance through the claim would keep Spike under control, and her reasonably safe, the Watcher reassured himself, as she could easily put a stop to any attempts the vampire might make to harm her, or anyone else.

Unless of course he caught her off guard – or asleep – or somehow managed to get around her commands and surprise her, not giving her time to stop him.

An uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, Giles wished, not for the first time, that Xander’s first suggestion, of freeing Buffy from the claim by simply dusting the blonde vampire, was possible. Spike was no longer completely helpless, the way he saw it – so that was not an issue anymore; and he did not see why Buffy should have to spend the rest of her life looking after the vampire and keeping him in line.

The problem with that idea was, again, the claim itself. After witnessing the way Buffy had turned on Xander the night before, the Watcher was certain that there was no way Buffy would allow any of them to harm Spike; she was fiercely protective of the vampire, and it did not seem to matter to her who she hurt in the process of defending him.

He had momentarily considered the possibility of staking the vampire *now*, while Buffy was chained up and unable to defend him. It was quite possible that, if all of what Buffy was experiencing was due to the claim, if the vampire was simply dusted, its effects would be broken and she would return to normal. He could just unchain her and she could go back to her life as usual, with the added bonus of being rid of the bleached blonde annoyance that had invaded his home and all of their lives for the past few weeks.

It was also quite possible that the Slayer would lose her mind completely with grief over the loss of her eternal mate – and they would *never* get Buffy back.

No, Giles had decided with some regret. It was best to simply research the situation thoroughly, to find out just what exactly the problem was before attempting to solve it – which was why he *really* needed to speak with Willow as soon as possible.

With clear annoyance at the delay, that he absently noted was probably not good for business, he spoke curtly into the phone, “Thank you for calling the Magic Box. How may I assist you?”

“Mr. Giles?” a woman’s voice asked sweetly – perhaps a little *too* sweetly.

He was surprised to recognize the voice of Buffy’s mother on the phone – and then, suddenly very nervous, as he realized with a sinking feeling in his stomach, just why she would be calling him.

“Mrs. Summers!” His greeting was forcedly cheerful, as he attempted to maintain a façade of innocence. “How delightful to…”

“Mr. Giles,” she interrupted him with a note of impatience in her now coolly polite voice. He heard her take a breath to speak – and then pause, before going on thoughtfully, “How can I say this nicely?” After a moment’s consideration she concluded, “I *can’t*. This is not a conversation you can have ‘nicely’.”

After her calmly pensive out-loud musing, it took him by surprise when she snapped, “Cut the crap.”

Startled, the Watcher flinched slightly, glad that the woman was not actually there to see it. After all, although she had a reason and a right to be upset, it would not do to let her see that she had shaken him. “Excuse me, Mrs. Summers, but I don’t believe…”

“Excuse *me*, Mr. Giles,” she interrupted emphatically, a note of warning to her voice that refused to be ignored. “But *I* believe I was talking!”

Taken aback by her unexpected forcefulness, Giles was silent for a beat. Dreading what she would say, but having little choice, he finally replied, “Quite right, so sorry – go right ahead.”

“I want to know what you did to my daughter.”

Giles felt his stomach drop at the low, threatening sound to her voice, as he was reminded first of how dangerous a mother could be when her child was threatened, and secondly of the fact that not *all* of Buffy’s fire came from the fact that she was the Slayer.

*It’s just Joyce Summers – she’s angry, but not truly dangerous,* he reminded himself. *I’ve just got to attempt to calm her…*

“Mrs. Summers, I am truly very sorry, but I assure you that Buffy is in no immediate danger. And as we speak, I am doing everything in my power to uncover the source of these – episodes – she’s having, and…”

“So what you’re saying is you don’t have a clue.” Her voice was cold and hard as stone.

*Just Joyce – no need for alarm – just explain to her…*

“I’m – not quite sure yet…”

“Well, you’d better *get* sure and right away!” Joyce interrupted him again in a tone of quiet, barely controlled righteous fury. “Because it sounds to *me* like what you’ve done is to send my baby to perform a dangerous ritual which you didn’t even fully understand the requirements of – a ritual which could have ended with the complete loss of her free will, by the way – don’t think I missed that part! And all to control a vampire who can’t bite – can’t even hit – and was at the time your *prisoner* in chains!”

“Mrs. Summers…”

“I’m *not* finished!” she snarled, and he cringed in spite of himself, glancing around the shop at his thankfully oblivious customers, certain that they had to be able to hear her.

But they could not. Though the anger was unmistakable in her tone, she was not actually yelling. Her voice was still low and controlled – which only made her all the more terrifying, as she went on.

“And in the process, you put my daughter in a position to allow *something* -- you still don’t know what, because you don’t seem to know much of *anything* useful, do you? – to take her over and endanger my entire family, and not only that but to *abuse* someone who can’t even begin to defend himself, and in front of my fourteen-year-old daughter, by the way…”

“I’m extremely sorry that Dawn had to witness what Buffy did to Spike…”

“You should be extremely sorry that it even *happened* to Spike!” Joyce raised her voice slightly then, a warning sound to it that indicated that, if possible, his last words had made her even angrier than before.

“You think it doesn’t matter if she hurts Spike, because he’s not human? At the moment, I think he has more humanity in him than you seem to! How can you possibly justify something like this, taking a helpless creature and deliberately attempting to turn him into a virtual slave? How can you even begin to think that that’s *okay*? And you’re the man that my daughter turns to for *guidance*?”

“Mrs. Summers, you must understand – he’s a very *dangerous* creature!” Giles interrupted, a bit incensed himself by her accusations. “That chip controlled him – but the moment it went down, without this claim in place, he would have been free to…”

“The chip only *went* down because of what you did!” Joyce snapped. “And the only thing I see that needs controlling around here is your over-inflated sense of self-importance and your unbelievable ego! That you could think that you could do something like this – just manipulate circumstances and people to suit your own desires and ideas of how things should be…”

“He’s not *people*!” Giles nearly shouted without meaning to, frustrated beyond measure. “He’s a bloody *vampire*!”

Joyce was stunned to silence for a moment by the audacity of his words – long enough for the Watcher to realize his careless mistake, as several customers stopped what they were doing to look at him with alarmed, disbelieving expressions.

“Giles!” Anya called much too loudly from behind the counter, her words obviously for the benefit of the customers. “That’s not nice! Umpires are people too!” Immediately she turned to Xander, who had come to help for a little while and was standing beside her behind the counter, explaining in a loud whisper, but fortunately not loud enough to be heard by the customers across the room, “I said that so that they’d think he said ‘umpire’ when what he really said was ‘vampire’. You told me you did that once, and it worked.”

“Good girl, Anya,” Xander said patiently but distractedly, glancing around to make sure no one had overheard her, and seeing with relief that the customers were going on about their shopping again. Either they had believed her – or had just shrugged it off as one of the many daily weirdnesses of life in Sunnydale.

Anya was so pleased at his rare words of approval that it took her a few moments to realize that he had just spoken to her as if she were a puppy.

Meanwhile, Joyce was speaking to Giles as if he were – well, something infinitely more repulsive and less deserving of cuddles than a puppy. His comment about Spike not being a person had infuriated her to her breaking point.

“Obviously you don’t know anything that can help my daughter or Spike right now,” she stated in a low voice of intense anger, barely restrained. “So I’ll tell you what, *Mr.* Giles…you go do your research or whatever it is you do that makes Buffy so convinced that she needs you…” Her derisive tone said clearly that she thought otherwise. “and you better find a way to get my Buffy back! I had to work today, or this conversation would be taking place in person…”

*Thank heavens she had to work today!*

“…but I’m off work tomorrow, Mr. Giles,” she went on in a frighteningly pleasant voice; he could almost see her menacing smile. “…and I *will* be in your store, and I *will* expect some answers…”

*Who does she think she is?* Giles thought with indignation born of genuine fear. *Like she’d ever actually do anything to…*

“…and I don’t care if you think Spike matters or not. If Buffy hurts him again before you manage to undo the massive amounts of damage your ignorance and arrogance has caused, I’m going to take Spike and hide him away somewhere safe, and when that *thing* that you allowed to gets its claws into my daughter comes looking for him – I’ll tell her *you* know where he is!”

*Dear God.*

Giles was sure his heart skipped a beat at that chilling threat. Okay – so maybe Joyce *could* actually hurt him, after all.

“Mrs. Summers,” he said in an uncharacteristically timid voice that broke over her name in a decidedly unmanly fashion. “I can assure you that won’t be necessary. I’m going to find the source of the problem…”

“I believe I’ve found the source of the problem, Mr. Giles,” Joyce cut him off again relentlessly in a scathing tone of disgust. “You just find the solution. By tomorrow. Goodbye.”

And the line went dead.

With a shaking hand, muttering British curses under his breath, Giles replaced the receiver for just a moment. He drew a deep breath to steady himself, his hand resting on the phone, before picking it up again to dial Willow’s number.

They had to find the answer tonight – before Hurricane Joyce struck the next morning.


It was just past three o’clock as Willow turned the key in the door of the dorm room she shared with Buffy, just returning after her last class for the day. As she struggled against a load of books and school supplies to unlock the door, she heard the phone begin to ring inside.

Her heart leapt up into her throat, and she hurried to get the door open, dumping the books unceremoniously on the floor beside the desk and snatching up the phone.

“Hello?” she said breathlessly.

There was a moment’s hesitation, before she heard Giles’ voice. “Willow? Are you all right?”

Her heart sank with disappointment – disappointment that she should not have allowed herself, she thought with self-directed anger. She should know by now that it wouldn’t be…

“I – I was just running. To get the phone. Because, you know – it could have been…”

*Oz.*

“…important. You know, Hellmouthy badness.”

“Oh – well, yes…yes, it is, actually, Willow…of the variety we were discussing last night…”

As the Watcher began to explain what Buffy had told him, Willow felt a cold sensation of dread come over her, as her mind went back to the spell she had performed a few nights ago to disable Spike’s chip.

She had wondered when Spike’s chip had not turned back on, if perhaps the spell was at the bottom of the entire situation – but had been too afraid and embarrassed to speak up about it then, reassuring herself mentally that that could not be the case – she had done everything exactly as the book told her to.

Well – with just a tiny bit of tweaking.

*But – it was just to be sure that Buffy would win!* she thought, desperately defending herself in her mind, as Giles told her about his and Buffy’s rising doubts about the spell.

“I’m sure I did it right, Giles,” she said in a small, trembling voice, feeling guilt wash over her at the almost-lie.

Okay, *total* lie.

“I’m sure you did, too, Willow, but spells are tricky things. There may be something that you missed when selecting the spell – something that allowed something other than what was intended to occur. Just – please bring the book with the spell in it and come to the Magic Box as soon as possible. I’m very sure that Buffy must be getting very tired of being in chains, and it would be most preferable if we could fix this and she could sleep in her own bed tonight.”

“Okay,” Willow agreed quietly, swallowing back a sick feeling that rose in her throat as she hung up the phone.

How had things gone so wrong? she wondered. And then – how could she wonder? she thought darkly. Things *always* went wrong here. This was Sunnydale, the Hellmouth – the natural habitat of “things going wrong”.

Best friends rejected you for annoying snobs and ho-bag skanks – parents tried to burn you at the stake…

Werewolf-boyfriends left you for werewolf-sluts…

All part of Sunnydale’s natural charm.

As she gathered up the books, a bitter resentment began to set into her mind. If something had gone wrong, it was not *her* fault. It had gone wrong because -- *hello*! – things always went wrong here! As she made her way across the campus and toward the Magic Box, she tried to determine just how much to tell the Watcher and her friends.

After all – she had only been trying to help.

Buffy was quite sure that she was losing her mind – or would before this was all over.

She had long since given up quietly sitting in the chair Giles had provided for her, as she seemed increasingly full of nervous energy, and was instead pacing up and down as far as the chains that held her would allow – which was only a space of about six feet. In fact, a mere moment ago she had shoved the chair rather forcefully away from her – with her foot – in irritation when it got in the way of her ever more frenetic pacing.

Giles calmly regarded the shattered pieces of the wooden chair against the far wall – thankfully the wall facing the street and not the one facing the store, which hopefully had served to make the sound less noticeable to any customers still in the store. He looked back up at Buffy silently, concern evident in his ice blue eyes.

Buffy stopped for a moment, staring at the broken piece of furniture, before turning toward her Watcher with a slightly embarrassed pout on her face. “Sorry,” she muttered reluctantly.

“Buffy – I know it seems rather pointless to ask, but – are you quite all right?” the Watcher hesitated a moment before speaking the words, realizing a moment later that, yes, they *did* sound every bit as inane as he had imagined they would.

She gave him an incredulous glare as she snapped, “Why, yes, Giles, doing just great! Aside from the fact that I’m chained to a wall because I’ve been taken over by some malevolent force that just tried to make me hit my own mother! Oh yeah, and the fact that we don’t have the first freakin’ clue what this force is or where it came from in the first place…”

*And the fact that I’m losing my mind from being away from Spike…God, I need him! *Now*! No! Hold on, Buffy, come on, you can do this…keep it together…*

“…yeah,” she muttered, her eyes downcast as she slumped backward against the wall, forcing herself to stop pacing for a few minutes. “just peachy, Giles.”

