She swore she hadn’t had that much to drink.

Just a few beers. She was entitled, really. Perfectly entitled. After all, who else could spend three months in LA and still be utterly and completely jobless? Who but her could have lost the lease on her new (albeit small and crummy) apartment just weeks after signing it due to failure to produce down payment? Who but her, just three months after staking her independence, after swearing to herself and her condescending family that she could make it on her own, would now be facing the dismal yet inevitable prospect of admitting defeat?

Who but Buffy Summers could screw everything up so royally?

“So yes,” she said, to no one in particular. “I am entitled.”

She took a swig of her beer—third? fourth?—and sighed miserably. The alcohol wasn’t helping, which was annoying. Alcohol was supposed to help. That was what it did. That was where the term “drowning sorrows” came from. When things drowned, they generally went away. The sorrows were supposed to go away. She was in a club, for God’s sake. One of those hopping ones, where the music pounded so loud that she could feel it in her bar stool, and the colorful strobe lights did nothing to light the sweaty mass of gyrating bodies on the dance floor. She should be out there with them, dancing, laughing, pretending she wasn’t broke and homeless and facing humiliation at the hands of her family.

Stupid family.

Buffy drained her third-or-fourth bottle on that thought, hoping that the fuzzy numb feeling she’d heard so much about would kick in soon. She did feel slightly fuzzy, but that may or may not have been a cold coming on. She groaned and buried her head in her arms. Colds were bad; colds couldn’t happen. No health insurance.

“’Nother beer, sweetheart?” the bartender leaned over her, all but shouting over the pumping beat of the music. Buffy raised her head slightly and nodded, slumping back as he disappeared behind the counter. More beer was good. Probably the only good in the near—or distant—future, and she wasn’t anywhere near drunk enough yet. Not that she would know, really. Growing up a Summers girl, alcohol was found in cocktails served to old men at society gatherings. Before she had left for LA, the only time Buffy had ever seen a beer bottle was on a billboard. In short, the Summers were what was known as an Old Money Family, and when an Old Money Family screwed up, it ended up in the tabloids. Therefore, there was no screwing up. There were no daughters that refused a cotillion, that denounced their inheritance and ran off to the city to live like a “hoodlum”.

Hoodlum. Buffy made a face into her beer (fourth-or-fifth). She wasn’t even close to being a hoodlum. She didn’t get into bar fights or shoplift, for Chrissake. She was just a normal girl, trying to make it in LA. Not as an actress—God, no—but as anything, really. Anything that didn’t involve the words old, money or family.

At twenty-three, Buffy had a degree in interior design from UC Sunnydale and zero job experience. She hadn’t majored in interior design because she had wanted to. No, choosing her own major would have been humane, a word her mother was not acquainted with. She had majored in interior design, a topic she now loathed with a passion, because it was the only degree her parents were willing to pay for her to get. One of their many ways of exercising their control, and one of the many reasons that, three months ago, Buffy had packed her bags and gone as far as the bus would take her. Her life was going to be hers, goddammit.

Buffy sighed into her beer. Fat lot of good that move had done her. Now here she was, a drunk—well, maybe—homeless, jobless loser, sitting alone in a club on a Saturday night. She could practically hear her mother’s I-told-you-so’s. It was sickening.

Or maybe that was the beer.


*~~~*~~~*~~~*

Spike was ready for a good kill. Something pale and willowy he could snap the neck of and drink dry. Something with dark hair, preferably talking to pixies and porcelain dolls. Something he could make scream and pretend, for a moment, that it was his sire.

She’d really been pissing him off lately. First back in Sunnyhell, making mooneyes at Angelus when he was being all soulful. Then worse—much worse—when he wasn’t. Spike winced, recalling the not-so-subtle noises that had come from the bedroom—his bedroom. The many times the Great Poof had staked his claim on Dru—and the many times she had made it clear that she was not Spike’s. He knew it. He knew she belonged to her Daddy, had never been truly his. But bloody hell, it wasn’t Angelus that had been with her for over a century. It wasn’t Angelus who had taken care of her, looked out for her, waited on her hand and sodding foot. And not once—not one bleeding time—had he abandoned her. Not even when she fucked Angelus’ brains out in his own bed. A little appreciation, a smidgeon of affection, an indication of some feeling might have been nice.

But no. It was the night after they had arrived in LA—after Spike had had the sense to get them the hell out of Sunny-D—and she had up and disappeared.

“Bloody hell,” Spike muttered, pushing his way out of the abandoned apartment they had snagged for the duration of their stay in Los Angeles—one that was supposed to be as brief as possible. He paused for a moment, picking her scent out of the thousand that assaulted him. He could feel her ahead, the pull of childe to sire guiding him through the masses the lined the streets. He strode through the throng, ignoring their blood as it called to him, pumping with adrenaline. Stupid pulsers, out in the dark. Made his whole unlife so bleeding easy.

“Come on, Dru…” he murmured, searching the street, feeling for her in the crowds. Bloody bint—didn’t she know how close the sunrise was? He could practically smell it on the air. His whole being was screaming for him to get inside. There was no doubt that hers was doing the same. What could possibly be so important…?

Spike came to halt outside a dance club; the pounding music leaking outside each time the bouncer opened the door. Dru was inside, he could feel it. He rolled his eyes and considered going in and dragging her out, but decided against it. Dru would come home when she felt like it, and only then—she might be insane, but she wasn’t stupid enough to get caught in the sun. He knew she was safe—he would feel it if his sire were in danger—and he had no desire to fight with her right now. Fighting with Dru was always a waste of time.

He turned on his heel, scanning the crowd with a keen eye until he spotted a snack. Bingo. Smirking slightly, Spike forced his worries for his sire aside as he sauntered in for the kill.


*~~~*~~~*~~~*

Buffy was definitely feeling fuzzy, and this time not in a cold-coming-on way. Everything was lighter and she was finding it increasingly hard to remember what troubles she had been trying to drown. She figured that was a good sign.

“Troubles drowned,” she declared. “Doubles trowned. Downtown.” Finding this to be hilariously funny for some reason, she burst into giggles, only laughing harder when the bartender took her empty bottle—fifth-or-sixth—away and told her he was cutting her off.

“No more beer for Buffy,” she said, snorting at her own archaicness. “She is drowned.”

Suddenly, Buffy was aware of an unfamiliar presence in her personal bubble. She had always been very conscious of her personal bubble, a firm advocator of elbow-room. This new person was restricting her elbows. She swung around to glare at the perpetrator and had to steady herself on the bar as the room spun too fast.

“Oof,” she said, blinking slowly as the figure came into focus. It was a woman, a tall, thin woman with long black hair and abnormally pale skin. She was gazing at Buffy with wide eyes, the strangest little smile on her face. She wore a long, laced, blood-red dress that off-set her pale skin and dark hair strikingly. That would look good in a living room, was the first thought that came to Buffy’s interior design conditioned mind. She groaned. Not even when she was drunk could she escape it.

The pale woman hadn’t stopped staring, and it was starting to get on Buffy’s muddled nerves.

“Can I help you?” she asked, surprised at how clear she sounded. She supposed it was the years and years of training with governess after governess. You just didn’t forget how to greet with polite propriety after that. Not even when inebriated.

“The stars whisper nasty bits,” the woman said, her accented voice full of quiet mirth. “They say the sunshine comes for him. The sunshine is his.”

Buffy blinked, wondering if maybe she’d gotten the definition of ‘drunk’ wrong. This was drunken rambling if she’d ever heard it, and something she really didn’t want to get involved in.

“Okay,” she said, backing up slightly and willing the room to stop spinning, the lights to stop flashing just for a second. “That’s nice. Goodbye.” She backed up another step as the kooky drunken woman took a step forward.

“You are a gift for my William,” she whispered, and Buffy swallowed hard, losing her balance as she took another step backward. She lost her footing on the concrete floor and stumbled over a bar stool, flying backward, grasping desperately at air. The back of her head connected with solid cement, and Buffy barely had time to register the pain as everything faded to darkness.


*~~~*~~~*~~~*

Spike licked the blood from his lips, slipping out of game face as he let the drained woman slump down the wall to the floor of the alley. It hadn’t been a particularly satisfying kill. Once he’d vamped, the girl had screamed but hadn’t put up much of a fight. Just once, he’d like one to put up a fight.

He turned and made his way out of the alley, his thoughts trailing back to the Slayer in Sunnydale. She’d been an odd bird, not particularly skilled or interesting. Fighting her hadn’t been nearly as entertaining as the two before her—the dance held no passion for her, no life. Sometimes, she’d seemed even deader than he was.

Of course, then she’d gone and made the Poof into the less soul-having version of himself, and Spike had been forced to kill his third Slayer. But not before her little witchy friend had shoved the soul back inside the ponce. And now, with his honey six feet under, dear old Angelus was out for dust.

One of the many reasons Spike wanted to get the hell out of California. The weather didn’t suit him here anyway.

Spike shoved his way into the darkened apartment, immediately sensing his sire’s presence. He breathed an unneeded sigh of relief as he watched her come out of the shadows, swaying towards him provocatively. No matter how much she angered him, he couldn’t deny how relieved he was to see her home safe.

“Where you been, Dru?” he asked, sliding his duster off his shoulders and collapsing back into a dusty arm char. “Thought I told you we were leavin’ tonight.”

The sooner they got out of LA the better. Hell, the sooner they got out of the country the better. Spike wasn’t a coward, but he wasn’t stupid, either. Angelus wanted him dusted, and the further from him the better off they were. Every time Dru disappeared, she set them back another day.

His dark princess was pouting, waggling a finger at him crossly.

“Naughty William,” she said, swaying slightly to music only she could hear. “Naughty boy. Leaving the party before the kiddies have their cakes. Mummy is very cross with you.”

“I’n’t that nice?” Spike sighed, suddenly not in the mood for her insane rambling. “Go to bed, pet. The sun’s up soon.”

Dru began to giggle gleefully, bringing a finger to her lips and shaking her head vigorously.

“Shh, bad William!” she said, then cackled again. “The stars were loud tonight. They spoke of sunshine. Mummy has brought you a gift.”

Spike arched a brow. “A gift, pet?” he asked warily. He never knew what to expect when it came to Dru and gifts. The last gift she’d given him had been the severed head of Miss Edith, warning him of what would happen should he try to take her away from her Daddy. He had only been able to drag her out of Sunnydale when Angelus had made it very clear how soul-having he was again. Nothing less would have made her leave her precious sire.