“Buffy – I’m quite sorry. I realize this is difficult. I just meant that – well, if talking about it would help…”

*Yes, Giles – I think I’ll feel lots better once I tell you that the main problem at the moment is my overwhelming need to jump the bones of the vampire that I just claimed as my eternal mate – the vampire that I happen to beat the crap out of almost every time I see him lately – and do things to him that you probably can’t even spell, if you’ve ever even imagined…*

Giles was still staring at her with a questioning look of clueless expectancy.

She sighed wearily, leaning her head back against the wall behind her. “No,” she said in a soft voice of defeat. “I’m sorry, Giles – I know you want to help – but – I *really* don’t want to talk about it.”

“Again, Buffy, I’m sorry – if you don’t want to talk that’s fine. You just seem a bit – nervous.”

“I am not nervous!” she snapped irritably – emphasizing her point by jumping nearly out of her skin when the door suddenly opened.

She forced herself to relax again when she saw that it was Willow, but she could feel her body trembling with a mixture of the nervousness she denied, a result of the complete uncertainty of her situation – and the overwhelming desire in her to be with Spike.

She could feel a slowly building anger in her, and wondered with a very real fear how long she would be able to restrain the force inside of her. She kept reminding herself, over and over in her mind, that she was here by her own choice. She was not being kept away from Spike by anything he or anyone else had done to her. She *wanted* to be as far from him as possible right now.

She hoped that this line of thought would keep the possessive rage at bay – and so far, it seemed to be working.

For how long – she had no idea.

Willow stared at her for a long moment when she entered the room, her eyes widening in surprise and dismay.

“*What*?” Buffy demanded after a moment, feeling bad when the redhead flinched slightly.

“S-sorry, Buffy,” she stammered. “I just – I knew you were – chained up – I mean – that you *asked* to be, but – but I just wasn’t expecting to see you – well – so – chained up,” she finished with an apologetic little grimace, walking further into the room and sitting in the seat Giles had provided for her, setting down an enormous stack of books on the end of the pommel horse beside her.

“Yeah, well – if you and Giles want to stay in one piece, I think it’s gonna have to be this way until we can figure this out,” Buffy forced herself to say – and then forced herself to calmly take a seat in a new, unbroken wooden chair that her Watcher silently brought for her.

She was sorely tempted to tell them that she was feeling fine, completely in control, and they could unchain her now – and then make her way directly to her vampire. Of course, she knew that that was not the thing to do. She could not endanger her family – or Spike -- again.

And besides, they wouldn’t believe her anyway. Not now.

Giles seemed very relieved that Willow had finally arrived. “All right, so let’s get right down to business, as I’m becoming quite sure that time is of the essence. Tell us about exactly what you did that night, Willow.”

“Well,” Willow began, sounding more than a little nervous. “The whole idea was to – to make Spike’s chip stop working so that he could take part in the dominance challenge. So I used a basic, um, loosing sort of spell…to undo the chip’s restraining power over him.”

Giles frowned, a bit of alarm in his eyes. “A loosing spell?” he repeated. “And how could you be certain of exactly what this spell would ‘loose’, Willow?”

The witch gulped, her eyes wide at the barely concealed anger in the older man’s voice. Okay, he was already suspicious and bordering on upset -- *so* not good. “No, Giles,” she hurried to reassure him. “I was very specific – you guys want to see the spell I used?” Her voice sounded even more shaky and uncertain than usual as she picked up the top book in the stack beside her, glancing at Giles with wide, fearful eyes for reassurance.

The Watcher was too caught up in his own worries for his Slayer to notice her unusual demeanor, and he nodded as he replied in a tone of slight impatience, “Yes, Willow – please read it aloud for us.”

With trembling hands the young witch turned the pages of the book until she found the spot she had marked earlier. She took a deep breath before beginning in a quiet, timid voice that sounded a bit strained.

“Well, after you light the candles and incense and have everything else set up, you read this incantation…it goes like this…it’s in Latin, but the basic translation is…um…”

“Willow, please,” Buffy interrupted impatiently. “Please just hurry. I’m not sure how much time we’ve got before this thing takes over completely.”

Those alarming words spurred Willow on, and she nodded anxiously. “O-okay,” she agreed. “It says basically, and you guys gotta realize that the translation makes it a little different, from Latin to English – ‘Unleash the source of the bound warrior’s power, free from restraint until it should be bound by another’.”

They were all three silent for a few moments, Buffy and Giles just taking in the words she had just spoken, while Willow waited anxiously for their reactions, hoping that the other two would not be able to figure out that there was something she was not telling them.

“Unusual wording,” Giles commented finally, a troubled frown on his face. “They were awfully specific. It almost sounds as if the spell were created specifically for such a situation as ours was – although I’m quite certain such a situation had never before existed.”

“Oh!” Willow exclaimed, obviously very glad to have a question raised to which she knew the answer. “I read up on that before I did the spell. See? I *was* careful!” she assured him in a slightly defensive tone.

“See – it’s actually an ancient rite that soldiers had performed over them before going into battle, to ensure that they would be at their best during the fight. It was designed to help with whatever might be holding a warrior back. Like, an injury, or maybe a strong fear that was making them freeze up under pressure, or whatever,” Willow explained.

“The wording – the extra clause about ‘until they’re bound by another’ was to keep any one warrior from gaining too much power. See, if there was no limitation placed on it, then, hypothetically speaking, they could be completely unstoppable – if nothing could ‘bind’ or hinder them in battle again. So they added that extra bit in so that if something else happened to hinder them – a new injury or whatever – the rite would have to be performed again. They couldn’t become completely invincible.”

She waited for reactions from the others, who were still silently listening to her words and processing them carefully. Uncomfortable with the silence, she explained in a quiet, anxious voice, “See – Spike was bound by the chip, so I figured the spell would free him from the chip, until he was ‘bound by another’ – until Buffy won the dominance ritual.”

She waited a bit breathlessly, hoping that both Slayer and Watcher would completely buy her story – which was after all, *mostly* true. After the talking to she had received from Giles following her badly botched “will-be-done” spell, she just knew that he would be angry if he knew she had made any changes to this spell at all, even a completely harmless one like the one she had made.

“Let me see that, please, Willow,” the Watcher instructed in a thoughtful tone, reaching to take the book from her hands and studying the Latin text with a pensive frown. He read it over again to himself several times before looking up at her, and although his expression was calm, the veiled anger in his eyes was still quite clear.

“ ‘Unleash the source of the bound warrior’s power,’” he quoted softly, holding the young witch’s gaze searchingly. “And Willow – did you by any chance take any measures when casting this spell to – well, to ensure that the ‘warrior’ affected by the spell would indeed be *Spike*?”

Willow looked a bit taken aback by that question, unsure how to respond, as it was really the last thing she had expected to hear. “Well – no,” she admitted in a slightly defensive voice. “I didn’t think that was actually necessary, considering that he was the only one in the situation who was bound or restrained in any way.”

Buffy glanced anxiously between her friend and her Watcher, trying to follow the very vital conversation taking place around her, through the now-continuous thoughts that flooded her mind with images of a bleached blonde across town that she would much rather be paying attention to.

She knew that this conversation was very important, and tried to focus, turning expectant eyes to Giles as she waited for his response. Willow’s reasoning so far seemed to make sense, she thought. *She* had certainly not been restrained in any way from fighting at her best – so why would that particular phrase of the spell have affected *her* so strongly?

“Willow,” Giles replied, his voice still calm, but steely with anger that he was no longer trying to hide. “You must know by now that any sort of assumption whatsoever when using magic is utterly foolhardy. You didn’t use – something *belonging* to Spike? To ensure that he would be the only one you cast the spell on?”

A slight pout rose to Willow’s lips as she dropped her gaze, a bit sullenly, with embarrassment. She had thought that she had left out the part of the story that would get her into trouble. “No,” she admitted in a small, quiet voice.

“And your translation is faulty as well,” he pointed out impatiently. “You indicated to me that once the ritual of dominance was complete, Spike’s chip should have begun to function again.”

“It was *supposed* to…”

“No,” Giles interrupted sharply. “Again, a foolish assumption on your part! The wording of the spell never says that the loosing effect would be temporary. It’s the freedom of the one on which it is cast that is temporary. The loosing of the original bond – in this case Spike’s chip – is quite permanent.”

“But – it says the warrior would be freed from the thing that had bound them *until* they bound by another…” Willow began to object.

“No – it says the current bond would be removed, so that the warrior would be free – until bound by *something else*. The temporary state refers to their freedom. ‘Until’, because by necessity when something else binds the person in question, they are obviously no longer free. But nothing in the text indicates that the *original* binding thing would return.”

“So – Spike’s chip is *permanently* turned off, then?” Buffy ventured with a frown.

“It would seem so,” Giles sighed with a weary nod.

“And – this spell apparently affected both of us – for him, it freed him from his chip – for me, it loosed – what?” Buffy was utterly confused, and increasingly terrified.

*Permanent?*

“I mean – I wasn’t bound by anything to begin with? How can this have even happened? *What* has happened?”

Giles glanced at the text again. “It says specifically that what would be loosed is ‘the source of the warrior’s power’. For Spike, that would be his demon, which was held back by the chip.”

“So – what’s the source of *my* power?” Buffy asked in a very soft, frightened voice.

Giles stared at her for a long moment, a worried frown on his face. “That’s a very good question, Buffy,” he said quietly. “One that unfortunately I do not have an answer to – and frankly, I’m not sure that anyone does.”

“But – if I’m the Slayer – a warrior of – of good,” Buffy struggled over the concept in a trembling voice. “And – what was loosed was my power – why is it so dark, and – and – I just don’t understand.”

“I shall have to contact the Council…”

“No!” Buffy looked up at him in alarm. “No, I don’t want them to know about this! They’ve tried to kill me more than once already – what do you think they’ll do if they find out about this?”

“I am well aware of the risk, Buffy,” Giles said, a soft sympathy in his voice as he looked at the girl who was like a daughter to him. “I would never do anything to place you in danger from them again. I shall be very discreet, I assure you.”

Buffy nodded, albeit reluctantly, not wanting him to talk to the council at all, but knowing that is anyone had any additional knowledge on the source of the Slayer’s power, it would be them.

“I – I’m sorry,” Willow said timidly, not really looking at either of them. “I’m so sorry, Buffy. I thought it was – the right spell to use. I didn’t mean to…”

“You didn’t mean to last time, either, did you?” Giles snapped.

“Will,” Buffy said urgently, shooting her Watcher a warning look. He merely looked away in silence as she went on, “I know you didn’t mean to. It’s okay. I mean – it’s a mess, but – but we’ll get it figured out. I know you were trying to help.

Willow was silent. Buffy was being very understanding, but the words she had really wanted to hear were noticeably absent. Buffy did not say, “It’s not your fault.”

Because they all knew that it was.

With a sigh, Buffy looked up at her Watcher, who was looking at her dubiously. “Do you have, like – a cot, or a sleeping bag or anything? I think I’m gonna need to spend the night here.” She sighed as he nodded, adding sarcastically with a slight pout, “Judging by the Council’s usual overwhelming willingness to help us – this could take a while.”

It was after nine o’clock that evening when Joyce finally made her way back through her front door. She had had to stay late at the gallery, which did not close until eight, and then had to go by the butcher’s shop to get more blood for Spike. The vampire was feeling much better, but he was still a bit weak from Buffy’s savage attack that morning.

Still – Joyce had been a bit nervous about leaving him alone with Dawn.

She had felt guilty to even be concerned. Spike was her friend, and Dawn’s, and she knew that it would hurt him to know that she was afraid to trust him. And she *did* trust him, really. She knew without a doubt that Spike would never intentionally harm her or Dawn.

But she also “knew” that Buffy would never raise a hand to her mother, either.

The claim that connected her oldest daughter to the blonde vampire was a powerful thing, and very dangerous; Joyce knew that much already. She was terribly afraid that if Spike felt the need to go to Buffy, and Dawn tried to stop him – as she certainly would – he might hurt her without even realizing that he had.

And yet, at the same time, it seemed that Dawn was the only one with the power to stop him from giving himself over to the dangerously unstable Slayer.

Joyce wondered again how it was possible – what strange inherent power allowed her youngest daughter to soothe the desperate craving that spike had for her sister, with just a simple innocent touch of her hand. Did it have something to do with the claim? Some effect because of the blood bond and because Dawn was Buffy’s family? And if that was the case – then why had Joyce herself not been able to stop Spike?

Dawn had had no answers for her mother’s questions. Neither of them had any idea why only she was able to calm the confused, desperate vampire.

They just knew that she *was* able.

When she thought about it, Joyce was certain that Spike’s love for her and Dawn – which had already pushed him to defy his claimant once – in combination with Dawn’s soothing power over him, would protect the girl while Joyce was at work. She simply could not stand the thought of leaving him to fall under the power of the claim again while he was alone, just to go running to the girl who would only hurt and abuse him again.

Though she had not said a word to him of her dilemma, not wanting to hurt his feelings with her involuntary suspicions, Spike had perceptively realized her concern, and had suggested quietly and sincerely that she make use of the chains that her daughter kept in the basement.

His touchingly understanding, accepting manner, and his willingness to submit to such a thing to ensure Dawn’s safety, made up Joyce’s mind. There was no way that Spike would ever hurt Dawn. She could safely leave him here with her daughter, of that much she was sure.

And there would be no chains, she decided. She shuddered to think of what could happen if Buffy decided to return for what was hers, to find Spike chained and at her mercy.

No, she could not leave him here alone. Bound or free, he would be helpless to the Slayer’s attack without Dawn’s settling influence to help to steady him.

Joyce had end up calling home several times during the first couple of hours she had been at work, anxious in spite of herself, and wanting to make sure that everything was all right. But when every time she had found that it was, she had eventually relaxed and stopped calling, going about her work.

Now, as she took in the peaceful, comfortable scene before her, she wondered why she had been worried at all.

The television was on, quiet voices punctuated with a laugh track barely breaking the stillness of the scene. It was the only light in the room, so Joyce supposed that the exhausted pair had been asleep for some time.

Spike was sprawled on the sofa, his head resting on the back of it, his face turned toward her, peaceful and relaxed in sleep. Dawn was leaning against him, her head on his shoulder and her hand firmly clasping his – also sound asleep.

Joyce smiled with affection at her daughter’s clear determination to protect her friend through whatever means she could – even from himself. She wondered with a sad sort of feeling what mini-crises these two might have faced today, how difficult it might have been for Dawn to keep Spike from going to his own doom – but somehow she had managed it.

After putting Spike’s blood away in the kitchen, Joyce returned to the living room to cover them with a soft throw blanket, thinking it would be best not to wake them. She knew that Spike had to maintain contact with Dawn if he was going to stay calm and avoid falling prey to his own desires – and if they were going to have to be together all night, the living room sofa was the most appropriate choice.

As far as Joyce was concerned, it was the *only* choice.

After checking all the doors and windows, being sure that the house was safely secured for the night, Joyce turned off the television and made her way up the stairs to her own bedroom, satisfied. Tomorrow, she would go to the Magic Box, and hopefully she had put enough of the fear of Joyce Summers into Rupert Giles to make him come up with some answers by then.

But for tonight, she was done with worry, ready to allow herself to rest, confident in the knowledge that they were safe.

As she made her way up the stairs, she did not notice as her young daughter stirred restlessly in her sleep, unconsciously turning over to rest against the sofa, facing away from the oblivious sleeping vampire – her hand slipping unnoticed from his.


Buffy was trying to go to sleep. She really was.

But apparently, the “source of her power”, whatever *that* was, had other ideas.

She tossed and turned restlessly on the little cot that Giles had provided for her, trying to put the thoughts of her gorgeous blonde vampire across town out of her mind. She wanted him with a nearly feverish desperation, a need that was slowly consuming her from within.

She *burned* for him.

*And you can have him,* a voice whispered temptingly in her head, sounding suspiciously like her own.

She looked across the dimly lit room with longing at the keys to her chains, cruelly left just within her line of vision, on a little table across the room from her. Giles was sleeping in a sleeping bag in the store itself, the door to the training room mostly closed to allow her some privacy, but open just enough that he would hear her if she called him.

If the door was fully closed, he would not be able to hear her if she needed him, as it was semi-soundproof to disguise the sounds of her training sessions – and it would never do to have the Slayer chained up overnight in a soundproof room, where no one could hear her if something tried to attack her.

This *was* the Hellmouth, after all.

She was pretty sure that the keys left carelessly lying on the table had been an accident, and not, as it seemed at the moment, a deliberate attempt to torment her. She knew that there was really no chance of her getting herself free, should she lose enough control to want to.

Which was becoming a distinct possibility.

At any rate, the keys had been left far enough away from her that she would not be able to reach them without breaking her magically enhanced, unbreakable chains. And if she was able to manage a feat such as that – well, the keys themselves would be sort of a moot issue.

But as it was, the chains could only be opened with the keys, which were well out of her reach. Giles had probably not been terribly worried about where he left them, as long as she could not get to them.

He had been wrong not to worry.

A part of Buffy whispered insistently that she should call for Giles, wake him up and have him come and take the keys away. It would remove the temptation that was haunting her at the moment, demanding that she take advantage of the one opportunity to escape her bonds…

…the one opportunity Giles had failed to consider.

Buffy was trying desperately not to think about it herself. She desperately wanted to be with Spike – but she was terrified that if she was with him before they had found a way to control the rage within her, she would only end up hurting him.

*He’s yours,* the voice echoed again in her head. *You can do whatever you want with him…*

“No, Buffy,” she whispered aloud, shutting her eyes tight as she struggled to control the overwhelming desire that was pushing her to do what she knew she should not. “Don’t do it. You can’t. Don’t do it…”

*You can – just do it – he’s yours, there’s nothing to stop you…*

“No – I can’t hurt him again – I *won’t*!” She was just grateful that there was no one around to witness this latest evidence of the losing of her mind.

*Fight it, Buffy,* she told herself firmly, her eyes shut as she tried to concentrate on anything but her consuming, ever-strengthening desire for the vampire she had claimed – and the mental link that joined them.

*Fight it…*


The digital clock on the endtable read 10:35 when Spike awoke, very suddenly, from a deep, restful sleep – the first he had had in weeks. He glanced around the room for a few moments, blinking, disoriented, as he tried to figure out what it was that had awakened him. The room was perfectly silent. At his side, Dawn slept soundly, not moving or making a sound – and not touching him at all.

It was then that he felt it again – a strange sensation that he did not remember feeling, but instinctively knew was what had awakened him before – a twinge of feeling in the mark on his throat, not strong enough to be called pain – yet – but a slowly building burn that he knew only Buffy’s touch could relieve.

The longing for his claimant came over him with a fresh power, his suddenly overwhelming desire for her drawing him to get up, to leave – to find her. He somehow sensed that she was calling to him, was making him feel these things.

He had to go to her -- *had* to -- *now*!

*No,* something in him warned. *Don’t do it…you’re safe here…don’t blow it. Stay here…*

He glanced at Dawn, oblivious to his struggle as she innocently slept on. A part of him desperately wanted to wake her – and a part of him was intensely relieved that she was still asleep.

Her touch seemed to have the power to calm this need within him – to give him back some measure of control over his hijacked emotions. He wondered for a moment if it would work while she was sleeping – thought about just reaching out and taking her hand, to see if it could cool the rising fire of need within him.

But for some reason, he could not bring himself to do it. He told himself that it was not necessary, and anyway she probably had to be awake for it to work – and he did not want to wake her – but he knew the truth, deep down.

A part of him did not really *want* these emotions quelled.

The pressure of the call he could feel, drawing him to Buffy, mingling with the burning in her mark with his own natural desire for her, formed an almost irresistible force, and before he knew what he was doing, he was on his feet and heading toward the door, glancing anxiously back over his shoulder to be sure that Dawn was still asleep.

He didn’t want her waking up and trying to keep him from…

His hand froze on the doorknob, an instant away from leaving the safe shelter of the house, his eyes widening as he realized what he was about to do. Joyce and Dawn had gone to so much trouble to help him, to protect him from being hurt by Buffy again – and here he was about to deliberately walk back into harm’s way?

He swallowed hard as he was forced to ask himself the question – was it worth it?


Buffy had long since abandoned the cot, pushing it aside and resuming her frenetic pacing, though silently. Although something deep within her wanted to scream out in rage at the man sleeping in the next room, for restraining her like this, for keeping her from her mate – she knew that she was more likely to actually get what she wanted if he stayed asleep.

But why was she *not* getting what she wanted?

Her entire body was burning, shaking, writhing with a fever of need for Spike – her mate. Desperately she called him to her – but as of yet, he had made no response.

She could feel him, across the distance that separated them, feel the need he had for her, his desire to be with her and his reaction to the call she had sent out across the blood ties that bound them together. But she could also feel his doubt, his hesitation – and the fact that he was not moving any nearer to her – not yet.

She felt the uncertainty of his intentions – his debating whether or not to come to her at all.

She bit back a primal roar of fury, as at this distant act of defiance, the possessive force within her came surging to the forefront, intensifying the power of her call, demanding that her mate come to her as commanded, *now*!


Spike’s uneasy deliberations were cut short as the burning in his throat suddenly intensified to an excruciating level, and he choked back a cry of pain, nearly collapsing, desperately grasping onto the door in front of him for support as an overwhelming wave of powerful sensations swept over him, courtesy of his claimant.

He rested his head on the cool glass of the small angular window pain in the door, gasping in sharp, shaky breaths in an attempt to steady himself, while struggling at the same time to stay quiet, to not reveal his ordeal to the sleeping girl on the sofa.

He could feel Buffy’s fury, her indignant rage at the fact that he had not yet responded to her call – which was growing ever more powerful…and painful…by the moment. He wondered, fighting back a sick feeling of panic as his hand rose to cover his enflamed throat, if she could actually cause him to spontaneously combust from clear across town.

Because he felt like he was going to – and he knew that only her touch could soothe the scorching heat that engulfed him.

The sensitive flesh beneath his hand was shockingly hot to his own touch – and not the least bit soothed by the cool pressure he applied. A sense of cold apprehension settled in the pit of his stomach, roiling up in waves of nauseating fear. Suddenly, he very much wanted to stay here – as far from the enraged primal force that was controlling his mate as he could possibly get.

But it was too late for that.

He had no choice; his decision was suddenly made as he realized that the only way he would find any relief from the agony she had unleashed upon him was to go to her, to yield to her demands. Steeling himself to do what he knew he had to do, he slowly and deliberately opened the door, slipping out into the night, carefully closing and locking the door behind him.

Even now, he wanted to be sure that nothing happened to the two other most important women in his life.

As quickly as he could manage through the haze of flame that seemed to surround him, he made his way across town toward the Magic Box, though no one had told him that that was where Buffy was spending this night.

No one had to.

As Spike made his way across town, drawing ever nearer to the Slayer to whom he was bound, he was surprised, and cautiously relieved, to feel the burning agony in his throat ease slightly. He could feel that Buffy knew he was coming, and his obedience was at least partially soothing the rage within her – but he knew better than to assume that it would completely make up for his defiance before.

With a trembling hand and a sense of dreadful anticipation in his heart, Spike cautiously opened the back door of the Magic Box leading into the training room. A small desk lamp on a little table against the wall was the only light in the large room, presumably in order to allow Buffy to sleep. But she was very definitely not sleeping – and although her form was shrouded in shadow, far from the lamp, Spike had no trouble seeing her at all.

She seemed to fill his vision until he could see nothing else.

She was leaning casually back against the wall behind her, her arms crossed over her chest as if in boredom or unconcern, apparently relaxed and at ease. When his eyes found her, mere seconds after he had opened the door, she was already focused on him, looking him up and down with a slight smile on her lips and a predatory gleam in her eyes.

It gave him the eerie sensation that she had known the exact moment when he would walk through the door, and had already been focused on that spot – just waiting for him to appear where she already knew he would be.

When her eyes finished their bold, blatantly possessive perusal of his body, they finally met his, and the stunning look of raw hunger and desire he saw there nearly took his breath away. It was a look of pure possessive need, declaring silently that he belonged to her – and she would not be deprived of him for another moment.

“Come here,” she said softly, her voice even and calm, though her desire was easy to read in her tone.

He hesitated for just a moment, fear slowing his steps. She did not sound angry, and all he could see in her expression was how badly she wanted him – nearly as bad as he had been wanting her.

But – she had tricked him in that way before, luring him in and not revealing her true intentions until it was too late for him to do anything about it – and then attacking him viciously when he was most vulnerable to her.

*Who’re you kidding, mate?* he reminded himself with sad irony. *It’s already too late…it was too bloody late the moment after you agreed to be hers.*

He had only wavered for an instant, and was already moving toward her again – but he watched with dismay as her eyes darkened slightly with anger, and the burning sensation in her mark that had almost faded, began again with renewed intensity.

“I’m coming!” he quickly assured her, hurriedly closing the distance between them on shaking legs, as the fire consuming him grew even stronger. “Please, Buffy – I’m…”

His words were cut off as he came within her reach, and she suddenly gripped his arm and pulled him closer to her, her other hand stretching to the limits of the chains that bound it to the wall, to rest at the small of his back and press him closer against her body. The scent of her mingled anger and arousal surrounded him, mesmerizing him as she yanked him into a desperate, demanding kiss, forcefully invading his mouth as if she wanted to devour him completely.

When she finally pulled back, holding him at arm’s length, she was breathing hard, her face flushed with desire, her eyes alight with an almost feral passion. He pressed in close to her again, craving more of her touch, her kiss.

The mark on his throat felt like it was on fire.

“Buffy,” he moaned softly in frustration and fear as she held him back from her, preventing him from coming any closer to her. “Please…”

“Shhh,” she whispered, and he obeyed, though he was past the point of desperation by now, in a fever of need. He stared at her in confusion. She was smiling with a sort of amused satisfaction at his dilemma, her eyes glimmering with the pleasure of the power she held over him. But then, she glanced toward the door pointedly as she explained, “We’re not exactly alone.”

His eyes widened as he realized that there was someone in the store. But he knew it would be closed by now, and he could see only darkness through the small gap that it had been left open. He looked back at her with a puzzled frown.

*Who?* he asked her, restricting himself to her thoughts, in order to obey her command to be quiet.

He had to please her, he reminded himself – had to get her to relieve the fiery agony of his need for her touch.

Her smile was knowing as she replied in his mind, *That doesn’t really matter to you – does it?*

He shook his head, closing his eyes, his breath coming harder and ragged as the burning sensation suddenly intensified. His eyes snapped open wide and he stared at her with a look of disbelief, feeling almost – betrayed.

What the bloody hell had he done to cause her to…?