“Yes, William,” she said, backing up slowly and beckoning for him to follow. “I have brought you sunshine.”

“Sunshine, yeh?” Spike replied, standing and following her in spite of himself. He could never resist her when she called him. “Bit dangerous, pet.”

She cooed, running a cool finger down his cheek as she backed up against the door that led to a bedroom.

“Pretty sunshine,” she said, cackling and jerking her finger away as Spike nipped at it, grinning. “She’ll make a tasty treat.”

Spike looked up as Drusilla opened the door, curiosity getting the better of him. Dru had brought him a snack? This was new. She was always talking with the stars or other inanimate objects. They’d never said anything about him.

He peered past his sire into the darkened room, catching sight of a limp form draped across the bed. Glancing back at Dru, who was bouncing on her heels and giggling, he raised his eyebrows skeptically.

“For me, luv?” he repeated, wondering what Dru expected him to do with the girl. He wasn’t one to fuck his food—no, that was Angelus—but sometimes Dru enjoyed a show. He was reminded briefly of the glory days of Angelus and Darla. How they would play with their victims, making them scream, Angelus pounding into them from behind as Darla held their mouth to her pussy. He flinched, loath to be anything like his grandsires. He would, though; if Dru asked him to, he knew he would. It was just a girl, after all. A human. Dru was his dark princess.

“All yours, William,” Dru said, clapping giddily. “Shall we tie her up? Nasty dolly, tried to run. I told her. Told her she was yours.”

“Did you now,” Spike mused, approaching the woman on the bed. She wore a little black dress that barely reached mid-thigh, revealing shapely bronzed legs. Her dainty little feet were clad in black strappy heels and her blonde hair looked long and silky. Spike was filled with a sudden strong desire to run his hands through it.

“Mine,” he murmured absently. Neither he nor Drusilla noted the significance of the word. It was just a word, a phrase. It didn’t mean anything.

But as Spike traced one of her smooth, golden cheeks with his fingers, his demon purred.

He jerked his hand away, eyes widening. Never, in his entire unlife, had his demon felt so completely content. Not even when he was inside Drusilla, his sire, his black beauty, the love of his unlife.

This small golden girl made his demon purr.

“Yeh,” Spike said, clearing his throat when his voice shook. “Good idea. Tie her up. Don’ want…don’ want her to escape.”

His demon roared angrily at the thought of this girl leaving. He didn’t understand the feeling—Dru was the only woman he should be feeling this way for—but he found himself moving to restrain her anyway. Tearing strips of cloth from the bed sheet, he bound her hands to the headboard tightly, wishing he’d thought to bring some of the chains from the Sunnydale mansion. God knows they’d had enough of them.

When he was sure the girl was well and tied he turned back to Dru, cupping her cold, pale cheek gently and smiling at her. He frowned slightly when all he felt was the gentle pull of childe to sire, nothing like the peaceful bliss that touching the golden girl had brought him.

“Come on, luv,” he said, leading his black goddess from the room. “Sun’s up soon. You should sleep. The bird’s no fun while she’s out, anyway.”

Dru pouted coyly but allowed him to guide her out of the room. “Does William like his present?” she asked, running her fingers down his chest to his belt. He moaned as she ran her hand lower, eliciting small growling noises as she lapped at the bite mark on his neck.

“Love it,” he growled, nipping at her earlobe and sliding his hands down her body. He’d missed this—he hadn’t had Dru all to himself like this since before the Hellmouth. Longer than that, since she’s been ill for what had felt like years. Now here she was, he had his dark princess in his arms—

A flash of warm bronzed skin, blonde hair running through his fingers, mewls emitting from full, red lips—

Spike’s eyes flew open, realizing with horror where his mind had been going. Oh God, no.

What was wrong with him? The dark beauty in his arms finally wanted him—him—again, and all he could think about was the human girl in the other room. The warmth of her skin under his hand. The sensual curve of her breasts in the low neckline of her little black dress. The way the hem of her skirt rode up on her golden legs, so close to revealing her secrets…

He pushed away from Drusilla, shaking his head apologetically. He couldn’t be with his dark princess when his thoughts were like this.

“Bit tired, pet,” he explained, although the straining bulge in his jeans suggested otherwise. “Long night.”

Drusilla scolded and whined and trailed her fingers down his body until he agreed to satisfy her, suckling on her pussy until she screamed her release. He was used to this, used to giving her her pleasure with no thought to his own. He didn’t remember it bothering him before as much as it did now.

When he was sure she was fast asleep, he untangled himself from between her legs and slipped from the room, not pausing to think until he stood beside the bed, staring down at the girl that was, by Dru’s christening and for reasons completely unknown to him, his.

“What are you doin’ to me?” he whispered, gazing at her sweet, peaceful face. He backed up until his feet found a chair and sat, his eyes never leaving the girl. This would no do. He refused to feel this way about anyone but Drusilla. She was his salvation, the reason for his existence. She may not belong to him, but his heart belonged to her. So yeah, maybe this girl would be a good shag. He’d fuck her, get her out of his system, then snap her neck and drain her dry. That was all she was to him, all she was supposed to be. She was his to fuck, his to drink, his to kill. Nothing else.

The fact that his demon protested violently, raging inside him, threatening to tear him apart at the thought, was not important.

It was the way it had to be.

*~~~*~~~*~~~*

Good? Bad? Blah? Anybody interested in this? Please review!

The first thing Buffy felt when she woke up was the throbbing pain in her head. It was electric, intense, like nothing she had ever felt in her entire life. Her first thought was to send up a silent prayer, begging whoever was listening to kill her now rather than make her face the day like this.

Her second was that she couldn't move her arms.

Oh God, she thought, panicking. I'm paraplegic! I drank so much I lost control of my limbs! Not only that, but it felt as if her brain wanted out of her head. And was putting up a damn good fight to get there.

Breathing deeply, Buffy forced herself to ignore the pounding of her brain against her skull and concentrate on wiggling her fingers, pleased when she found that she could. Right then, no paralysis. That was something, at least. She struggled to move her arms again and stopped when her wrists chafed against fabric straps.

Tied? she thought incredulously.I'm tied to a bed? It was definitely a bed she was lying on, if not a particularly comfortable one, and it couldn't be her own, because as of yesterday, she didn't have one. For a moment she was afraid she had gotten so drunk that she had gone home with one of the seedy looking guys from the club for a night of kinkiness, of which she had no memory. She'd heard of things like that happening all the time. Still, she of all people would be one to remember hot, steamy sex. Besides, she was still fully clothed, something she could tell even with her eyes still closed.

On that thought, Buffy forced her eyes open, surprised by how dark the room was. Her inner body clock was telling her that it was late afternoon. Sun should be streaming in through the windows, and Buffy twisted around, trying to figure out why it wasn't. She quickly determined that it was because the room had no windows.

Okay, she thought, trying to ignore the racing of her heart. Tied to a strange bed in a room with no windows. She could handle this. No problem.

Wracking her brains, Buffy tried in vain to recall the night before. She remembered beer. Lots and lots of beer. She had been upset because she was as much of a failure as her family had always thought she was, and she had been facing the utter humiliation of admitting defeat. She had been determined to get drunk, and had apparently succeeded. Admirably. After that?

Buffy froze, eye widening as she remembered. The woman. The tall, pale, dark-haired woman in her personal bubble. What was it she had said? Something about stars and sunshine and someone named William. Crazy, nonsense words. The woman had seemed harmless enough, but she was the last thing Buffy remembered before waking up here. Buffy wasn't stupid. She could put two and two together. Clearly, she had been kidnapped by the insane woman (and no doubt several burly accomplices. No way would Buffy believe she had been taken out by that little wisp of a woman) and brought here, to this small, windowless bedroom where she was being held hostage.

And there was only one reason that Buffy could think of that would explain why anyone would want to kidnap her.

Ransom.

The crazy lady had found out, somehow, that she was Buffy Summers of the Sunnydale Summers, and decided that she was the best way of getting to her parents' money. Hell, she'd probably been tracking her ever since she'd left home, learning her habits and figuring out how best to capture her.

Well, she was in for a nasty surprise. Buffy'd be shocked if her family was willing to fork over a penny of their precious fortune to save their hoodlum daughter's hide.

"Hmph," she muttered, feeling strangely triumphant. "Take that, bitch."

"Take what, luv?"

If her hands hadn't been tied to it, Buffy would have jumped five feet off the bed. As it was, she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from yelping. The voice, very British and very male, sent shivers down Buffy's spine. Not the kind of shivers she should be having—the Oh-God-I've-been-kidnapped-and-now-one-of-them-is-talking-to-me shivers—but the other kind. The hot-guy-just-spoke-to-me shivers. And he was hot. He had to be. Un-hot guys just didn't have voices like that. And she'd known her share of un-hot guys. These were not shivers she should be having while tied to a bed in a strange house.

The last thing she wanted to do was strike up a conversation with this guy, no matter how hot he might be. Slowly, she closed her eyes and steadied her breathing. She'd been unconscious for a while, hadn't she? Maybe he'd think she was talking in her sleep.

"Doesn' work like that, pet," his unbelievably sexy voice traveled across the room. He sounded amused, and Buffy felt her anxiety turn to anger. How dare he laugh at her? She was a victim of abduction. Hardly a laughing matter. "See, I know when you're awake. Your heart speeds up an' your hot li'l body gets all tense," he paused for a moment and Buffy stayed stubbornly silent, determined not to give him what he wanted. She could almost see his shrug. It would be a lazy shrug, his taut muscles rippling loosely in a devil-may-care way. Oh God, what was wrong with her? She never reacted this way to men. The only sex she had ever had was the obligatory losing-of-the-virginity sex with a boyfriend who'd known less about the process than she had. It had been fumbling, messy, and wholly unromantic. The few men she'd dated since then had never stuck around long enough to get that far, and frankly, she hadn't wanted them to. At twenty-three, Buffy had been convinced that actual sexual attraction was a myth cultivated by Hollywood and smutty romance novels.

Until now.

Not that she was attracted to this guy. She hadn't even seen his face, for Chrissake. All she'd done was hear his voice. You didn't fall for a person after just hearing their voice. Even she wasn't that ridiculous.

What did he mean, 'hot little body'?