But then, he saw the truth in her cruel smirk. Nothing. He had done nothing at all to merit her deliberately increasing the pain he was experiencing. She simply enjoyed the power she held over him, the ability to make him need her so much.

He was so desperate by now that he felt tears of frustration and despair spring to his eyes. *Buffy – please – please, I need you to…*

*Quiet.* Her voice in his head was calm but hard – merciless.

He was silent, his eyes downcast, still gasping for breath, as she softened her tone to add in a voice of patronizing affection, *I can’t do anything to help you as long as I’m chained up here, can I?* She pulled upward against her chains to demonstrate her point.

His eyes widened with realization, as he stared down at the taut chains, processing the truth of her words. Bound as she was, she could not raise her hands much farther than his waist. In his desperation, he could only think of one solution. If she couldn’t reach him, he would have to make it so that she could.

*Go, and – no, *stop*!* she ordered sharply, as he started to go to his knees in front of her, to bring the mark within her reach.

He was nearly delirious with the burning pain, his desperate desire for her, and was willing to do nearly anything just to make it stop. But her hands held him firmly, not allowing him to drop to his knees.

*Listen to me!* she snapped, shaking him slightly.

Once his attention was focused on her again, she smiled, pleased by his attention. Still, her voice was warning as she spoke softly, “You stop worrying so much about what you want *me* to do – and focus on what *I* want *you* to do – or I might not help you even when I can!”

His pleading blue eyes were desperately attentive as they locked onto hers, and he waited silently for her command, barely able to focus at all for the searing heat now radiating through his entire body.

Satisfied, Buffy repeated her interrupted order, slowly and calmly, holding his gaze. “Go and close the door. Then, go to that table over there and get the keys.”

His eyes followed the gesture of her hand toward the small table with the lamp on it, and he nodded as she released him to obey her. He hurried to close the door, being careful not to make any sound as he did, before going to the table and retrieving the keys.

He rushed back to Buffy’s side, reaching down with a trembling hand to unlock the manacle on her right wrist. Once it was freed, he went to work on the left, his hands shaking so badly that he could hardly get the key into the lock.

He was vaguely surprised when her freed arm slid gently around his waist in a soothing gesture, as she stood quietly beside him, patiently watching and waiting as he tried to free her. It was the closest to affection that he had seen from this dark, possessive side of Buffy – and he found it strangely calming – calming enough to allow him to get the remaining manacle off of Buffy’s left wrist.

The moment she was freed completely, she turned to face him, placing her other hand at the back of his neck and gifting him with a warm, grateful smile as she pulled him gently down into a tender kiss. He was more confused by the moment, as her anger seemed to have faded away completely, if one judged by the gentleness in her hands and lips, and the soft affection in her eyes.

He could almost have forgotten that this was not really *his* Buffy – not the gentle, affectionate girl that he had seen in her more lucid moments since the claim.

*She’s not ‘your’ Buffy,* he reminded himself. *You’re hers, but she’s not yours…never was…never will be…* But in the tender embrace of her warm arms – he could almost forget that, too.

He could almost forget – if not for the burning need that still consumed him, the fire slowly engulfing him through her mark, that could only ever be quenched by her touch.

When she finally ended the kiss, only out of her necessity to draw breath, he turned his head slightly, arching his neck up toward her, desperately, silently pleading for the soothing relief of her touch.

Her soft, throaty chuckle held affection, but also a wicked amusement, as her hand at the back of his neck played gently through his hair, and she leaned in close to his throat – but did not touch him.

A tremor of desperate desire shook through him as her breath fell tantalizingly across the mark when she whispered into his ear, “God, I’ve missed you!”

Despite the torment she was so coolly leaving him in, despite his fear and the trauma of this tumultuous new relationship that had consumed him so quickly, literally overnight, he could not deny that he had missed her too – and that her words, undeniably sincere in spite of everything, sent a little thrill of pleasure through him, to think that she had wanted to be with him, too, during their brief separation.

But the pleasure of that realization was quickly dampened by the ever-intensifying, searing agony that was still coursing through him.

“Buffy…” he whispered desperately.

He was silenced by another kiss, as she suddenly gripped the front of his shirt in both hands and spun them around, slamming him into the wall with breathtaking force as she once again ravaged his mouth, leaving him breathless and longing, instinctively following her mouth with his when she finally drew it back.

Her eyes were dancing with laughter as they met his for a moment before she slowly – torturously slowly – lowered her mouth toward his throat again, holding eye contact with him until the last possible second.

He slumped back against the wall, his trembling arms wrapped around her, relief coursing through him – but it was premature, and short-lived.

She slowly, sensuously kissed a soft, hot trail of kisses up and down the alabaster column of his throat – still deliberately avoiding the place that was causing him so much pain.

“You’re mine,” she whispered against his skin. “Right?”

“Right,” he gasped, nodding almost frantically, his hands clinging to her, drawing her nearer.

“Never gonna let anyone keep us apart again,” she murmured, and his confused mind could not determine whether she was stating that *she* was not going to, or demanding that he *not* allow them to be separated again.

Either way, he knew better than to argue. “No,” he agreed in a hoarse, desperate whisper. “No, Buffy – please…please…” The last word was nearly a sob, as she nipped lightly at the sensitive skin a mere fraction of an inch above the mark.

She drew back, a cruel little smirk on her face as she met his eyes with a challenging look. “Oh, that’s right,” she said slowly, in a voice of false innocence. “There was something you wanted from me…wasn’t there? You were just asking me about it, when I sent you to get the keys, right?”

He nodded, swallowing back a harsh sob that rose in his throat, his head bowed and his eyes closed, not wanting to see the cold expression in her eyes.

Relentless, she reached a hand out to raise his chin, silently demanding that he look at her. He forced himself to obey, his eyes welling with tears from the overwhelming tumult of emotions that had filled the last hour.

“Let’s see,” she mused softly, her eyes hardening, her lips quirking up in a smirk of cruel intent. “You were just about to beg me to do it…now, where were you, exactly…?” She spoke thoughtfully, a pensive frown on her face, as if trying to remember what he had been saying, stepping backward subtlely – giving him room…

…and he knew instantly that she was not talking about his words.

He swallowed hard, looking down again, as he realized what she wanted from him. Deep down, buried beneath the confusion and pain that overwhelmed all other emotions for him lately, he felt anger and indignation that she would expect it of him – and he fought it, for a few brief moments…

…before the searing, vicious agony of her mark stole away his last vestige of pride.

He slowly sank to his knees in front of her, his head bowed, its crown resting lightly against her stomach, his hands just barely hovering over her hips, before daring to lightly touch them with trembling hands.

“Please,” he whispered in a shaky, hoarse voice of desperation. “Please, Buffy – please…”

Finally, she granted his broken request, her fingertips lightly brushing over the inflamed spot on his throat – and just like that, the pain vanished, swallowed up in a soft soothing sensation of mild pleasure. He relaxed slightly against her, his shoulders shaking with sobs of relief and repressed agony, his hands thoughtlessly clutching at her waist for dear life.

She did not seem bothered by his touch. Both of her hands fell to stroke gently through his disheveled blonde curls in a twisted gesture of affection, as a little smile began on her lips, her eyes glittering with cold satisfaction.

“I told you – didn’t I?” she said softly, in a sad, vaguely apologetic sort of tone, crouching down in front of him, tucking her head in an attempt to meet his eyes, as one hand moved around to gently rub away a tear from his face. “I told you that if you made me – I could do this to you.”

He nodded silently, tears streaming down his face as he swallowed back a sob. He *did* remember, that first night when she had taught him the “lesson” of obedience to her at any cost. She had warned him of the power she now held over him through the mark – and he had agreed to obey, to do his best to please her.

In his confusion and pain and helpless desire, he could not figure out how exactly he had failed to do that.

She was more than happy to explain it to him.

“But then,” she said in a soft, deceptively gentle voice, her hand slowly stroking through his hair in a disarmingly soothing gesture, “you decided you had other plans. Trying to avoid me – choosing someone else over me, and hitting me to defend *her*…”

The hatred in her voice was a shock to his system, snapping him suddenly out of the lull her gentle touch and previously soft voice had been drawing him into, as the truth hit him full force.

His Buffy, of her own free will, would never speak of her mother with such hatred.

He looked up at her sharply, studying her face intently for a long moment.

She did not notice for a bit as she went on, “Messing around with another girl, when you’re *mine*!”

A note of anger entered his voice as he stared into the suddenly distant, foreign eyes of the Slayer, objecting to the untrue accusation. “I didn’t…”

In a flash she was standing up again, cutting off his words with a savage blow across his face, as she snarled, “Don’t lie to me, you filthy little whore! I *saw* you – I *heard* you talking about me behind my back – I felt you touching her when I wasn’t there – and your *not* hers, no matter what she thinks! You’re *mine*!” She slapped him again, knocking him backward into the wall behind him, reiterating forcefully, “*Mine*!”

He stayed there against the wall for a moment, breathing hard, his eyes carefully downcast as he struggled to reign in his own anger, anger that could get him hurt worse if he was not careful.

Slowly he raised his eyes to hers, blazing with repressed fury and defiance, as he finally answered softly but emphatically, “Buffy is the one who claimed me – and it’s her claim I accepted. Whoever the bloody hell *you* are, you’ve got nothing to do with it.”

Her eyes widened in shock at his words, then narrowed again in anger. Yet again her expression changed, as a slow smile came over her face, and she crouched down in front of him again, oppressively close.

“Is that right?” she sneered softly, leaning in nearer to him, her smile deepening when he drew back against the wall. She slowly stretched a hand toward the mark, and he cringed, knowing that in her eyes, he had earned more vicious punishment.

But her hand merely ghosted over the spot, not actually touching it, as she went on quietly but intensely, “Then why can I do this, Spike? Why do I have this power over you?”

He swallowed hard, not knowing the answer to the question. He turned his head away, his eyes closed as he struggled to make it make sense. All he really knew was that this terrible, powerful, dangerous creature facing him now had not been visible in Buffy prior to the claim.

Finally, he just shook his head slowly, still not looking at her. “I don’t know what you’ve done or how you’ve done it,” he said in a quiet, steady voice. “But Buffy’s stronger than you think – and she’s not gonna just take this lying down. She’s gonna find a way to stop you…to get rid of you…”

He half expected a violent reaction to his words, but the creature before him just laughed softly. Strange it was, hearing Buffy’s tinkling, musical laugh falling from the throat of this savage being facing him now.

“Get rid of me?” she echoed in a softly mocking, incredulous voice. “How is she going to do that, exactly? She *is* me! She can’t get rid of me – I’m not going anywhere – and soon enough she and her little friends are gonna figure that out…”

Her voice suddenly trailed off, and Spike looked up at her, curious and suspicious. He stared at her, frowning, as her eyes widened and she drew back slowly, staring off at some distant point across the room as if hearing or seeing something that he could not.

“No…” she whispered suddenly, shaking her head. “No…she can’t…”

She stood up suddenly, and he flinched at her erratic movements, not knowing what to expect from her as she began to pace nervously, her hands at her head as if trying to hold something in. “No,” she repeated emphatically. “No…she’s me…she can’t…you can’t…*no*!”

The last word came out as a frustrated growl of fury as she slammed her fist angrily into the wall, and the vampire on the floor beside her jumped, watching her every step warily. What the bloody hell was happening here? he wondered with rising trepidation. This situation got crazier by the moment.

Suddenly, Buffy doubled over, her hands crossed over her stomach as she sank to her knees on the floor with a groan, rocking slowly back and forth as if in terrible pain. “No…no…no…” she whispered, shaking her head, apparently in the midst of some deep inner torment or battle.

And then, suddenly, she stopped her frantic rocking, her head snapping up and her eyes locking onto his, slowly fading from confusion to focus and clarity.

And he instantly knew – could tell by the aching confusion, the deep sorrow and agonizing guilt in her eyes as the last hour came back to her.

Buffy had returned.

“Spike?” she whispered, her voice a haunted whisper of pain and shame, her eyes pleading for forgiveness for a mere instant…

…before they suddenly rolled back in her head, and without another sound the Slayer collapsed to the floor, completely unconscious.

“Buffy! *Buffy*!”

Not thinking, just acting on the pure instinct that drew him to his mate’s side, Spike was on his knees beside the fallen Slayer in an instant. He gripped her arms in his hands, shaking her slightly in an attempt to rouse her – but she was limp and unresponsive to his touch. An inexplicable sense of panic began to steal over him, as various possibilities floated through his mind.

What if the thing inside her had finally managed to subdue her for good? What if Buffy -- *his* Buffy – never came back? Or what if she never woke up at all?

In spite of everything she had done to him – that thought was bloody terrifying.

After the cruel encounter he had just had with the enraged, possessive side of the Slayer, the part of him that sought self-preservation was telling him that he was being utterly daft. This was his chance to escape – he should flee while he could, rather than attempting to awaken the powerful, dangerous creature that had been in the process of beating and terrorizing him when she had passed out.

She seemed to be becoming more and more violent and out of control all the time. One of these times, she was bound to go too far – to not return from that place of rage until she had killed him.

He found himself wondering how far away he could get before she woke up, and how far away he would *have* to get to escape her mental control over him.

*Was* there even a place far enough away?

He had the sinking suspicion that there was not. No matter how far he went to get away from her – her claim would pull him back. The only way he would ever escape the claim was through death – his, or hers.

That thought, combined with the sight of the pale, unconscious Slayer in his arms, was enough to send a jolt of terror through him, reminding him that no matter how cruelly she had treated him, it was infinitely more frightening to think of losing her forever.

Maybe it was just the effects of the claim – maybe it was more – but all he knew was that if he lost her, his *mate* -- he would likely lose his mind as well.

“*Buffy*!” he nearly shouted, shaking her harder. “Buffy, love – wake up!”

He felt a tremendous sense of relief – which was quickly mingled with fear and trepidation – when the Slayer suddenly began to stir in his arms, frowning slightly, her eyes still closed, as she slowly fought her way back to consciousness.

He hesitated, unsure of what he should do. If she came back as the vicious, controlling Buffy who had been berating and abusing him, he imagined that she would be furious to find herself in this vulnerable position, held in his arms, especially considering the mood she had been in when she had passed out.

But if it was *his* Buffy – the one who was connected to him by the bond of her claim, but did not seem to feel the need to constantly tear him down and remind him of how far beneath her he was – then he knew that she would want his support, the comfort of his embrace, after what had to have been a frightening experience.

As she started to come around, sitting up slowly in his arms, one hand braced against the floor to push herself up and her eyelids slowly fluttered open as she drew back out of his arms to look at him, blinking in confusion.

In that moment, in the absence of the fear of whether or not she was going to be all right – a sudden panic gripped him. If she was not yet completely in control, she would likely knock him across the room just for daring to touch her in such a casual, familiar way.

As her eyes began to slowly come into focus on him, he scooted cautiously back across the floor a couple of feet, watching her warily. Every nerve in his body was electrified with fear; he had absolutely no idea what to expect from her.

All he knew was that whatever she would do, he would be powerless to stop.

“Spike?” she whispered in a lost voice of painful uncertainty. “What – what happened?”

He frowned, surprised and worried by that. “Don’t tell me you don’t bloody remember?” he said, a bit sharply, one eyebrow raised in a question. She had always remembered her little bouts of insanity before.

She looked up at him quickly for a moment, startled – before her eyes went wide with shock…as it all came flooding back to her. Disgust and anger – both self-directed, showed in her eyes as she shook her head slowly in denial, moving instinctively toward him, wanting to make right what she had done, not considering yet the fact that any way of doing that involving actually touching him would probably not be received well.

Indeed, Spike immediately misunderstood, thinking that the almost fierce expression on her face and her unexpected movement toward him were in response to the tone he had used with her, and his failure to answer her question. He looked down quickly, edging slightly away from her as he quickly, nervously corrected himself.

“I mean – I’ll tell you everything, Buffy, it’s just – just kind of scary that you – you don’t…”

His words trailed off as he felt her, saw her, drawing nearer to him, and dared not move away from her any further. He stopped talking, his thoughts scattered, and not trusting his own voice anyway, swallowing convulsively as she closed the slight remaining distance between them.

“Spike,” she repeated his name in a soft, trembling voice full of emotion – but the softness in her tone didn’t quite register with him yet.

The memory of her brutality, her vicious humiliation of him only minutes earlier, was too fresh in his mind to allow him to recognize the tenderness in her voice now. She touched his arm – a feather-soft, barely there touch that revealed her own fear and shame to face him – and he nearly jumped out of his skin, flinching back, his jaw setting in fearful frustration when he realized that his back was already to the wall, and there was nowhere to go.

“Spike,” she whispered gently in a voice that was choked with tears. “Please – I’m so sorry…”

“It’s okay,” he replied in a quiet, carefully controlled tone – too quickly. “It’s okay…”

It was painfully obvious to her that genuine forgiveness was not something he could even consider yet – not because he *wouldn’t* forgive her, but because he was still in survival mode – too afraid to argue with her, or deny her, or even to pull away from the soft, tentative touch of her hand that was clearly terrifying to him.

He was terrified of *her*. His arm under her hand was so tense, his muscles taut and trembling – just waiting for her to snap and hurt him again, as she had done so many times already.

Could she blame him if any answer besides “it’s okay” did not seem like an option to him at the moment?

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head, tears of grief over her own actions streaming from her eyes. “No, it’s not…nothing is okay about what I just did to you.”

He closed his eyes, swallowing hard, his mouth working with some repressed emotion at her words.

Anger?

Fear?

Loathing of her touch, her audacity to even think that an apology would mean anything under these circumstances?

She knew that any of the above reactions would have been nothing less than deserved – but she could not seem to read him as easily as she usually could, since the claim – maybe she was afraid to.

“Please tell me,” she whispered, struggling over the hard knot of pain and regret in her throat. “Please tell me – what I can do – I’m so sorry – please – how can I make this right, Spike?”

Before he could think to control his reaction, his eyes shot up to hers, incredulity and disbelief mingling with the hurt and shame in his eyes. Her words were simply unbelievable to him; how could she even begin to think that she could undo what she had said and done to him so easily?

In a sudden surge of anger, before he could stop himself, he jerked his arm away from her, snapping at her bitterly in a trembling voice, “Could you maybe *not* bloody touch me? That’ll do for a start!”

She immediately withdrew her hand, stunned by his words, hitting her like a slap in the face.

Like the slap she had dealt him, just a little while ago.

She deserved it; she knew she did. She could feel the anger, boiling inside her, deep down – but for the moment, it was *staying* down. She had managed to push it so far back that there was no danger of its surfacing any time soon.

In spite of everything, the hint of a smile came to Buffy’s face as she remembered what she had wanted to tell him before, only moments after she had awakened, but had been distracted from by his emotional reaction to her. She had no idea how long it might last, and she knew that it would return, and she would have to fight it again – but for the moment, her “source of power” was under control.

She had beaten it – for the moment.

Spike had no way of knowing that.

The instant his scathing, bitter words left his mouth, he drew in a sharp breath, visibly steeling himself for her reaction as he realized what he had done. Every time before when he had pulled away from Buffy, it had brought out the violent possessive side of her – and he expected that it would this time, too.

He drew back against the wall, his eyes closed, swallowing hard in fearful expectation of punishment for his defiance.

“Spike…” Buffy said softly, moving in closer, shaking her head in denial of his suspicions and fears. “No…”

“Please,” he whispered, flinching slightly, his body tensing as he sensed her nearness, assuming that she meant to retaliate against him, to prove that it was her *right* to touch him if she wanted to. “Buffy – I didn’t mean it…”

“Yes, you did,” she stated quietly, gently, a deep sorrow and regret in her voice as she stretched her hand out slowly toward him. Instinctively she knew what to do, how to show him that she meant him no harm.

If she didn’t manage to scare him half to death in the process of getting there.

Spike completely misinterpreted her actions, drawing in a sharp breath as her hand moved toward the mark on his throat. “*Don’t*!” he cried out in a soft, anguished tone that tore at her heart to hear it. His desperate plea was painfully stunning to her.

Her hand froze, less than an inch from its target, and she stared at him in sorrow, speechless with horror at the effect her actions had had on him.

Feeling a sense of hope at her hesitation, though still believed that she had intended to hurt him, Spike let out his words in a rushed, desperate whisper, “Please – I’m sorry, Buffy – please don’t – don’t be angry with me – I’m yours, I know I’m yours, I know you can do whatever you want, just please *don’t*…I just – I just – can’t…right now…”

His voice broke over that final desperate admission, and he could not go on, choking back the tears that threatened to overcome him, breathless and silent as he waited for her response.

Her arm relaxed, lowering just a bit, and Spike let out a long, shaky breath of tentative relief.

“Does this feel like I’m angry to you?”

He glanced up at the sound of the Slayer’s sad, small voice – just as she reached quickly toward him again.

He didn’t have time to move away, to brace himself – even to be afraid – as her hand came into contact with the mark, overwhelming him instantly with a powerful flood of sensation, for the second time that night.

But this was nothing like before.

This was exquisite pleasure, beyond anything he had ever felt – an overwhelming sense of safety and warmth and affection to rival what he had felt in the moment when she had claimed him. It was the manifestation of Buffy’s desire to undo the damage her alter-ego had done.

As the initial wave of pleasure at her touch gradually ebbed away, he was overwhelmed a second time, this time with a tumult of emotions and wordless thoughts and feelings that defied expression. He felt a tremendous sense of sorrow, confusion, shame and guilt; but also affection, adoration, awe and gratitude.

He knew immediately that he was feeling Buffy’s emotions, her thoughts filling his head, as through the line that connected their hearts and minds, Buffy opened up to him all the painful blurring of thoughts and feelings that had consumed her since the moment the claim had been made.

He *knew* -- through *her* eyes – her guilt, her horror over the things she had done, her feelings of being out of control, unable to stop what was happening – and yet knowing that she was responsible for it. And those deeper feelings, for which there were no words, he still knew, feeling them, for a moment, as Buffy felt them *every* moment.

His heart, his mind, his entire being was surrounded, engulfed in the swirling vortex of Buffy’s psyche, until he felt as if he was in her, and she was in him – as if they were one and the same. Her pain, her shame, her tears – all were his as well. And the stunning depths of much more beautiful feelings belonged to him as well.

He was stunned, and unspeakably relieved, to feel the tenderness, the concern that her dark vicious actions had made him believe was completely vacant from her heart.

Suddenly, it hit him with a shock – what he had expected to find that was noticeably absent…or at least dramatically weakened.

The violent rage, the anger and possessive cruelty that seemed to consume her most of the time lately was nowhere to be found. He tried to figure it out through the waves of sensation washing over him.

Perhaps she was simply concealing it from him deliberately; the mental control she had over him led him to believe that she *could* do that, if she wanted to. And, as at the moment she seemed to be repentant for what she had done and wanted to soothe his fears, perhaps she was *trying* not to let him see her darker side.

Or maybe – just maybe…

His eyes widened as the idea occurred to him, as he remembered the fierce internal struggle that Buffy had apparently been waging in the moments before she had lost consciousness. Was it possible that she had found a way to regain control over her own body and mind from the sinister force that had been wielding it as a weapon against him?

Aware of the turn his thoughts were taking, Buffy slowly withdrew her hand from her mark, and gradually the world around him returned. He opened his eyes, hazy and unfocused for a moment, trying to make her face become clear before them.

When the blurring of his vision faded away and everything came into focus, he noticed with surprise that she was closer than he had expected -- *much* closer.

He glanced down and around him, noting with a sort of wonder that she was gently cradling him in her arms, as he leaned against her heavily, shaking slightly with the power of the borrowed emotions she had allowed him to feel. His hands clutched lightly at her waist, and he bowed his head to her shoulder, breathing hard as he tried to ground himself again.

For once, he feared no repercussions for his presumption of touching her.

Her hand rose to rest at the back of his head, stroking gently, comfortingly, through his hair as she gave him a few moments to recover from the sheer intensity of the experience, before speaking softly.

“I wanted to tell you,” her words fell in a tone barely over a whisper near his ear. “I wanted to let you know as soon as I woke up…”

Gently she pulled back, wanting to look him in the eye as she told him, and he could see a sparkling look of hope in her emerald eyes as they met his. She was smiling tentatively, as her hands slid around him to rest on his shoulders and she took a deep breath before speaking.

“I fought it. I fought it with everything in me, Spike. I knew what I was doing, and I hated it, and I *fought* it…

…and I won.”

Spike stared at the Slayer in disbelief, wondering if she had really said what he thought she’d just said – but not really daring to believe it, no matter how badly he wanted to.

“How?” he managed finally in a hoarse whisper, his eyes searching hers with an aching look of desperation and longing.

He wanted so badly for it to be true…was it possible…?

“I don’t know, Spike,” she admitted softly, her hand rising to tenderly caress his cheek before drifting down to rest gently on his shoulder. “I really don’t know how I did it. I just know – I knew what I was doing, and I couldn’t seem to stop it, but I hated it so much! So I just – fought it – tried so hard…I can’t even explain it, really. But – but I managed to push back all that – that rage, the violence that was in control of me – and now *I’m* the one in control.”

*Yes,* Spike thought dubiously, looking away from her, trying to conceal his doubt. *But for how long?*

He believed that she *thought* she had won – and perhaps she had, temporarily – but he knew better than to think that the ultimate victory over the force that was controlling her could possibly be so simple.

“I don’t know.”

The soft, apologetic admission that Buffy made in response to his unspoken question took him by surprise, and he looked back up at her sharply, unable to hide the spark of fear in his eyes. He had almost forgotten that she could hear his thoughts. Again, he felt a trapped sense of helplessness, reminded of the fact that there truly was no escape from her control.

Her eyes softened, welling with tears as their link also revealed these feelings and thoughts to her, and she was overwhelmed with guilt again.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her hands moving slowly up and down his arms in a gentle, reassuring motion. “All those things I said – what I did to you – Spike, I’m so sorry!”

He believed that she was in control for the moment – but that did not mean that he felt safe to speak his mind just yet. There was no guarantee that the force she had managed to just subdue for the first time, if -- *when* -- it returned, would not punish him for any disrespect or defiance he showed now, while Buffy was in control.

“ ‘S all right,” he said in a soft, low voice, his eyes averted to hide the shame, the tears, that her gentle sympathy now brought flooding back to the surface. “You couldn’t help it, love.”

“But I could have,” she corrected him softly. “I could have never done this to you. I could have told Giles that I wasn’t gonna do it. I could have left well enough alone, Spike, like you said.” She paused, before adding very quietly, “You were right."

For another long moment he just stared at her, incredulous, slowly shaking his head before lowering it again, as he began to laugh softly, a bitter, ironic note to the sound.