"If that's the way you wan' it," he said, and Buffy heard him rise slowly. She kept her eyes firmly shut, refusing to let herself peek, to match a face to that sinful voice. "I can always torture you awake."

Buffy's eyes flew open and she almost whimpered when she saw him. A pair of striking blue eyes stared down at her. Perfectly sculpted cheekbones and full, sexy lips. Peroxide blonde hair slicked back gave him a sinister, severe look, which the scar on his left eyebrow only served to enhance. For a moment, Buffy was grateful that her hands were bound. If they hadn't been, she was afraid she wouldn't have been able to stop herself from reaching up and mussing that sexy hair of his until it curled softly around her fingers.

His muscular body was clad all in black. A tight black T-shirt stretched across his toned chest, tight-fitting black jeans and black combat boots completing the image. Her gaze lingered on a considerable bulge in the below-the-belt vicinity and she found herself blushing as she felt a rush of warmth between her thighs. She's never reacted this way to a man's private parts. She's found Brian's—the boyfriend she'd lost her virginity to—to be small and alien looking, not remotely appealing in any way. For some reason, the thought of this man's...manhood...was making her hotter than she'd ever been in her life.

Spike smelt the girl's arousal as it permeated the air, and it made his already hard cock twitch painfully in his jeans. Fuck, he wanted her. Hours of watching her sleep, tied to the bed, her legs spread in such an inviting way had inspired a slew of fantasies that left him in desperate need of a good wank. He'd considered taking her while she was unconscious, but the idea had been...distasteful to him. All he wanted was to fuck and feed, of course, but the idea of an unwilling bedmate had never excited him as much as it had his grandsire. Spike enjoyed the seduction, the challenge, almost as much as he enjoyed the violence.

Before this day was done, this girl would be begging him for it.

Granted, threatening her with torture probably wasn't the best way of going about that, but he was tired of waiting for her to wake up. Now, staring down into her wide green eyes, her scent surrounding him, he was glad that he had forced her awake when he had.

"There now," he said quietly, reaching out to run a finger down the side of her cheek, starting only slightly at the reaction his demon continued to have. "That wasn' so hard, was it?"

Buffy tensed under his touch, trying to ignore the electric shocks his fingers on her skin sent through her body. This could not be good. She was being held for ransom, tied to a bed in a room with an unbelievably sexy stranger—a sexy stranger who had threatened her, very seriously, with torture—and she was more turned on than she had ever been in her life.

Was this like that thing where people fell in love with their kidnappers? Some twisted, lusty form of Stockholm syndrome? Buffy wracked her brains, trying to remember back to the psychology course she had taken during her time at UC Sunnydale. It had been an ultimately useless class; as part of a group of interior design majors, the psychology professor had focused on the reaction of the human brain to different colors and patterns. She seriously doubted that she could ask this guy to let her redecorate the room in bright, fuzzy yellows so that he might feel more inclined to let her go.

She wasn't sure she could ask this guy anything. She seemed to have lost the use of her vocal chords.

Snap out of it, she demanded angrily, fed up with her own swooniness. The fact that this man was entirely drool-worthy did not give her an excuse to drool. If anything, she should be flailing about, demanding to be released, or whatever the hell kidnapped people did. At least she was scared. That was strangely reassuring. She was at least experiencing one emotion that most people experienced in this situation. There was something decidedly sinister about this guy, something that screamed danger in all the most shiver-inducing ways.

He seemed to be waiting for her to speak, which didn't seem particularly fair. She was the captive one here, after all. The least he could do was launch into some sort of villainous monologue.

Clearing her throat, Buffy met his eyes defiantly, ignoring the way her stomach flip-flopped under the intensity of his gaze.

"Who are you?" she demanded, her voice flooding with the anger and frustration she was feeling. "What do you want with me?"

Spike chuckled, enjoying the indignant anger that surfaced in her eyes. She was a feisty one, this girl. All the more fun to toy with.

"Not exactly in a position to be askin' questions, luv," he reminded her, trailing his gaze down her prone form. The girl squirmed under his scrutiny and Spike smirked. "Seems I should be the one givin' the orders."

Buffy's treacherous mind raced through a number of scenarios in which he was giving orders and she felt herself blush furiously. God she was twisted. It was just disturbing. She set her jaw, determined not to let him see in her face where her sick mind kept going.

Still, if the way his brilliant blue eyes were roaming her body was any indication, he was definitely checking her out. Buffy wasn't sure whether to be pleased or disgusted by that fact. Part of her—the entirely feminine part, the part that was currently a big pile of Buffy-goo just being near him—was ecstatic. She was used to guys giving her the once-over—hell, even the twice-over—and not giving it a second thought, but for some reason, knowing that this guy was appreciating her in that way made the woman in her feel especially...womanly.

The other part of her, the sensible, sane part of her that was painfully aware of the fact that she was in mortal danger, was disgusted. Disgusted that this man would kidnap her, restrain her, and then mentally undress her. Disgusted that she could find him remotely attractive considering what he had done to her. Well, what he had threatened to do to her, anyway. As far as she could tell, besides being kidnapped and tied down, she had yet to be physically harmed.

Taking courage from that thought and forcing the sane part of her brain to take over, Buffy suppressed her lusty-tinglies, ignored the flip-flopping in her stomach and met his gaze with cool disdain.

It probably would have been easier if he hadn't been looking at her like that. Like he wanted to tear her clothes off and ravage her then and there. Buffy could feel her angry declaration dying on her tongue. Desperately trying to salvage the remains of her resolve, she faltered as she spoke.

"They...they won't pay," she said stupidly, silently cursing herself as she felt her cheeks heating again. To her surprise, her captor looked genuinely confused.

"Who won', luv?" he asked, one eyebrow arched. God she loved it when he called her luv.

What? No. No she didn't. It was sexist and demeaning and caused absolutely no shivers to cascade down her spine. And what did he mean, who won't? Did he think she was stupid?

"You know who," she snapped, fed up. Fed up with herself, fed up with him, fed up with the whole situation. "My parents. Whatever you're asking for, they won't pay it, so you might as well let me go."

Spike's eyebrows shot up, and he almost let out a laugh of surprise. He would have if he hadn't thought it would wake Dru, who would no doubt wonder why he hadn't started the torture session. Dru loved a good torture. Spike himself enjoyed it immensely. But he had other plans for this girl.

The fact that she thought she was there to be ransomed was bloody priceless.

He considered flashing some fang, just to clear up that little misunderstanding. It amazed him how people could live so close to the Hellmouth and still not know what went bump in the night. He wondered how many times this girl had caught a glimpse of a people with funny looking faces and written it off as a trick of the light. In such close quarters, he'd like to see her try to delude herself so well.

But as he stood over her, gazing down at her provocatively bound body, taking in the angry fire in her eyes and the defiant line of her jaw, he knew instinctively that letting his demon loose right now would be a bad idea. He could feel it, feel the demon growing increasingly impatient every second that past without him being inside her, and no matter how much the feeling disturbed him, he knew he wouldn't be able to control it if the demon came out to play.

And he would control it. He would make her beg. It was suddenly imperative that she want him, too.

So instead of responding, he sat back in his chair and stretched out lazily, the picture of ease.

"An' why's that, luv?" he asked, enjoying the confusion on her face. She didn't have a clue what was happening to her. "Mum an' Pop don' love you?"

She shot him a look that would freeze hell, and Spike realized with amusement that he'd struck a nerve. He grinned cockily, enjoying this far too much for his own good.

"That's it, isn' it? Poor li'l rich girl, hasn' got anybody to love..."

"Shut up," she snapped, and Spike's grin widened. She was incredibly hot when she was angry. "Send them the ransom letter, for all I care. Just don't wait around for a reply."

Buffy realized as she said the words that maybe declaring her worthlessness as a hostage wasn't the brightest idea. Would it convince him to let her go, or just kill her on the spot? Were you supposed to string them along, make them think you were worth millions and then make a break for it? And where was 'it' anyway? She had no idea where she was, or how to get out. She could be in an abandoned warehouse in the middle of Kentucky with a million doors that all led back to one room for all she knew.

The man was leaning forward slightly, those scrumptious lips of his curled into a smirk. "Good thing I'm not after your money, then," he said quietly, in a tone that suggested the many things he was after. It gave her shivers again, and not the unpleasant kind, which was infuriating. The guy was practically threatening to violate her, and she was reacting like he'd just asked her out to dinner. She was almost afraid to ask, but...

"What do you want, then?" No way would a guy kidnap her just to take her hom, tie her up and violate her. Sure, it might be a perk—for him, she interjected hurriedly—but it certainly wasn't a motive.

Of all the questions she could have asked, that was the one Spike wasn't ready for. He'd thought he was. He'd though the answer was relatively simple. I want to fuck you. I want to taste you. I want you out of my head. He smirked when he realized what the answer was.

"You," he said simply, waggling an eyebrow suggestively.

The female part of Buffy, the part that she was on the cheerleading squad for team Throw-Yourself-at-Him when it wasn't a pile of goo, was doing back-flips. The sane part was majorly freaked out. Buffy felt her heart race as she swallowed hard, suddenly very conscious of the fact that the hem of her dress was riding up her legs.

"Okay, woah, be kind, rewind," she said, glancing nervously at her skirt. Whoops, bad idea. The guy glanced down to where she had, eyes glazing over slightly when he saw what she'd been looking at. "First of all, what kind of sick pervert kidnaps a girl and ties her up to tell her he wants her? Second, you're not coming anywhere near me, I took five years of Tae Kwon Doe and I could whoop your ass even with my hands tied, and third, are you insane? Mentally imbalanced in some way? I mean, I don't even know your name!"

She wasn't entirely sure how that last part had managed to slip out. She couldn't possibly care what his name was, not after the freaky confession he'd just made. She should be caring about keeping him distracted long enough to get loose from these infernally tight bonds.

Spike, for his part, was enjoying the thought of her "whooping his ass" immensely. He was tempted to untie her just to let her try. Fighting always got him hard. Not that he needed any help in that department at the moment.

"Spike," he said, rising from his chair and moving to stand over her again, his gaze lingering on her long, bronzed legs. Slowly, he began to run a hand up one, smiling slightly when she tensed but did nothing to stop him. "The name's Spike. I'm the big bad around here, luv. Sick as they come. An' if you'd been anyone else—" he paused, his fingers lingering at the hem of her dress lightly, "—you'd be dead by now."