"What?" Buffy asked with quiet concern in hr voice, frowning -- because there was certainly nothing happy about Spike's laughter at the moment. "What is it?"

"Nothing, Slayer," he finally replied quietly, his shoulders still shaking as he met her eyes again. "It's just that -- never thought I'd hear you bloody say a thing like that!"

She smiled uncertainly, not sure if she should feel relief at his explanation or not. It made sense; admitting that he was right was not very Buffy-like behavior. But his emotions just seemed so precarious at the moment; she knew he was not at all okay, and possibly on the edge of a complete emotional meltdown.

A moment later, he proved her right, his smile fading as he added, "Somehow not as bloody satisfying as I thought it'd be." His shoulders shook again with silent, joyless laughter at his own words.

And then, before either of them could prepare for it, in an instant, the laughter had turned to sobbing. Tears streamed down the blonde's face, as he doubled over, gasping for breath through the sobs that choked him.

Instinctively, Buffy put her arm around him, pulling him close to her in a steadying embrace, her heart breaking with the weight of what she had done. Her arms were tentative, unsure; after all that had happened, she longed to comfort him, but was not sure if he wanted to be comforted -- not by her.

Spike was unresisting -- but that meant nothing at the moment. At what point since she had claimed him had he been made to believe that he had the *choice* to resist at all? He felt so tense againt her, and his body was shaken with violent shudders of emotion. She thought it was from his crying -- but she had to be sure.

"Spike," she whispered into his ear, knowing he could hear her despite his anguished sobs. "I know I'm probably the last person you want touching you right now. I'm so sorry. I wish I could undo it -- but I can't. And -- and everything inside me is just crying out and telling me over and over again that -- that you're *mine*, and I should be making this better. I want so bad to be here for you -- to protect you -- to do *something* to make this right! I really want to be here for you, Spike -- but I won't force you to let me. If you want me to -- I'll just back off and leave you alone."

He did not respond at all, but she felt him flinch a little against her at the words – and Buffy felt a cold chill go down her spine as she thought she realized why.

He did not want her to touch him – but he was too afraid to say so.

She pulled back slowly, swallowing back a sob of her own at the perceived rejection, though she knew it was well-deserved. She couldn’t blame him a bit if he never wanted to see her again, after the way she had treated him.

And he was bound to her for the rest of her life.

But then, she was startled as his hands reached out, suddenly grasping her arms in a strong but trembling grip, holding her to him desperately.

“No,” he whispered through his tears, without lifting his head from her shoulder. “No, Buffy – please, I need you!”

His desperate, nearly panicked plea tore at her heart, and she immediately pulled him close to her again, moving backward so that her back was to the wall, and just holding him in her arms for a long time as he sat there beside her and cried it out. Even after his sobs had subsided and he seemed to have regained control, she just held him, her hand moving slowly up and down his back in a soothing motion. For a long time, they just sat there in silence, taking comfort in each other.

Because beyond all the pain and turmoil of their frightening situation, one fact remained – they were mated, and neither would ever feel truly complete again without the other.

“I feel like such a pathetic git,” Spike finally said, his voice hoarse and raspy with the tears he had just shed. “Bloody ‘master vampire’! Bawling on the shoulder of the Slayer, no less! Some monster *I* turned out to be!” His voice was full of self-derision, as he added in a low mutter, “Bleedin’ ponce!”

Buffy was silent, her hand playing idly through his hair, offering him silent comfort as she stared off into space.

*And I’m the monster who brought the monster to tears,* she thought, her eyes widening with horrified realization.

“Feel free to jump in any time and correct me,” Spike said dryly, without lifting his head from where it rested on her shoulder – calling her attention back to the conversation and out of her morose thoughts.

She could not help but laugh, in spite of their situation, at his ever-present sarcasm. Still, the sound was subdued, controlled – her heart was too heavy to allow much more.

“It’s just the claim, Spike,” she reminded him gently. “It makes you care more than you should about what I think, and it gives me power over you. If it wasn’t for the claim, you’d be trying your best to kick my butt across this room right now.” She paused, considering for a moment, before adding with a shrug and a teasing smile, “You’d be *losing* -- but you’d be giving it your best shot!”

“Thanks,” he said flatly, her words only earning a half-hearted attempt at a smile. “You’re so encouraging, Slayer. What would I do without you?”

She did not respond, only swallowed hard, her smile fading – and Spike fell silent, too, as the unspoken, unintentional implications of his words sank in for them both.

“So,” Spike finally broke the silence again, lifting his head from her shoulder, but still content to lean against her, enjoying the rare pleasure that was his claimant’s affectionate embrace. “while you were mentally kicking this invisible nasty’s arse across your mind and back – did you happen to get a good look at it? Any clue as to what it is?”

Buffy did not respond at all for a moment, considering how best to answer the question. Finally, she shook her head. “I just don’t know,” she admitted softly, her voice heavy with concerns she was afraid to voice. “I just – I just don’t even know how to explain it, Spike. It feels like – like it’s *me* -- or – a *part* of me – but…”

Suddenly, she pulled back a bit, causing the vampire to lift his head from her shoulder as she turned slightly to face him, wanting to see his eyes and make sure that he understood what she was trying to tell him. “…but, Spike – I *didn’t* want to do it! I promise you I didn’t! It’s like – like it just takes me over, and I can’t seem to make it stop, but I know what I’m doing the whole time too. And – and this last time, I managed to stop it – to control it somehow…”

His expression was calm, unreadable, as he focused on her, listening carefully to what she was saying, his expression revealing nothing.

Buffy went on, struggling awkwardly to put it into words. “It doesn’t feel so much like something else taking me over, as it does – a *part* of me that I can’t control – at least, not without a major fight. But I know I haven’t always been like this. It’s like – a *new* part of me – but – still me, you know?”

She studied Spike’s expression hopefully for a moment, before looking down with a heavy sigh of defeat. “And – this makes absolutely no sense – does it? I know you can’t understand it if I can’t explain it right or understand it myself…”

“Actually, love,” Spike interrupted, speaking slowly, his voice stronger now, and full of dawning realization. “it *does* make sense. In fact, it sounds kind of – familiar.” He paused, his eyes taking on a cautious light of excitement as he started to put a few of the pieces together.

There was a gentle sarcasm in his voice as he added, “Oh, no, love – no way in the world would *I* understand the concept of having a scary, dangerous part of yourself that likes to come out and revel in violence and torture – and having to fight to keep it under control all the time.”

He gave his words a moment to sink in before shaking his head, his eyes wide and innocent as he dead-panned, “No. Can’t relate.”

Buffy felt a cold fear clench around her stomach as she realized what it was that he was suggesting. “So you’re saying – maybe it’s like – your demon? A part of you, but…” She stopped, shaking her head, looking away suddenly – but not before he saw the rising terror in her eyes.

“*No*,” she stated emphatically. “No, I am *not* part demon! That’s just – just ridiculous! I…”

Her voice trailed off when she felt him tense up again under her arm that was still wrapped around him, and realized that she was making him nervous with her rising agitation. She deliberately softened the sharp edge to her tone, her fingers tracing a light, reassuring caress up and down his arm as she finished quietly. “No. That can’t be it.”

A moment’s silence passed, and she felt Spike relax against her again, before he asked in a thoughtful voice, “What did your Watcher have to say? Did he have anything useful to contribute for a change?” His tone suggested that he highly doubted it.

Buffy shook her head. “Nope,” she sighed. “Not really. He left a message for the Watcher’s Council, but they haven’t called him back yet…” She looked back up at him with sudden interest, remembering that there *was* something she could offer him in the way of semi-useful developments.

“Oh!” she said brightly, though the cheer didn’t reach the expression on her face. “We *do* know how this happened to me, I guess – sort of. We even know what it is…” She paused, before admitting with an apologetic look, “Sort of.”

Spike frowned in confusion, giving her an expectant look as she went on, “See – there was more than just the ritual involved. Willow did a spell…”

“Well, *that’s* never good,” Spike muttered, rolling his eyes in irritation.

Buffy played the good friend, although she completely agreed, and ignored his comment as she continued, “She did this spell…it was supposed to free you from the chip so that you could fight me. But – it also set something else free. The wording was something like, ‘release the source of their power’. So – whatever is making me act this way – I guess is the – the source of my power? The thing that makes me the…” Her voice suddenly trailed off and she frowned, as she met his eyes again, and saw the wide-eyed look of shock and apprehension on his face.

“What?” she asked, her voice suddenly very small, uncertain.

“Buffy – I know what it is – and you’re not gonna like it,” Spike began cautiously. “I wasn’t gonna say anything unless I was sure…”

“*What*?” she gasped. “Tell me!”

“Your Watcher already contacted the Council?” he asked, his tone dark and troubled.

“He left a message for them,” she repeated, a bit impatiently. “But it’s like, a huge time difference from here to there, so he’s just waiting for them to call him back.”

“They won’t,” he stated flatly, and something in his tone sent a shiver of fear down her spine. He pulled away from her arm and climbed to his feet as he explained, “They’ll just show up. We have to get out of her, Slayer. *Now*.”

“Spike…”

“Who knows when they got that message? They could be on their way here right now,” he went on, lost in his own thoughts as he headed toward one of several weapons chests she kept in this room, crouching down in front of it and searching for suitable items to arm them both.

“*Spike*!” Buffy was on her feet by now, heading toward him.

He grabbed a sleek little dagger with a deadly edge, tucking it into his belt, his mind racing with too many worries to notice as she came up behind him. “I’ll tell you everything once we get going, Buffy, but they’re gonna be looking to take you out, and…”

“What are you saying?” she demanded in incredulous disbelief. “Are you saying that the Council would deliberately *try* to kill me?” As she spoke, she grew impatient with the bits and pieces of information she was slowly getting, and grabbed his arm, pulling him up away from the weapons and turning him around to face her.

He was impatient himself in his worry, and without thinking he jerked away from her hand. “Buffy, we don’t have time for this, we have to…”

His words were cut off in an instant by an iron hand around his throat, spinning him around and slamming him forcefully into the wall – pinning him there. He struggled for a moment instinctively – until she moved in closer, one eyebrow raised over a little smile of amusement, but a warning look in her eyes – her grip on his throat unyielding.

The silent message was clear.

She found his resistance amusing at first, in it’s futility – but she was quickly ceasing to be amused.

He froze, closing his eyes in a little grimace of pain, acknowledging his mistake, though she would not ease up on his throat enough to allow him to speak.

*Please, Buffy…please…please…*

She smiled coldly, pleased by his words – unaware that he did not mean them as they sounded. He was not begging for mercy – but for *his* Buffy, the one who cared for him and treated him with kindness and hated the way *this* Buffy treated him, to fight for all she was worth.

At the moment, if she was fighting at all – she seemed to be losing.

The Slayer pressed in nearer to him, pressing slightly harder on his throat, cutting off his oxygen completely. He did not need it to survive, but he still maintained the habit of breathing – had ever since his turning. Not being allowed to breathe had him on the verge of panic, gasping uselessly in a residual, very human fear. His pleading eyes met hers – and he knew immediately that she knew this, whether she had read it in his thoughts, or simply figured it out – and she was enjoying his fear.

*Buffy…Buffy…hurry…please…*

Misunderstanding – thankfully – the cruel creature wearing Buffy’s face smiled, her eyes glittering with anger and menace as she moved in closer, her grip not easing a bit, as her thumb started to rub a slow, lazy circle about an inch above her mark.

He felt his knees weaken beneath him, and struggled to maintain his footing. The spot she was touching was not the sensitive mark she had left there – but it was close enough to send a shudder of sensation through him.

*Buffy…please…*

“Don’t try to rush *me*!” she hissed in a threatening whisper. “We’ll leave when I *say* we’ll…”

He opened his eyes, anxious and hopeful, when her words suddenly cut off, and he felt her hand slacken a bit on his throat. Buffy’s eyes were closed in a frown of what appeared to be intense concentration or pain, and she took a step back away from him, releasing him completely.

“Buffy,” he gasped out, wincing slightly at the effort, his hand rising unconsciously to his sore throat. “Come on, love – fight it back!”

She shook her head, backing up another step away from him, and he noticed with alarm that she was swaying dangerously on her feet.

It was pure instinct that drove him to her side, gentle but strong hands beneath her arms, holding her up the instant before she would have collapsed. He knew that there was a good chance Buffy would lose the battle for control and proceed to hurt him again – but she was his mate, and she needed him.

And that was all that mattered.

He hoped uneasily that she would not lose consciousness. If Buffy passed out this time like she had last time, then it would take them even longer to get away – and if his theory as to what was happening was correct, they did not have much time.

“Come on, baby,” he said softly, his lips a whisper away from her ear. “Come on, love, stay with me…come on…” he coaxed her gently, as her head lolled back slightly then forward sharply, and she allowed his hands to hold most of her weight.

Finally, her breathing evened out again, and she slowly raised her head to look at him, her eyes hazy and distant. He held his breath for a moment, waiting for her to speak and let him know who exactly he was facing.

“Spike?” she whispered uncertainly, fear and concern in her tearful green eyes – and he knew that it was *his* Buffy that had returned to him this time. “Did I – are you – are you okay?”