She had to stop him. She knew she had to stop him. It was sick. It was sick and wrong, and she should not be enjoying it. She was just...her skin was so hot, and his cool fingers felt so good on her flesh, and she just knew that if he...if he...

"Ooh," she moaned as his hands slid beneath her dress, under her thong, his fingers tapping her clit with expert precision, causing her to arch into him almost involuntarily.

Spike watched wide-eyed as she writhed beneath his hand, his demon roaring in triumph as he brought this woman pleasure, his cock jumping early in its denim cage. He found himself panting as he slid his fingers into her quim, eyes widening as he felt how hot and tight she was. Fuck, he wanted her so much. He'd never wanted anyone as much as he wanted this girl at that moment. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, something was telling him that that should bother him, but looking at this girl's face as he pleasured her, her eyes glazed over with lust, he couldn't remember why it was and bloody hell he didn't care.

He felt his control slipping as he brought her closer to completion, his demon struggling to get through. He tried to hold it back, knowing in his gut that unleashing his demon now would only result in frightening her, but as she moaned again, arching into his fingers and writhing in pleasure, he let go. His demon broke through with a roar, demanding blood. Her blood. Now.

Through her lust-addled haze, Buffy was dimly aware that a change had taken place. Instead of standing beside the bed, the guy—Spike? Was that even a name?—was now on top of her, straddling her knees as his fingers thrust furiously in and out of her, his thumb rubbing her clit mercilessly as his other hand palmed her breasts, plucking at her peaked nipples through the fabric of her dress. God, she'd never known bliss like this. She could feel her climax coming, could feel herself getting closer and closer...

There was another change too, though. Something else was different, something drastic that she just couldn't put her finger on...

He glanced up and met her eyes for the first time since he'd begun touching her, and she saw it. His eyes. They weren't blue anymore—they were yellow. Yellow eyes? His forehead too. Something was wrong with his forehead. It was...bumpy. Wrinkled, like he'd grown extra skin in that region and was thinking really hard. And his teeth...

It is night, and the dark surrounds them, swallows them, threatening to crush them as they run. Faster, harder, keep running, don't stop. They're coming. They're coming—the men with the yellow eyes and teeth sharp as razors. They're coming. Don't stop.

But one stops. She stumbles, gasping and crying. It's too much—she's too young. The others urge her onward, their screams echoing in the stillness. But the girl does not move, and they know she is lost.

The man with the yellow eyes is smiling as he snaps her head from her body.

"That should teach bad little girls to run from vampires," he hisses, as the world falls away.

It was the proverbial bucket of ice water. Buffy felt as though she'd been floating outside her body and had just now returned to it, the memory from her childhood—the one her parents had put her through years of therapy to repress—served to negate all warm-fuzzy feelings she'd been having towards this thing. This thing that had its fingers inside her. That was moving towards her neck with its fangs.

Vampire.

It was nearly unbelievable, an age-old nightmare come back to haunt her. The man on top of her was not a man at all. He was a vampire. And there was no doubt in her mind that he wanted her dead.

"Get off me," she said, her voice muffled against his chest. He didn't stop, his hand pumping her harder, his sharp gasps for breath—unnecessary breath, Buffy realized—coming faster. She began to struggle, kicking her legs out from under him, twisting her hips until his hand slipped out of her. Her body protested violently, screaming out for his touch, but she refused to listen.

"Get off me," she said again, louder this time, kicking him away from her with more force than she knew she had. He went flying backwards, tumbling off the bed and landing on the floor with a dull thud. Buffy brought her knees to her chest, ignoring her throbbing cunt as she watched, wild-eyed and panting, waiting to him to throw himself back onto her.

She knew about vampires. Growing up in Sunnydale, you had to. She may not have known much, but she knew some. She had a history with vampires, a history most of Sunnydale's still-living residents could claim, but a history nonetheless. She knew enough to know that this—whatever was happening between them, whatever she thought she felt when he touched her—could not happen.

Spike sat where he'd been thrown, breathing heavily, his demon receding as his head began to clear. What the bloody hell...? One moment he'd had his hand inside her, finger-fucking her into oblivion, and the next he was on the ground. He'd wanted her, God how he'd wanted her...wanted her more than blood, more than violence, more than...

More than Dru.

He froze, appalled. He wanted his girl, this human girl that cowered at the sight of his demon, more than he wanted Drusilla? His dark princess? The love of his unlife?

No. He couldn't. He wouldn't. It wasn't possible.

Slowly, he rose to his feet. Even through his confused, despairing haze, he managed to feel a twinge of sadness at the sight of the golden girl shrinking away from him.

"S-stay away from me," she warned, her voice shaking slightly. Spike stayed where he was, torn, disgusted with himself. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be. He should be glad she was cowering, take pleasure in the fact that he brought her fear. Inside, his inner William was pining for Drusilla, and his demon was aching for his girl.

He couldn't take it anymore. With a frustrated roar, he turned on his heel and burst out of the room. Night was coming on, he could feel the sun going down.

He needed a drink.

*~~~*~~~*~~~*


Buffy struggled against her bonds, concentrating on stretching the straps as she worked her hand back and forth, painfully aware of the rope burns developing where the straps chafed against her wrists. She thrust away from the headboard harder, grunting her frustrations—the emotional and the sexual. She was seriously starting to regret kicking the vampire away before reaching her climax—if the bone-shaking teasers she'd been getting had been any indication, it would have been earth-shattering.

She felt a wave of disgust hit her as she reminded herself angrily of what he was.

"A vampire," she spat, grunting as she punctuated the word with a violent tug at her bonds. "A killer," she pulled again, wincing as the straps bit into her flesh. "A thing," putting all her strength into her final thrust, she let out a cry of triumph as she heard the cloth rip. A few more solid tugs and her left hand was free. Finally, she thought, pulling herself to a sitting position on the bed as she worked to free her right hand. She felt terrible, still nauseous with the after-effects from her killer hangover, her body aching for the blissful release that the vampire's fingers had promised. She knew how wrong it was—at least, her mind knew. Her body didn't care if he was a vampire or a flying monkey so long as he kept using those magic fingers on her. Why couldn't she stop reacting to him this way? Her mind was chanting vampire, vampire, vampire while her body hummed sexy, sexy, sexy...

Both parts of her wanted to know where he was.

Slowly, she slid off the bed, padding softly across the carpeted floor towards the door. She didn't expect it to be unlocked—no one was that cocky—and was pleasantly surprised when the doorknob turned in her hand. Creeping out into what looked to be a dark, dilapitated apartment. Not exactly what she would picture a vampire's lair looking like. Still, at least there weren't a thousand doors leading to one room.

Buffy crossed the room quickly, feeling her way through the half-light to the front door. Reaching out, she grasped the cool metal of the handle and began to turn it—

"Nasty dolly," came an eery, familiar voice from the darkness behind her. Buffy whirled around, her heart leaping into her throat as she caught sight of the pale woman stepping out of the shadows. "Bad sunshine."

The woman was on her in a second, grasping Buffy's throat in a grip like a vice, nails like claws making crescent marks in her skin.

"We shall have to punish you."

Tied up. She was tied up again, Goddammit. She was so sick of being tied up. If she ever got out of this alive, she was never going within ten feet of another length of rope. Not that her captors had used rope yet. No, they both seemed equally intent on destroying their bed sheets for her. Honestly, a little variety would have been appreciated. There was one change this time, though. This time, she was terrified.

She thought she’d been scared before. Tied to a bed, at the mercy—the quite possibly non-existent mercy—of a horny vampire. It was a legitimately terrifying experience.

But it had been nothing compared to this.

Originally, Buffy had been surprised by the strength of the pale woman when she had gripped her by the throat, lifting her off of the ground and flinging her across the room to collide with the opposite wall. She had been so surprised, in fact, that she’d lain on the floor like an idiot as the woman had sauntered forward to kill her, humming to herself. Of course, the lying-there-like-an-idiot may have been partially due to the pain involved with being flung across a room into a wall, but all Buffy had registered at first was the shock. And then she’d remembered—she was dealing with vampires. Human laws of physics just didn’t apply anymore. It was going to take a while to get used to.

Not that her captor had given her much of a chance. Humming her tuneless little song, clucking and giggling at random intervals, the vampiress (vampiress? Did you call a female vampire a vampiress? Was that PC in the underworld?) had trussed her up like a turkey, securing her to the leg of the couch and digging her fingernails—claws, Buffy amended—into tender spots on her body if she struggled. Buffy had kept struggling, though, striking out with her hands and feet as she had in the bedroom. And that’s when the beating had started.

The first blow had been a backhand to her face, so hard that for a moment Buffy’s head had spun. When she could see straight again she’s been firmly secured, the vampire standing over her with a small, satisfied smirk on her face.

“Bad dolly,” she scolded, shaking a finger in Buffy’s face—her throbbing, no doubt swollen face. “You shall have no cakes.”

Bummer, Buffy thought acidly, no cakes. Because really, cakes would have gone so well with all the bile in her throat and blood in her mouth.

She must have mumbled something, because the second blow came shortly after, the pain rocketing through her skull. She bit down on her tongue to keep from crying out, knowing that it would only earn her another slap, wincing as blood flooded her mouth again. Rather than swallow, she spluttered, spitting the red liquid onto the floor, then watched, eyes wide with disgust as her tormentor reached out with one slender finger and caught a trickle of blood that was running from the corner of her mouth. Bringing it to her lips, the vampire sighed with pleasure as she licked the crimson juice away.

“Such a tasty treat,” she said, purring contentedly. Suddenly, the bones in her face shifted, contorting and twisting, her teeth elongating and her eyes glowing yellow. “We shall have much fun with you.”

Buffy watched in horror, cringing as the pale vampiress ran one razor sharp claw down her bruised face, leaving a liquid red trail that oozed down Buffy’s cheek.

“Do you know what I can do to you, pretty sunshine?” she asked, giggling madly. “I shall make you scream…”

At that moment, Buffy didn’t doubt it. There was something so cruel in the woman’s voice, something so cold and insane in her gaze, that she knew she was going to die at this woman’s hands. She just knew. With the vampire in the bedroom, it had been different. He had looked at her and she had seen feeling. It may have been lust, or hate, or conflict, but it had been there, ruling him. In this woman, there was only distance, emptiness. Relish for the pain she could inflict.

And Buffy was terrified.

*~~~*~~~*~~~*

Spike took a swig from his second bottle of Jack, silently cursing the vampire constitution. It took a sodding amount of effort to get well and truly pissed. A bloke couldn’t fade into blissful oblivion without really putting his mind to it. And as far as the tightness in his pants was concerned—well, that sure as hell wasn’t going anywhere any time soon. He glared down at his predicament, trying to picture un-arousing things. Fat old women. Stakes, crosses, holy water. Sunshine…

The golden girl, tied to the bed, eyes glazed with lust, moaning and writhing beneath him as he plunged his fingers into her lot li’l quim—

Spike roared angrily, throwing his bottle against the wall of the alley, startling a rat into scurrying out of the shadows. What the bloody hell was wrong with him? No matter how much he drank, no matter how he tried to get her from his mind, she kept creeping back in. His demon wanted her, demanded her, and honestly he wasn’t sure what would happen if he gave in to those demands. Somehow, he doubted that it would end in the death of the girl.

No, if his demon took control, it could be far worse. For both of them.

Tha’s it, then, Spike thought decisively. I’ll just have to kill her. He nodded firmly, turning swiftly and striding out of the alley. He’d kill her, dump her body somewhere, take Dru and get the hell outta Dodge next sundown.

Right. Good plan.

Wasn’t that the plan last time, mate? A snide little voice in the back of his mind pointed out. What makes you think you can do it now when you couldn’t do it then?

Shut up, Spike snarked, catching sight of the apartment as he turned onto the darkened street. Last time, the plan was to fuck and feed. This time, a clean snap of the neck should do me just fine.

Because that was what he wanted. He was sure of it. He wanted the golden girl out of his head, out of his existence. He wanted to continue his unlife causing mayhem and chaos across the realm with his dark princess at his side.

He wanted things to go back to the way they had been. Life had been simple and straightforward. Humans were food and entertainment, the world was his blood bath, and time was inconsequential. And bloody hell, it would be again.

All he had to do was kill her.

Not like he didn’t know how. He’d killed countless numbers of girls in his past—young, innocent things, screaming for their lives, the fear rolling off of them in intoxicating waves. He’d done it to them. He could do it to her.

Spike’s mind flashed to her face, her eyes wide with horror as she gazed up at his demon, and something inside him whimpered, irrationally hurt by the repulsion in her eyes. He pushed it away, more determined than ever to get this over with. As soon as she was dead, this torment would end. He would stop picturing her face, stop longing for her scent, stop looking forward to the next time he could see her, touch her, taste her…

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, slowing his strides as his eternal erection came raging back with a vengeance. Maybe he would have to fuck her. Just to get her off his mind. Yeah, that was it…

He was ten yards from the apartment—picturing the many different ways he would take her before he killed her—when he smelled it.

Her blood.

He didn’t know how he knew it was hers. He was sure he’d never smelt it before. He knew, though. His demon felt it, felt her blood spilled, and he knew.

And he was livid.

He ran the final distance to the door of the apartment, barreling through it as his demon visage burst forth. He was moving on auto pilot, blinded to everything but the one fact that his girl—he didn’t stop to wonder how the girl on the bed had gone from being the girl on the bed to his girl—was hurt. Bleeding.

He froze in the doorway, taking in the scene before him. The girl, his golden prisoner, was lying on the floor, her hands secured to a leg of the sofa, her head lolling to the side. Her body was battered, covered in bleeding wounds and darkening bruises, and leaning over her, leering down at her, stood a cackling Drusilla.

Something inside him snapped. There was no thought, no rationalization, nothing but pure, blinding rage. His demon recognized that the blood of the girl—the blood that was his, that belonged to him—had been spilled. His girl was hurt.

There was no greater sin.

Through her semi-conscious haze, Buffy was dimly aware that someone else had stumbled into her torture session. How nice for them, she thought, wincing when even her inner sarcastic voice sounded weak. Tired. In pain. God, she’d never known pain like this. She hurt all over, she reeked of blood and bile and every inch of her ached and burned. Some inches even stabbed. She wasn’t sure if she had screamed yet. Or cried. Her face felt damp, but that could have been blood. She was pretty sure that she had blacked out once or twice, because she remembered coming to to harsh slaps from her tormentor. Apparently, it wasn’t any fun to torture an unconscious victim. Abruptly, Buffy felt tears well up in her eyes. She was so done. Done with the pain, with being trapped, with waiting to find out if she would live or die. For some reason, someone up there really hated her. Someone out there was probably really enjoying this. Besides insane-o-vamp here, that was.

What did I do to deserve this? she wondered bitterly, swallowing her tears as insane-o-vamp herself moved in again to inflict a fresh load of pain. The problem with this torture, Buffy decided, was that it was completely pointless. It wasn’t like they were trying to get her to talk or something logical like that. If they were, she was sure she would have cracked hours ago. No, for all intents and purposes, she seemed to be enduring torture because her captor found it fun.

Buffy watched in detached horror as the vampiress lowered her razor sharp nails to her pulse point. Early on in the torture session—maybe sometime in the first half-hour—Buffy had discovered a way to remove herself from the moment, to take herself out of her body enough so that the pain wasn’t as terrible, the fear not as present. It was easier that way. She had a vague memory of reading that victims of violence tended to do that—remove themselves from the moment of trauma. Or hours, in her case. She couldn’t remember reading if it was healthy or not. At the moment, she didn’t really care.

She had almost succeeded in removing herself completely when she heard it. A roar. Her eyes flew open and her head whipped around to face the front door, her mind flashing on images of Mufasa on Pride Rock. It was an animal roar, a feral, primal sound of fury. Her heart sped up as she caught sight of the thing that made it.

It was him.

Spike. The blonde, black-leather clad, incredibly masculine vampire that had been her original tormentor—Tormentor? Yeah, right, Buffy’s brain retorted, thinking back on her time as his captive with new found appreciation—was standing in the door, his wrinkly vamp face screwed up with rage as he roared at them. For one irrational second, Buffy was petrified. Was he angry with her for trying to escape? Was he impatient to end the torture, to kill her? Her mind raced through a thousand possible explanations for his anger, none of which made sense in reality but were perfectly justified in her fuddled mind. All she knew, though, was that this was it. She was going to die.

At least, that was what she thought until her vampiress tormentor went flying across the room.

At first, Buffy thought that the woman had launched herself backward, but that wouldn’t explain the smashing into the wall or the subsequent cry of pain.

So what had just happened?

Buffy watched in stunned silence as Spike roared again. He wasn’t roaring at her, though—no, he was defending her. He was standing over her, facing the cowering vampiress in the corner and making like a wild animal protecting its own.

What the hell?

Cutting his roaring short, the blonde vampire swung around and gazed down at her, yellow eyes clouded with something that look suspiciously—and inexplicably—like concern. She tensed as he leant forward—who knew what he was planning to do?—but all he did was break the bonds that secured her to the sofa leg. He was setting her free?

Spike was breathing heavily as his demon receded and his mind slowly began to clear. Below him, the golden girl—the current bane of his existence—was staring up at him with the strangest expression on her battered face. An expression he hadn’t seen on the face of a human in…well, ever. Gratitude. Hope. She was looking at him like he was her bleeding salvation. What the sodding hell…?

And then, in that second, it all came flooding back. Standing in the doorway, watching Dru torture the girl, something inside him had snapped, something more primal than even his demon. He had lost control entirely, one need consuming him

Don’t let them hurt the girl.

He jerked back from the girl on the floor, horror and repulsion flooding him. God, what was wrong with him? Not only couldn’t he kill her, but he defended her life? And from Dru?

“Oh God, Dru—” Spike whipped around, searching the room for the huddled figure of his sire. He’d hurt Drusilla. His dark princess. His whole reason for existence. “Dru, baby—”

He started to rush toward her, arms outstretched, but stopped when he caught the look she cast him. There was no anger in her gaze, no reprimand like he’d expected. There was only despair.

“I see now,” she said quietly, her voice full of hurt. “I see her on you. My dark prince wants the sunshine.”

“What?” Spike stared down at her, wondering what she could possibly be on about. He didn’t want any sodding sunshine. He didn’t. He wanted his black goddess. She was all he had ever wanted. She was his salvation. He moved toward her again, intent on showing her that she was wrong, on proving that he loved her. “Dru, luv, I—”

“No, William,” Drusilla drew herself up, holding her hand up to stop his approaching. “I see now. You are lost to me. Covered in her.”

“What?!” Spike spluttered, his eyes going wide, his heart feeling as though it were being torn apart. Slowly. She couldn’t be serious… “Dru, pet, I’m right here, I’m sorry—I didn’t—”

Gently, Drusilla placed a cool hand on his cheek, smiling sadly. “Goodbye, my William.”

Spike felt as though he’d been punched in the gut. “Dru…”

“No!” she said sharply, her face hardening. “Bad William. Bad Spike. I knew. I knew when I saw her. You’re covered in her, Spike. Covered in sunshine. I can’t touch you anymore.”

Spike reached out, desperate to show her how daft she was being. He wasn’t covered in anything, least of all the girl on the floor. He felt his panic start to rise, panic that slowly turned to hurt, then anger as she jerked away from him. He lowered his head, hardening his heart and closing his face. She wanted him to go? Fine.

"Fine,” he seethed, straightening to his full height and glowering down at her. “You’re bloody unbelievable, you know that?” he added, as all the pent-up anger that had been gnawing at him since Sunnydale came bubbling to the surface. “Carrying on with Angelus, and any number of other God knows what kind of demon, and the moment you think that I might be fancying another bird, you throw me out on my arse!”

Dru was smiling and shaking her head, the way that made him feel like a little school boy who’d gotten an answer wrong on an exam. He hated that feeling.

“Poor William,” she said. “You don’t see.”

Spike’s jaw ticked. “Yeah, well, I see enough,” turning on his heel, he strode from the apartment. “Goodbye, Dru.”

They had been separated a few times in the centuries that they had been together, fighting occasionally and ending things on bad terms. But they had always found each other again. Usually because Spike would come groveling back to her, but occasionally Dru would charm her way back to him. Claiming that she needed him, needed her dark prince, her sweet William.

If, deep-down, Spike had thought this time would be any different, he never would have left the way he had. If he had known how drastically his life was about to change, he never would have walked out that door.

But he did.