And *he* nearly collapsed, shaking hard with relief, gasping for breath as he lowered his head slightly to touch hers, as he whispered in a voice of immense relief, “Yeah, pet…I’m all right…I’m all right…” He looked up at her, eyes shining with awe and adoration. “You did it, love. You beat it again…”

“It – wasn’t as hard that time,” she said, her voice still quiet and weak with exertion. “I – I’m conscious,” she shrugged slightly, with a little quirk of her lips.

He could not help but laugh, nodding. “That you are, fortunately,” he agreed with a smile. “It should get easier,” he added, his expression becoming more solemn as he nodded again.

The knowing sound of his voice made her frown, remembering. “Spike,” she began hesitantly, holding his gaze intently. “Do you know what’s happening to me?”

He looked at her for a moment before replying simply, “I do. But Buffy – please trust me, pet, we have to get out of here, *now*. I promise I’ll tell you everything once we’re somewhere where those bloody wankers won’t look for us, but I’m telling you they’re coming after you and they don’t want to help you. Okay?”

Buffy studied his expression for a long moment, as if trying to decide how much trust to place in his word, in his theories. Finally, she nodded slowly, a look of resolution in her eyes.

“All right,” she agreed quietly, reaching toward the weapons chest herself. “Let’s go.”

“We have to get to my house,” Buffy stated, slamming the weapons chest shut again and heading toward the back door leading out into the alley. “My mom – my sister – we’ve got to get them out of there before the Council shows up looking for me.” She glanced at Spike with a hint of doubt in her eyes as she opened the door. “If they’re really so dangerous…”

“They are.”

His tone was unyielding. He knew what he was talking about, and did not want Buffy to underestimate the stuffy tweed-clad men who in reality could be every bit as deadly as any demon she had ever faced.

“They’ll use whatever or whoever they can to get to you, Buffy. We need to get to Joyce and Dawn before – what?” He stopped suddenly, frowning at the look on her face.

“My friends. They’re not safe, either, then.” Her tone was flat, a statement, but her eyes were questioning, searching his anxiously.

Honestly, the safety of Buffy’s friends had not even occurred to Spike. The only ones he really cared about in this situation were Buffy, Joyce, and Dawn. But he knew that it would be impossible to get Buffy out of town and to safety if she thought her friends were in danger.

For a brief moment he considered lying – but something told him that if he did, and Buffys’ friends got hurt because of it, his Buffy could turn out to be even scarier than her alter ego.

“No,” he admitted quietly. “They’re not.”

Buffy swore softly under her breath, turning away for a moment in frustration before quickly regathering her thoughts and turning back to face him. “Okay,” she said decisively. “We need to get everybody together in a safe place and come up with a plan. Where’s someplace close by that the Council wouldn’t think to look?”

Spike thought hard – but only one place came to mind – the last place he wanted to go at the moment. But none of the Scoobies’ homes or dorm rooms were safe, and the Council would check the local hotels as soon as they realized that their target and her friends had all left their homes. It seemed that there was nothing to be done but to simply accept this cruel quirk of fate that seemed determined to bring him back to a place that had seen so many of his most painful moments.

“The mansion?” he suggested quietly, a note of defeat and resignation to his voice.

Missing it completely, seeing only the chance to protect her loved ones, Buffy’s face lit up in a brilliant smile – and the grateful look in her eyes, sparkling with happy relief, made it worth the painful trip down memory lane that Spike knew he was about to take.

“Spike, that’s perfect!” she exclaimed appreciatively. “It’s abandoned, so it won’t be listed anywhere, and they’re not familiar with Sunnydale, so they won’t know to look for it! We can go there at least long enough to come up with some kind of a decent plan.”

Spike forced himself to return her smile, though in truth he felt a little sick at the thought of returning to that place – the place where he had spent so much time being mocked and mistreated by his own family, and where just a few nights before he had relinquished control over his whole unlife – his very self – forever.

Buffy seemed too caught up in her own worries to notice his pain and uncertainty.

“Okay,” she went on, thinking out her plan as she went along. “We need to wake up Giles and have him go get the others in his car. Then you can…”

“Buffy,” he interrupted cautiously, his eyes focused on hers. “Maybe that’s – not the best idea…”

He had already determined that until Buffy had a better handle on controlling her situation, the wisest thing for him to do was to do his best to be submissive to her – to not provoke the violence within her that seemed to erupt every time he argued with her, or disobeyed her, or spoke in a way that even vaguely resembled giving her an order.

That, in combination with the fact that he knew she was just going to *hate* what he was about to tell her, made him very apprehensive to speak at all.

“What? Why not?” Buffy frowned, confused.

“Buffy – love – how can we be completely sure – well – your Watcher…he’s the one who called the bloody Council to begin with, right?” He struggled to find the right words – which, at the moment, would be any words that would not get him knocked across the room by the Slayer’s fist.

“Well – yeah – but he only did it to help. He had no idea they were going to react like *this* to – to whatever it is that’s happening to me.” Her tone was suddenly defensive, as she realized what it was that he was suggesting. “And Giles told me that he was going to be very vague when he talked to them, so they wouldn’t figure out exactly what’s going on, so chances are they don’t have a clue and aren’t even coming here!”

She stepped back suddenly, her arms crossed over her chest in a challenging way, her eyebrows raised in a question, as she concluded.

“I’m already leaving town, having all my friends leave too, because the Council *might* be after me, for some reason I have yet to be told, because you *supposedly* know what’s going on here – even though you haven’t told me yet. I’m actually taking a lot on faith, here, Spike – so don’t *even* suggest that I leave my Watcher here for those ‘incredibly dangerous’ scholar types to hurt when they find out I’m gone!”

Her attitude shattered as quickly as it had developed when she saw the flash of fear in his eyes at her rising anger. Or at least – it *had* been rising. Until it was smothered under the weight of a massive load of guilt.

She quickly closed the distance between them, her expression softening with compassion and remorse, as she put her arms gently around him. She felt him tense up at first when she touched him – but then slowly relax again as she made no move to hurt him – just held him close to her.

“I’m not gonna hurt you if you do, though,” she added softly, her tone revealing that she knew his fears which he had tried to conceal.

He lowered his head slightly, his eyes averted in shame.

She raised a hand to tenderly touch his cheek, gently tipping his head back up to meet his eyes. She saw such confusion and uncertainty there – it was simply heart-breaking. Having no words – knowing that he would not, either – she did the only thing she knew to do.

She kissed him.

Slowly, thoroughly, she used her mouth to reassure him where her words would not. As she kissed him, her mind gently probed at the edges of his thoughts and emotions, trying to get him to open up to her, to allow her to read the things in his heart that he could not put into words. And hesitantly, he yielded to the gentle pressure she was exerting, opening his mind to her and allowing her to see the tumult of emotions that he could not describe.

She could have pushed him. She could have forced through his walls and seen whatever she desired, with or without his consent. The one-sided nature of the claim would have allowed it.

But it would only have broken him again – and that was not what she wanted.

As it was, and quite by accident, she still saw more than he had intended for her to see – though she did not reveal that she had seen it. She only responded to his openness, his vulnerability, by opening her heart to him as well – showing him that she truly did care for him, and meant him no harm, and would never hurt him again as long as it was in her power to stop it.

When she finally broke the kiss, he met her eyes, love and devotion shining in his own. Her smile was warm, reassuring, as she said softly, “I know you’re worried about trusting Giles – but – I’m putting a lot of trust in you here. I *do* trust you. And I know it sounds absolutely idiotic to even say this, but – when it comes to Giles – I need you to trust me, too. I know that’s hard – but please try. I *know* that if Giles did give them information that ended up making them come after me – it was by accident, and with good intentions. He’s defied the Council for me before, and he’s not really on good terms with them right now, because of me. I can’t just leave him here for them to find him, if they’re really as dangerous as you say there are.”

He did not think she was making the right choice. And she was right – trusting her at all came very hard to him at the moment. But he nodded slowly in resignation, accepting her decision.

This was *her* bloody show, after all. It wasn’t as if he really had much choice.

“Okay – I’m gonna wake up Giles, and send him after the others – and I want you to go to my house and get Mom and Dawnie…”

He frowned. “And where are *you* going to be?” he asked.

She smiled at the note of protective concern in his voice, reaching up to touch his face again, pulling him down for another kiss before replying quietly, “I’ve just got some things I need to do. To get the mansion ready, if we’re gonna be staying there overnight. That sort of thing.”

He nodded slowly. He felt that she was telling him the truth – and yet, that there was something she was *not* telling him, though he couldn’t fathom what it might be.

“Okay,” she said, taking a deep breath in preparation as she stared with grim resignation toward the door leading into the store.

“Let’s go wake Giles. He is *so* not gonna like this!”


The Watcher had certainly not been pleased by what they had to tell him – not one bit.

But then, Spike thought darkly as he made his way up Buffy’s front porch steps, he had not been all that bloody thrilled to tell him, either.

Buffy had insisted, and Giles had blustered about for a few minutes, telling Buffy that Spike probably was making it up, probably knew nothing about the Council at all, that the Council were no danger to her and would never do anything to hurt their own Slayer.

At that point – he and his argument had lost their credibility completely with the Slayer, as a moment about a year earlier when she and her mother had both nearly been killed because of the Council’s underwhelming concern for the well-being of their Slayer came to her mind.

She had proceeded to take over the conversation at that point, telling Giles that if he refused to help her, she would take Spike and her family and leave town, and he would have no idea where they had gone – though she much preferred that he would help her.

In the end, Giles had agreed to go along with her plan at least long enough to get everyone to safety and hear what Spike had to say.

“This had better be good,” she had whispered to him as Giles had headed out to his car.

“Good” was hardly the word for it.

Spike cursed softly when he noticed that every light in the Summers’ home appeared to be turned on. He could hear the raised voice of an agitated teenage girl, could see the shadows of Joyce and Dawn as they stood in the living room, Dawn punctuating her nearly frantic words with emphatic hand gestures.

Joyce seemed to be trying to calm her, from the low, soothing tone his enhanced hearing could just barely make out – but she was obviously a bit scared herself.

*Ooookay…so much for them sleeping right through and never knowing you were gone…right, then…into the lion’s den, mate…*

With a visibly trembling hand, he reached out and knocked softly on the door.

A mere moment later it was flung open, before Joyce could caution her emotional youngest daughter, who did not seem to care at the moment that this was Sunnydale, and literally *anything* could be on the other side of her front door.

Spike had no time to prepare an explanation or a defense before he was faced with a tearful, red-faced, hopeful, terrified Dawn Summers, standing before him, holding onto the door she had just opened.

For a long moment neither said anything, just stared at each other. Spike opened his mouth to speak, then realized he was not sure what to say.

And then Dawn’s eyes narrowed, as an expression of fury that seemed to be carried down through all generations of Summers’ women – one with which Spike had become familiar with in many ways – came over her face.

Fortunately, the tears of relief and fear streaming down her face as she spoke took the venom from her string of threats.

“Oh. My. *God*. Spike, you are so completely dead. Like deader than you already are. Like you are going to so wish you were *really* dead by the time I get done making you dead! I can’t believe that you would…”

“Spike?” Joyce pushed past her daughter as soon as she realized that it was him, before he could react at all, enveloping him in a tight hug that surprised him with its strength. “Oh my God, you’re all right! We thought – we had no idea – we thought maybe Buffy had…” She pulled away from him, looking him over carefully, still holding onto him as if she was afraid that if she did not, he might disappear again.

“You *are* all right, aren’t you?” she asked, her keen eyes narrowing as she made out the nearly faded bruise on his cheek where Buffy had hit him in the training room.

With any luck, she would simply assume it was a remaining trace of the bruises from that morning in the kitchen. She had no true understanding of vampire healing, as far as Spike knew. He nodded slowly, holding her eyes – and his breath, as he waited to see if it would work. It should; the bruise was almost completely gone.

Almost – but not quite enough.

Joyce’s lips quirked upward on one side in a skeptical little half-smile. “Good,” she said quietly, her tone revealing that she did not believe him at all. “Now get in this house.”

Bloody hell.

She was using her “angry mom” tone – and although he was well over a century old and capable of tossing her across the room if he took the notion – it was still quite effective.

“Joyce,” he began quietly, surprised at the slight break in his voice. “let me explain…”

“I will most definitely ‘let you explain’, Spike,” Joyce replied calmly, taking him by the hand and leading him to the living room sofa, sitting down and patting the seat beside her as she smiled up at him expectantly. “In fact, I kind of think that’s all you’ll be doing for the next hour or so…”

He surprised her when he pulled his hand gently but firmly out of hers, shaking his head emphatically. “I will explain everything,” he reiterated slowly, firmly, holding her gaze to assure her that he meant it. “But not here. Joyce – we have to get out of here. Now.”

The expression on Joyce’s face changed in an instant, from anger to concern, as she realized immediately that there was more to this situation than she was aware of.

“What’s happened?” she asked softly.

“There’s no time, Joyce. You’re in danger here, and we have to move quickly. I’ll tell you when we get there. No sense telling the story more than once,” he replied with a weary sigh.

“Where are we going?” Joyce asked, rising from the couch, waiting on his response before moving again.

“Someplace safe. And you may not be able to come back here for – a few days, at least…”

Joyce did not question. Although, at times like this, she had her doubts about Spike’s judgment when it came to placing himself in dangerous situations – she trusted him completely with her own safety and that of her daughter.

“Dawn,” she said quietly, heading toward her room. “Go to your room and pack.”

Dawn stared at her for a moment, before looking at Spike, seeing the worry and resolution in his eyes – and without a word of protest or question, she headed up the stairs to her bedroom.