Buffy watched the vampire’s retreating back as he crossed the threshold, leaving her with Madame Psycho again. She glowered angrily, wondering just what the hell he expected her to do now. Had he not just come rushing to her rescue? What had the insane woman been yapping about? And for God’s sake, was he just going to leave her there?

She watched the doorway for a moment longer, frowning harder then it remained as empty as ever. Apparently, he was.

Men.

“Who needs them?” Buffy muttered, trying to ignore the screaming of her battered body as she attempted to pull herself up, using the arm of the sofa she had so recently been attached to for support. She nearly jumped out of her skin when a cold hand grasped her arm. Jerking her head up, she caught the dark gaze of the female vampire—Dru? Was that what he had called her?—and nearly screamed in frustration. All that, she thought bitterly, and I’m just going to be tortured more? She wasn’t sure how much more she could take. God, why couldn’t she have moved faster? The second he had untied her, she should have been up and out that door. So what the hell had stopped her?

She remembered lying there, watching him as it dawned on him what he had done—clearly it had been against his nature.I mean come on, Buffy thought, help the human? End the bloodshed? Not exactly something in the mission statement when it came to vampires. She realized it then. As odd as it sounded, she hadn’t left because she hadn’t wanted to leave him. Something inside her had—what? Sensed his hurt? His confusion? Something had sensed it, and had wanted to comfort him.

Buffy snorted. Comfort the vampire? God, could she get anymore delusional? She didn’t owe him anything. He was the one that had tied her to a bed, violated her—yes, she had firmly decided that what had occurred had been violation…really—left her to be tortured and then clearly regretted saving her ass.

Buffy jerked around in a weak attempt to shake off her captor, wincing when it caused the wounds on her arm to bleed harder. She sighed, wishing that the vamp would just get on with it.

“Well?” she demanded, her voice rough and gravelly. God, she felt like shit. “You gonna tie me up again?”

Suddenly, the hand restraining her was gone. Buffy blinked. Okay…she glanced up warily, only to find the dark woman gazing at her calmly, a fascinated look in her eyes.

“I see now,” she said quietly. Buffy flinched away as the woman raised a hand to her face, but all she did was brush a strand of hair behind her ear. It was a tender action, gentle, and it threw Buffy completely off her guard. It was just too much to process—messed with what was very clearly black and white. Torturers were not gentle. Vampires killed—they didn’t come to your rescue. Why couldn’t the world get that straight? “I see what you are to him. You are his—I knew this. But now I see what I did not. He is yours. Lost to me.”

Buffy shuddered at the words—words she was really, really sick of hearing. She didn’t have anyone that was hers, and she sure as hell didn’t belong to anyone. Least of all the bleached blonde killer. Yeah, okay, so he was practically sex on legs, with magic fingers and quite possibly a hero complex, but he was still a vampire. A vampire that had abandoned her. Again.

God she was so tired.

“So are you going to let me go?” she asked wearily, forcing her head up again, bracing herself for a laugh, a slap, something—anything—besides what she found.

She was alone in the apartment.

Okay…Buffy thought, glancing around the dark apartment. Yup, definitely alone. She pulled at her dress, making a face when it stuck to her skin with what was no doubt crusted blood. Alone was good, right? Alone was what she wanted.

Yeah...

She began hobbling toward the door, suppressing a shudder when a blast of cold night air hit her at the threshold. Dim streetlights cast ghostly shadows on what looked to be a deserted street in a run-down neighborhood. Garbage lined the gutters, apartment buildings with boarded up doors and windows seemed to melt into the darkness. A few foreboding alleyways stemmed off, leading to side streets, and at the far end of the road faint music could be heard from the seedy-looking bar that stood on the cross-street. Buffy breathed a sigh of relief at this show of civilization, seedy or no. If it hadn’t been there, she honestly would have considered staying in the apartment—at least until the sun came up. It was stupid, she knew, but she was done being alone in the dark where anything could take a crack at her. Sure, there was a chance her dynamic vamp-duo would come home before sunrise, but still…

“Better the devil you know…” Buffy muttered, clenching her chattering teeth and silently wishing she’d thought to add a jacket to her little clubbing ensemble. Would it have been so hard to be marginally prepared? Her mind trailed back to her single suitcase, stored in luggage holding at the Greyhound station for two dollars a day. She realized with a start that she had no idea what day it was, or how much time had passed since that night in the club. She had a vague idea that a day or so had passed since she’d come to in that bed, but she could have been under for much longer than that. As scary as that thought was, what was more disturbing was knowing that no one was missing her. No one knew she was gone. Her parents had no idea that she had been planning to come home—yesterday? Days ago? It was anyone’s guess. They thought she was happily—if stubbornly—“making it” on her own in LA. There was no one in LA who would miss her—she had no friends, no job, no home, no ties whatsoever. It was chilling to think that she could easily have been killed and no one would have known, or cared. Well, they might have cared—a little—but only after they found out, which could be months afterward, when they took time out of their busy schedules to call.

Buffy gritted her jaw, taking a deep breath and stepping past the threshold and out into the street. She kept her eyes trained on the bar at the end of the street, focusing on picking out the tune of the song that was playing faintly from it. It sounded like country, something she would flip past on the radio. She concentrated on that as she forced herself to move—well, limp—down the street. She would get to the bar, inside where it was warm and light and populated, and maybe she would call the hospital. Or the police. Or her father. He could spare a limo for his wounded, recently kidnapped daughter, couldn’t he?

God, who was she kidding?

Just get there, she told herself tersely. Get there and then figure it out.

She was so determined, so focused on her goal, that she didn’t notice the figures as they slipped from the alleys she passed, creeping behind her with inhuman stealth, until they had surrounded her.

“Well, well,” the one at the front said, grinning down at her, eyes glowing yellow. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a snack, boys.”

*~~~*~~~*~~~*

She was close, he could feel it. He’d stopped asking himself why he cared. He’d gotten all the way to the bar down the road—his second time in it that night—when she’d started taking over his thoughts. Again. Bloody hell, he was sick of her. Her with her golden hair, her smooth bronzed skin…

His mind flashed to an image of her lying on the floor, covered in cuts and bruises and blood, and he let out a growl. Something within him, his demon, something wanted to keep that girl safe. So he’d left the bar then, empty-handed and far too sober, intent on finding her. What he planned on doing then, he still wasn’t sure. All he knew was he wanted her close. Away from Dru, away from any and all danger.

And that’s when he saw them.

A gang of vamps—fledglings, eight or ten at the most. He watched from the shadows of an alley as they circled her. Sodding hell, what was she doing out? Was she completely insane? Hadn’t she learned her lesson? He was filled with annoyance, coupled by an overwhelming sense of admiration for her spirit. Even broken and bruised, the girl never gave up.

The lead fledgling was speaking, making lewd comments and running his gaze all over Spike’s girl. He wanted to rip the fledge’s head from his shoulders for daring, then show his gang just what it meant to be a master vampire.

One thing was certain. No way in hell were they touching his girl.

Buffy froze mid-step, her heart skipping a beat when she realized she was surrounded. By vampires. Again.Goddammit, she thought angrily, what am I? Some sort of vamp-magnet? Why hadn’t she just stayed back at the apartment? With all her bleeding wounds she probably was a walking snack bar. Happy meal on legs.

Fine, she thought, drawing herself up and ignoring the aches and pains all over her. They wanted to take her? They could just try. This time she was sober, and she wasn’t going down without a fight.

She fell into a fighting stance, putting her years of Tae Kwon Doe training to use. Granted, she hadn’t thought she’d ever be fighting vampires, but it was gratifying to know that the training had been worth something.

Then the vampire lunged, and she realized that “something” wasn’t going to amount to much. Who was she kidding? The guy was a vampire, with the super-human strength and all that crap. No way was she going to get out of this alive.

Still, she managed to get one punch in.

Ha! she thought, ignoring the throbbing in her hand as the vampire stumbled slightly, a surprised look on his face. It probably hadn’t hurt all that much, but Buffy liked to think she was the first human they’d encountered who’d done anything but run.

Which reminded her: why wasn’t she running?

Taking advantage of the momentarily distracted vampire, Buffy located a break in the circle of surrounding vampires and launched herself toward it, hoping her body weight would be enough to knock the vampires aside long enough to make a run for it.

No such luck. Two pairs of grubby, meaty-looking hands grabbed her as she struggled, screaming for all she was worth. Running hadn’t worked, fighting was clearly pointless, but she could still scream. Maybe someone would hear her and…

The head vamp—the one she had got the punch on—silence her with a fist to the jaw. Buffy let out an involuntary whimper and slumped forward, the pain rocketing through her head from her jaw. If the two vampires that were restraining her hadn’t had a firm grip on her—a cutting off the circulation kind of grip—she knew she would have collapsed.

The vampire was leering over her now, yellow eyes glinting with feral hunger, his fangs protruding from his smirking lips. Buffy stared up at him, panting as her heart thundered in her chest.

Oh God, she thought, as the vampire’s fangs descended toward her throat,this is it. Her breath was hot and smelled disgusting, and Buffy screwed her eyes shut, waiting for the fatal bite.

It never came.

Instead, a spray of dust rained down on her, and when Buffy opened her eyes, her heart flipped. There he was, her bleached-blonde vampire—wait, mine?—handing the other vamps their considerably saggy asses.

Buffy had never been one for violence. Sure, she took Tae Kwon Doe, but mainly for the exercise and potential self-defense. Action movies had always bugged her—all that hitting and blood and gore. It seemed so crude, so pointless. She had never understood why people enjoyed watching sports like boxing or wrestling.

But this, watching this was changing her whole outlook.

He was beautiful, intense. His black leather coat billowed and his muscles rippled with powerful ease as he struck out with expert precision, a look of unbridled fury on his—okay, yes, completely gorgeous face, she thought, realizing belatedly that her mouth was hanging open. He brought down each vamp that launched themselves at him with a few choice punches and a quick snap of the neck, until all that was left were little piles of dust.

The street was quiet again, empty but for the two of them, a livid vampire and an injured human. Buffy knew that the stupidest thing she could possibly do right now was give in to the demands of her body and fall to the ground, just collapse and sleep until all the pain went away. The absolutely worst thing. But it seemed that, for once, her mind was being overpowered by her body. The vampires were gone—well, all except for one—the adrenaline rush was subsiding, and her body was demanding a black-out. Buffy wasn’t a fainter, but this sensation was intense, overpowering. She was so exhausted. Her vision began to swim and then fade as she slumped, and suddenly strong arms were encasing her, surrounding her.

“ ‘S all right, luv,” a familiar voice said. “You’re safe now.”

And the strange thing was, for the first time in a long time, Buffy felt exactly that.

Safe.

Spike pulled into the parking lot of the motel, maneuvering his Desoto carefully into a spot near the entrance. He glanced over his shoulder into the back seat, where the sleeping form of his golden human was draped across the candy wrappers and empty cigarette packages. He’d managed to clear away most of the junk that had cluttered there over the years, but it had been bloody hard to function as he’d held her. Blood didn’t exactly flow in the direction of his brain when her soft, warm body was pressed against his, unconscious or no. At least she wasn’t lying on any whisky bottles.

He wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing. Several things were painfully clear, the first of which was the fast approaching sunrise. He had to find a place where they could wait out the day, and he knew his chances of finding another abandoned apartment in the hours of darkness remaining were slim. Not that Spike couldn’t make an apartment abandoned, if he felt so inclined, but it was so much easier just to eat a hotel clerk.

The second painfully clear thing was the blood loss occurring in the back seat. The wounds that the girl had endured were deep and scarring—after all, Dru always worked to leave a mark. Spike stepped out of the car, striding toward the door as he tried to remember anything he might have learned about antiseptics. This was new territory for him, this healing of humans. Bleeding humans meant food—didn’t usually send a bloke running for the Mercurochrome. The only healing he’d ever done was that of his dark princess, and that generally involved waiting on her hand and foot and a substantial amount of licking.

Spike frowned, stopping outside the door and watching through the glass as a couple collected their room keys. He reclined against the brick wall of the building, deciding to wait for the lobby to clear out a bit before he went in for the kill. He ignored the accusatory voice in his head, refusing to believe that his reluctance to kill the couple had anything to do with the woman’s long, honey-gold hair, so sodding similar to the girl asleep in his car. Turning his attention back to his own healing experience, he wondered vaguely if the healing powers of his saliva still applied when it came to humans. It was worth a try, although he was a bit hesitant to put his mouth—and consequently his fangs—anywhere near the open tap that was his golden girl’s freely flowing body. He had never been one for self-restraint, and this girl’s blood affected him in ways that rivaled Slayer blood—a fact that was mind boggling in and of itself. The drive to the motel had been one long bout of torture, the girl’s blood assaulting his senses and taunting him, teasing him, begging him to taste…

Spike growled in frustration, pushing the enticing thoughts away as he fished in his duster pocket for his fags. He wouldn’t use the girl like a bloody milk cow. If he was going to drink her, he’d drain her dry. And since draining her was nearly physically painful to think about—it seemed to be getting worse with each moment he spent in her company, smelling her scent, feeling her warmth—it looked as though blood play was out.

Unless...

Spike’s treacherous mind flashed through a slew of wicked fantasies in which biting became less for nourishment and more for pleasure—both his and the girl’s. He couldn’t count the number of times he had bitten Dru during sex, and vice-versa. It was regular practice—logical, really. Logical that vampires, being naturally violent creatures, would get off on the blood and pain inflicted during such an intimate act. Dru had always been of the mind that sex wasn’t any fun without a good, hard bite or two, and Spike had been inclined to agree. Not at first, of course—William the Ponce hadn’t been successfully buried the first time, and Spike had wanted nothing more than to make love—sweet, gentle, adoring love—to the woman that had saved him from his dismal existence. Dru had set him straight that night—and many nights after that—showing him that he could never please her that way. That unless he changed, dropping all those poncey romantic notions along with his bloody awful poetry, he could never be hers.

He had never begrudged her that, eager as he was to be rid of William, the man no one could love, the man regularly scorned and taunted by his peers. William was weak. Dru had taught him to be strong. He would have done anything for her.

“Bloody bint,” he groused, throwing his cigarette to the ground and stubbing it out with his boot. The motel lobby was empty now, empty but for a sleepy looking desk clerk entertaining himself with a game of solitaire on his computer. Spike took a deep, readying breath, shaking off all thoughts of Dru, biting, sex and the girl in the back of his car. Those three last things were bloody dangerous in the same sentence together. He may be a horny wanker, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew what could happen when bites were involved in sex—besides bloody powerful orgasms, that was. He knew what could happen if a person got caught up in the moment, in the rush of bliss as they came inside their girl.

Claims.

He didn’t have much experience with them, having never met a pair of mated vamps in his life. Mating wasn’t something modern vampires did, as Angelus had been quick to teach him. There had been a phase, in the early years of his unlife, when Spike had tried on several occasions to claim his dark princess. He loved her, she loved him—this he was sure of, despite the many indiscretions with her beloved Daddy—and the idea of spending an eternity sharing such an intimate bond with the woman he loved had been too appealing for the romantic William in him to resist. Dru had set him straight on that point, as well, punishing him mercilessly for the mere suggestion. He had suffered doubly when word got to Angelus—the idea of anyone claiming his precious childe riling the wanker to a state of blind fury. Spike hadn’t been able to feel his limbs for days. And when Spike had insisted that Drusilla would come around, would realize how much she loved him and wanted to be with him, Angelus had laughed coldly.

“Don’t be a fool, William,” he had said. “Who would ever want to spend an eternity with you?”

It wasn’t the worst thing Angelus had ever said to him. It didn’t even come close. But it hit a part of him that he had buried when he had buried William, digging up every insecurity, every doubt he had of his own worthiness. Eventually, Spike had had to face facts. He loved with ever fiber of his being, but no one had ever loved him back.

No one ever would.

*~~~*~~~*~~~*

Spike kicked the door to the motel room open, careful as he carried the sleeping woman in his arms over to the bed, smiling slightly when she tightened her arms around his neck and nuzzled his shoulder with her nose. She had started that the moment he had lifted her out of the car, clinging to him with an iron grip as if she never wanted him to put her down. At first he’d been at a loss for what to do, so strange was the feeling of her warm, strong body clinging to his as though…

As though she needed him.

Killing the motel clerk had been almost unbearably easy, and Spike hadn’t even bothered to drain him, preferring instead to grab the keys to the first available room and hurry back for his precious cargo. The room he had chosen was the generic one-room, two-bed package, complete with mini-bar and telly. Carefully, he made his way to the far bed, stopping to pull back the comforter to reveal the starched sheets. He glanced at the girl in his arms, wondering if maybe he would clean her up a bit before letting her sleep.

He was quickly overruled by the tiny, contented sigh she gave as she attempted to burrow closer to him. She was so tired—rightfully so—and he was buggered if he was going to wake her up. Besides, he didn’t have any bandages or…anti-bacterials, or whatever the hell it was that he needed.

Right, he thought decisively,I’ll let her sleep, go get some band-aids, and be back before sunrise.

He leaned down and gently set the girl on the bed, untangling himself from her iron grip and laying her so she wasn’t putting pressure on any particularly nasty wounds. He chuckled when she whimpered slightly, her arms stretching toward him and her fingers curling greedily, as though she didn’t want to leave his arms. He had grown used to his demon’s blissful reaction when he touched her, and now that he was no longer holding her he felt bereft, his demon wailing for him to crawl into the bed beside her.

“Sorry, luv,” he said quietly, backing up slightly. “’Fraid I can’t join you.” Not tonight.

The girl’s face screwed up and she whimpered again, louder this time, flailing frantically now as she sought his embrace. Spike stepped forward again, intending to simply reassure her, but when one of her grappling hands connected with his arm he realized his mistake. She held onto him as though he were a lifeline, with remarkable strength for a girl of her size. It was still a grip he could break easily, and would have, too, if she hadn’t uttered one word that was his complete undoing.


“Please,” she said softly, hugging his arm tightly and snuggling into it. Spike couldn’t have been more surprised if she had sprouted antlers. Sure, she wasn’t exactly conscious, or in any way aware of what she was doing, but it was still affecting him in ways he couldn’t even begin to fathom. It wasn’t just the tightening in his jeans—although that was certainly there. It wasn’t just the protective roar his demon was giving, demanding that he stay with this girl. No, that tiny please, her tight, desperate grip on his arm, was touching his inner William, and bloody hell, the ponce refused to let him leave her like this.

Carefully—it felt like he was doing everything so sodding carefully now—he shifted the girl so that she was settled on the far side of the bed before climbing in beside her, making sure to stay on top of the covers. The moment he had settled against the headboard she snuggled against him, wrapping an arm around his middle and wiggling until her head came up onto his chest, forcing his arm to go around her shoulders. He hesitated before letting it rest there loosely, smirking when he saw the satisfied little smile on her face.

“Got what you wanted, din’t you?” he asked huskily. “Bossy li’l chit.”

He couldn’t keep himself from grinning as she snuggled closer.

*~~~*~~~*~~~*

Buffy couldn’t remember ever feeling so comfortable. When she had been growing up, her bed had been a state-of-the-art therapeutic mattress, the kind that science has deemed best for your spine. Her sheets had been chiffon and her bed frame a priceless antique four-poster from the eighteen hundreds. Her room had been decorated in complementing pastels, and the one time she had tried to hang one of her posters on the walls her parents had ordered “that thing” removed and disposed of. She had been expected to keep it immaculately clean, and what she failed to keep spotless the live-in maid had scrubbed down with chemical cleaning sprays, so the room had always smelled of one perfume or another. Her parents had often given weekly tours of the house to their wealthy acquaintances, and when those happened she was expected to make herself—and any trace of herself—entirely scarce. At best, Buffy had felt like a guest in her own room, afraid to touch anything in case she messed it up somehow. Comfort hadn’t even been a factor.

Which, she supposed, was why the feeling was so alien now.

“Mmm,” she sighed softly, burrowing deeper into the pillows. Nice, big pillow she was pressed up against. Comfy. She might have muttered the word ‘comfy’, pulling herself closer to the big, firm pillow. She buried her nose in it, breathing deeply and sighing when she noticed how good it smelled. Like leather and cigarettes and man…

Her pillow smelled like a man? God, I must be more desperate than I realized, she thought, sighing into her nice, man-smelling pillow. Nice going, Buffy. Turned on by a pillow…

She shifted slightly, determined to get as close as possible to her new pheromone-inducing pillow. This was excellent—maybe she could market this. For the chronically single woman—wake up to your very own man-pillow! Or maybe she could just keep it all to herself. Yeah, this was way too good to share.