And Spike sank down on the sofa with his head in his hands, snatching at what little bit of rest he could get, and what might be the last for a while – as he waited for them to return.

“So – how bad was she this time?”

Joyce’s question came softly from the front passenger seat of Spike’s battered old DeSoto, too softly for her sleepy young daughter in the backseat to hear, especially over the music that Spike had deliberately directed to the back speakers only, in order to prevent Dawn from hearing the conversation that he knew Joyce would insist on having, no matter how badly he wanted to avoid it.

He was silent for a long moment, just staring straight ahead through the windshield as he sped through Sunnydale’s darkened residential streets toward the mansion on the other side of town.

He had decided that it would be faster to take his car to the Summers’ house to pick up Joyce and Dawn and their luggage – not to mention much safer than attempting to escort them and all their baggage on foot through Sunnydale at night.

He took a moment to consider the question, swallowing back a hard knot of painful emotions that seemed to have lodged itself in his throat.

How bad had Buffy been this time?

Her cruel, vicious words and the violent fury that had accompanied them played over again in his head, as the automatic answer – the one he really felt, but could not bring himself to give Joyce – echoed through his mind.

*Worse than ever.*

And yet, despite the escalating nature of Buffy’s violent, out-of-control episodes – progress *had* been made tonight – a very significant progress.

“Better,” he replied quietly, with a nod and a hesitant half-smile.

Joyce did not respond at all, until he glanced at her – to see her flat, skeptical expression that told him how very difficult to believe she was finding his story.

“Really!” he insisted, a bit too defensively. “She was!” He paused, his eyes returning to the road before he added softly, “In the end.”

Joyce studied the expression on the vampire’s face for a moment before asking for clarification. “In the end?” she echoed quietly.

Spike took a deep breath. “In the end – she beat it back. Twice, actually. She managed to stop it before – before it went too far. She’s getting control of it.”

“I don’t want her to ‘get control of it’,” Joyce said, her voice low and dark with anger at whatever this thing was that was hurting her family in so many ways. “I want her to get rid of it.”

“That – might not be so easy, Joyce,” Spike told her in a slow, cautious voice. “There’s a lot of things you don’t know yet – and I’ll explain it all when we get there – but for now – it’s good that Buffy’s learning how to handle the situation.”

Joyce just looked at him for a long moment, easily seeing through his attempt at positive thinking to the genuine fear and uncertainty beneath it.

She reached out a gentle hand toward his bruised cheek, pointing out softly, “But not before she managed to hurt you again.”

He flinched slightly away from her hand, so near to his face, unsettling after all he had been through – immediately cursing himself for his body’s involuntary reaction to the fear and tension of the past few days.

“She’s *learning* to control it, I told you that!” he snapped, a bit irritably. “Doesn’t mean she’s worked out all the bloody kinks yet! It’s – it’s bloody hard to do, Joyce! And I think she’s doing well, all things considered. The fact that she managed to control it at all is amazing, so don’t be blaming her for something that’s not her fault!”

Joyce felt a heavy sense of foreboding in her heart at the tone with which Spike was talking to her – defensive and protective of his mate; that much she had expected before she had ever opened her mouth. But he was almost speaking as if he knew *exactly* what Buffy was going through, and what it was like for her – through experience.

Her eyes widened suddenly, and shot back up to his face in alarm. “Spike – she hasn’t been – I mean – she’s not – a vampire, is she?”

“Yeah,” he huffed softly, his tone bitter and resentful with his unsteady emotions, already on edge due to Joyce’s tender, compassionate words and actions. “Cause that would be the end of the world. Can’t think of anything worse than having your golden girl lowered to the level of someone like…”

“Spike!” Joyce’s sharp voice cut him off before he could finish the beginning of his self-pitying, sarcastic monologue. “You know better than that! I’m on *your* side here, okay?”

“But my side *is* her side!” Spike burst out in frustration. “Nobody seems to understand what this is like! There’s more to it than her controlling me, and violence and fear, and – and – bloody hell! She’s my *mate*, Joyce! That’s *eternal*!”

There was an anguished note to his voice, and Joyce could see unshed tears glittering in his eyes, even as he struggled to blink them back, to focus on the road in front of him.

“It’s like – if someone hurts her – I can feel her pain. I can hear her thoughts – feel her emotions -- *know* her completely on a level that no one else can – and vice versa as well, Joyce. We might as well be the same bloody person, Joyce. You can’t bloody well be on *my* side without being on hers, too!” he declared emphatically.

For a moment, there was complete silence between them, the only sound coming from the speakers behind them.

Dawn had long since fallen asleep.

“Well that’s good,” Joyce said softly, her eyes seeking his intently, blazing with a certainty of devotion. “Because I *am* on her side, too.”

Spike had no response to that. He knew she was telling the truth, and that he had let his emotions get the better of him. He was not really conscious of exactly why he was so upset by everything at the moment – any more so than usual – but he knew that if he tried to relent right then he would certainly fall apart.

So he said nothing.

Joyce was silent, too, until the pulled up in front of the mansion. She waited for Spike to park the car before she laid a gentle hand on his leg, just to keep him from jumping out of the car the moment it was stopped, before she had the chance to speak her piece.

But she noticed suddenly that he did not seem overly anxious to get out of the car, staring up at the huge, dark house with wide, haunted eyes.

Before she could say anything at all, the pure gentleness of her simple touch was the undoing of the resolve that was holding the vampire together. He bowed his head, resting it on the steering wheel in front of him between his hands, tightly clenched around the wheel and shaking slightly with the strength of the emotions coursing through him.

Joyce was not really sure what was bringing on the emotional reaction he was experiencing. Maybe it was the shock of realizing what was happening to Buffy – whatever it was -- and the fear of how she and others would take it when he told them.

Maybe it was a delayed reaction to the traumatic emotional roller coaster that the night had surely been for him already – or a result of the confused, inexplicable muddle of emotions he felt for Buffy as his claimant, ranging from fear and resentment and anger, to devotion and love and a deep need to please her.

Or maybe, she thought with a flash of insight and sympathy – maybe he just really, *really* did *not* want to be here.


Buffy was just finishing the preparations she had been making for the night ahead, when she heard the engine shut off in the driveway – at the exact same moment as she felt her mate’s presence. She felt an unexpected rush of excitement, and quickly left the bedroom she had been standing in – the very one where the disastrous claim had taken place to begin with – to greet Spike and her family as they came in.

Except – they *didn’t* come in. Not immediately, anyway.

Buffy frowned, as a minute passed by, several minutes – and still she waited. She was impatient as it was, eager both to hear Spike’s explanation of what was happening to her, and to have them all safe here with her – not to mention taking advantage of the special arrangements she had made for her and her mate, for later.

What could possibly be taking so long?

She was barely aware of it as her mood began to take a darker turn, as she began to feel restless and uneasy. Was he *trying* to stay away? Would he rather be with her mother and *Dawn* than with her at the moment?

Buffy might have just slid gradually into the darkness that was once again trying to take her over, with a bit more subtlety than before, without even noticing as it came upon her until it was too late – if not for the sudden, violent sense of anger and dark jealousy she felt rising up in her at the very thought of her little sister’s name.

She was still in enough control of herself at the moment that the violent surge of hatred she felt inside her toward Dawn was alarming enough to make her fight back, as she realized for the first time, with a sense of horror, something that she should have already noticed, but had missed in the whirlwind of the past few days.

This thing inside her – whatever it was – held a burning hatred and resentment toward her little sister.

Buffy fought to remain in control as vicious, hateful snatches of thoughts that she knew were not her own filtered into her consciousness.

*…thinks he’s hers…*

*…not even real…*

*…wants him, but he’s *mine*!*


Spike’s head shot up suddenly from the steering wheel, staring up toward the house with a look of apprehension on his face.

Joyce was sitting close to him, her arm around him, doing her best to soothe his troubled emotions – but she stopped talking, following his gaze for a moment before looking back at his face with a troubled frown. “What?” she asked softly. “What is it?”

“She – something’s wrong,” he said in a quiet, trembling voice, swallowing back a sick feeling of fear that rose up in his throat. “She – she needs – I – I think I should go…”

“*No*!” Joyce caught his arm, pulling him back as he tried to open the car door and get out.

He turned to face her with a look that was half startled at her attempt to stop him, and half fearful, because he just *knew* that if he did not get to Buffy right away, something terrible was going to happen.

“Spike,” Joyce said urgently, searching his eyes, desperately hoping that she could make him see reason – because she knew she was not strong enough to physically stop him. “If she’s fighting with this thing – if she’s about to become dangerous again – you don’t need to be with her. You should stay away!”

He gave her a sad little smile as he reached for the door again, gently shrugging off her hand. “We tried that already, love – remember?” Didn’t exactly work out so well.” He paused, allowing her to take that in, before adding softly, “Besides – if she *really* wanted me there with her, if she called me and I didn’t come – she could make it every bit as bad as if I’m with her.”

His eyes were shadowed as he remembered the painful torment she had placed on him, not relenting from her brutal punishment even after he *had* obeyed her.

But that was a completely different situation from this; his own physical safety was not what he was afraid for – not this time.

“She’s not even calling me,” he tried to reassure Joyce. “She’s not going to hurt me…”

“If she’s not even calling you, then why do you need to go?” Why don’t we just wait until you – feel her get back in control?” Joyce suggested, a bit awkwardly – she was having a hard time understanding how all of this claiming business worked – but in a voice that was heavy with fear for her friend.

She just *knew* he was walking directly into a very dangerous situation that could be avoided if he would just *listen*!

“Because I can *help* her get control!” Spike insisted, turning to face Joyce again for a moment, hating to leave her afraid for him, but knowing that he needed to hurry. The violent rage he could feel from Buffy was steadily building while they sat here talking – and it was aimed in a very frightening direction.

“Joyce – I helped her before! I can help her fight it!” he assured her, his voice low and intent. “I just have to get in there to her, *now*!”

Joyce was silent for a moment, debating. “I’m going with you,” she stated finally.

“No!” he argued, exasperation in his voice. “You can’t leave the Bit here alone in the car – not in this part of town. Stay here, I’ll be right back…”

Joyce tried again. “Then I’ll take her with…”

“*No*!”

The single word startled Joyce with his vehemence, coming out as almost a snarl – and she jumped back slightly, her eyes wide with alarm.

“I’m sorry,” Spike said immediately, his tone softening. “Joyce, I’m sorry – I just have to do this. And do *not* -- under *any* circumstances – bring Dawn into that house until I come back out here and tell you it’s safe!”


Inside the mansion, Buffy was locked in a powerful struggle – all taking place within her own mind. She stood at the front door, the handle under her hand, trying with all she was worth to keep control of herself and just wait for them to come inside.

“They’ll be in in just a minute,” she said aloud, as if trying to remind herself. “No – Dawn is my sister – she and Spike are friends. There’s no reason to feel – no reason to think…”

*She’s a lying little whore! She wants to take him from me!*

“*No*!” Buffy whispered desperately. “My God, she’s fourteen years old! She would never – well – she might,” she conceded, remembering the obvious crushing-signs she had seen in her sister’s behavior toward the gorgeous blonde vampire over the past few days – then immediately realized that those words were a mistake, when another wave of rage washed over her.

*Mine! I won’t let her take him!*

“But she’s a *child*! She doesn’t want to take him! She doesn’t even *know* what she wants! And Spike would never…”

*She thinks he’s hers! She weakens me! She’s magic to weaken and bind me! She’s not even real!*

Buffy’s mind was racing, trying to understand the strange words, knowing that they were not her own thoughts, but the thoughts of whatever it was that was trying to control her. She knew that it had to be important – but it simply didn’t make sense.

Of *course* Dawn was real! How could she not be?

“She *is* real! She’s my sister, and you won’t make me hurt her!” Buffy said aloud, her voice low and controlled, but trembling with anger and defiance.

*Kill her!* the hateful voice snarled furiously, and Buffy felt an overwhelming sense of power that nearly knocked her off her feet and to the ground.

“No,” she whispered desperately as she felt a sense of panic at the realization that she was losing this battle. She was not used to fighting it yet, and weary from her previous battles.

And it seemed that after a short period of forced dormancy, this thing had come back stronger than ever.

“No – Dawnie…”

*‘Dawnie’* the voice taunted viciously, much louder now in her mind – and as if from a great distance away, Buffy saw her own hand turning the doorknob and opening the door.

* *Dawnie* is keeping me from my full power! Kill her! As long as she lives I am bound!*

Buffy wanted to argue, wanted to protest – but instead, she found herself moving out the door and onto the porch of the mansion – walking down the sidewalk toward the car, just as her mate stepped out of it and turned to face her.

His eyes widened in shock and alarm when he saw her – and she knew that he could feel the violent rage, the cruel intent pouring off of her – for once not directed at him, unless he got in her way.

Her fury was all directed at the oblivious sleeping girl in the backseat of the DeSoto.

*Please – please, Spike…* she tried to call out to him, unsure of whether or not he could hear her voice over the roaring of the rage that surrounded it. *Please, don’t let me…*

*Bound and imprisoned by her very existence!* the voice ranted on in fury. *And her blood is the key! When she’s dead – I’ll be free!*

All Buffy could do was watch helplessly from the recesses of her own mind, as her body stalked toward the car, and desperately hope for some miracle to stop her – before she killed her own sister.