It was only when she attempted to swing her leg up and around her pillow that reality came crashing back. Pain when rocketing through her body from her hip, causing her to whimper and her pillow to move.

Pain, her brain computed, as a rush of images reminded her of how hellish her life was right now. The club. The windowless room. The torture. The escape. The exhaustion.

The vampires.

Buffy’s eyes flew open and she realized with a sinking feeling that the pillow she had been practically humping was most definitely not a pillow. She trailed her gaze up the T-shirt covered torso she was pressed so intimately against, over the well-shaped pectorals visible through it to the smooth, alabaster neck. She knew what she would see if she ventured further. First the full, utterly kissable lips, then the glass-cutting cheekbones, and finally the piercing blue eyes of a vampire that had saved her life now on more than one occasion. Slowly, she raised her gaze, gulping as her mouth suddenly became very dry.

“Spike,” she said quietly, cursing herself for the waver in her voice. The bleached vampire was regarding her with trepidation, as though unsure how she was going to react to him. Hell, she wasn’t sure how she was going to react to him.

“Hello, luv,” he replied warily, glancing down at the arm that she still had slung around his waist. She withdrew it hastily, pushing herself into a sitting position, wincing slightly as she did. He reached out to help her, positioning the pillows against the headboard so that she could rest comfortably. She flashed him a grateful smile, silently applauding herself for appearing so calm when inside she was reeling. Her mind kept replaying the moment he had swooped to her rescue, dusting his own kind to—very literally—save her neck. She remembered the feeling of safety she had had before completely losing consciousness. And now she was here—wherever here happened to be—waking up in his arms. It was a bit much to process.

“How’re you feelin’?” he asked quietly, and Buffy’s eyes shot up to lock with his. He sounded so sincere, as though he actually cared. Don’t be stupid, Buffy, she scolded herself, vampire here. Creatures of death and destruction. He doesn’t care how you feel.

Then why did he save your ass? A treacherous little voice asked her. Why did you wake up in his arms?

“A little achey,” she replied, ignoring the treacherous—yet annoyingly logical—voice. She winced again when she caught sight of the cuts that ran up her arms. “Maybe a lot achey.”

Spike nodded, looking—to Buffy’s continued shock—slightly ashamed. True, he had many, many reasons to be ashamed—he was the reason that she’d had to endure this hell, after all—but she hadn’t actually expected him to know it.

“Where are we?” she asked finally, glancing around at what looked to be some kind of hotel room.

“Super 8,” he muttered. Only when he said the words did it truly sink in.

“You took me to a motel?” she asked in disbelief. This was the man that had tied her to a bed in an abandoned apartment to tell her he wanted her, for Chrissake. A man who not all that long ago had had his fingers in a place that no man had ever touched. Well, not with their hands, at least. He wasn’t expecting her to…was he?

Spike caught the look of incredulity on the girl’s face and felt an indignant anger rise within him.

“Well, what the sodding hell would you have had me do?” he asked, pushing himself off of the bed and snatching his duster off of the floor, where he’d put it sometime in the early hours of dawn. “You bloody well fainted in him arms! I don’ know your name, I sure as hell don’ know where you live. Would you have preferred to spend the day in my car?”

“No,” Buffy answered truthfully, starting to see his point, though she was loath to admit it. She was trying to ignore the empty feeling she had gotten when he’s pulled away from her, and swearing to herself that she would rather gnaw off her own arms before she reached for him, she opted instead to cling to the comforter. “Still, a motel?” she retorted. “I mean, what are you…what do you…”

Spike smirked when he realized what she was thinking. “Relax, Goldilocks,” he said, giving a flourishing bow. “Your virtue is safe with me.”

“Oh,” Buffy said, blushing furiously. That was good, right? That was what she wanted to hear. Wasn’t it?

Yes, she told herself vehemently, determined to ignore the flash of disappointment that had flowed through her when he’d made it clear that he was not interested in her in that way. God she was screwed up. Hadn’t she made it just as clear to him only seconds before that she didn’t want him either? Well, not exactly, she thought, he was the one that had to come out and say it. Anyway, now that was cleared up—in exactly the way I was hoping, she insisted—there were other things that needed to be made clear too.

“Well then,” she said, clearing her throat and forcing herself to meet his gaze again. God, those eyes… “What are your…intentions?”

Spike, thoroughly enchanted by the blush spreading across her cheeks, now caught the glint of insecurity in her pretty green eyes. He sat gently on the edge of the bed and gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

“Jus’ gonna get you fixed up, luv,” he said quietly. “Dru…she hurt you pretty bad.” He shuddered.

Buffy swallowed, dazzled by the kindness in the smile he had given her. This was all so foreign to her. First he’d been all Dominant Male Vampire, with the torture threats and the hands in naughty places. Then he’d been Rescue Vamp, first from her torture sessions and then from the vampire gang. Now…what? Now he was being kind, gentle, sensitive even. This was a side of him she hadn’t known existed, and it had her completely at a loss. Rather than dwell on it, she grasped at a part of what he’d said that she understood.

“Dru?” she asked. “That’s the…the vampire you’re with?”

“Yeah. Was with,” he muttered, and she caught the unmistakable bitterness in his voice. She flinched, remembering witnessing their ugly break-up and knowing that it had been primarily about her. He had saved her, and the female vampire had tossed him out.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, knowing that she should mean it. Knowing that if she was going to care at all, she should feel sorry that she had come between him and his girlfriend. But the thought of him with another woman…well, it was right up there with fingernails down the blackboard. It just didn’t sit right—gave her unpleasant shivers. Which was, of course, ridiculous. He was a vampire, she was a human. There was no way anything good could happen between them. She wouldn’t want it even if it could. “Do you…do you love her?” she waited with bated breath for his answer, trying to convince herself that she didn’t care one way or the other.

Spike’s head shot up and his gaze locked with hers. Cor, what a question. Did he love Dru? Just hours ago, he would have answered yes, no hesitation. But spending the night—and a good portion of the morning—in this girl’s arms had forced him to look at things in a different light. There was no denying the reaction he had to her, both the physical reaction and his demon’s reaction. Neither of those, however, disturbed him as much as how she was beginning to affect William. Watching her sleep, admiring the peaceful planes of her beautiful face, he’d been hit with an overwhelming desire to write poetry—an urge he rarely felt lately, and one he hadn’t felt with Dru in a long, long time.

“I…” he paused. “She’s my sire,” he said finally, as though that should be enough of an answer.

“Okay…” Buffy said, raising an eyebrow. “What does that mean?” He shot her a disbelieving look and she held up her hands in surrender. “Hey, just because I hang with the vamps now doesn’t mean I speak the swinging lingo.” She smiled when let out a genuine laugh.

Spike smiled at her, surprised and pleased at her sudden sense of humor. At least she was making jokes now—she had to be somewhat comfortable with him.

“It means that she made me,” he explained. “Turned me. Drank my blood and gave me hers,” he sighed. “She was my salvation.”

Buffy chewed her lower lip thoughtfully. She got the sire concept, and as the ‘turning’ process wasn’t something she really wanted to go into, she focused on his final statement. She was his salvation, which meant that she had saved him from something. Saved him by turning him into a vampire.

“You love her for saving you,” she guessed, although what could possibly have been so terrible in his life that becoming a vampire had been the preferable alternative she had no idea.

“It was more than that,” he retorted, suddenly feeling the need to defend what he had with his dark princess. “We’ve been together for centuries! She’s my everything.”

Buffy heard the conviction in his voice and her heart sank. That certainly answered her question. He’d spent centuries—centuries with the woman. She was his “everything”. You didn’t say things like that about a person when you didn’t love them.

Which is fine with me, she thought petulantly. Perfectly fine. Good, even. Excellent.

“I should go,” she muttered, pushing the covers aside and scooting toward the edge of the bed. She winced as every inch of her body screamed in protest, but she refused to stop, pushing herself to her feet.

She paused when the vampire leapt up to stand in front of her, effectively blocking her escape. Dammit.

“Wait just a minute, luv,” he said, inching slightly closer until she had no choice but to obey. She glared up at him angrily and he arched a scarred brow in response. “Jus’ where is it you’re plannin’ on going?”

Buffy scowled at the unpleasant reminder of her homelessness. Still, anywhere was better then being stuck in a motel room with a vampire—especially this vampire—and besides, he didn’t know about her complete lack of home, friends or family, did he?

“Home,” she lied, meeting his skeptical gaze defiantly. “I have…people waiting for me. They’ll be worried.” That sounded convincing, didn’t it? Her confidence began to wane as the vampire’s smirk widened.

“Thought you said your parents din’t care ‘bout you, pet,” he said, sidling up so close that her breath caught in her throat. “What was it? ‘Send the ransom letter, just don’t wait around for a reply’?”

Buffy cursed inwardly, mentally kicking herself for that slip. He was right, she’d already nixed that possible escape route. Still, she held her ground.

“How do you know I’m talking about my parents?” she challenged, grasping at straws. “My boyfriend…”

Spike growled, his eyes narrowing. He did not like this turn of events—the thought of another man touching this girl made him want to rip the arms off the git’s body. If she had a boyfriend, it wouldn’t be for long.

Buffy jumped when she heard the possessive growl he emitted, shivers racing through her. What was that? she wondered, her eyes widening a she took him his rigid stance, the flash of amber in his eyes. If he’d been a dog, his hackles would have been on end. Was this a reaction to the boyfriend comment? Did the thought of her having a boyfriend—despite the fact that she didn’t, in a very large and glaring way—bug him as much as him and his nutty sire bugged her? The thought filled her with a strong sense of satisfaction.

“Boyfriend, is it?” he all but spat, and it only served to please Buffy more. She nodded firmly, delighting in the gleam of jealousy in his cerulean eyes. Gently, Spike reached out to finger a strand of golden hair by her cheek, smirking when he heard her heartbeat race. He’d see just how long this boyfriend lasted.

“Tell me, pet,” he said, leaning close enough that Buffy could feel his cool breath on her ear. She shivered and her breath hitched. He spoke in a husky tone, barely above a whisper. “Was it him you were thinking of when you cozied up to me this morning? Was it his face you saw when I touched you? When I sunk my fingers into your hot li’l quim?”

Buffy was visibly trembling, her panties wet again with his proximity and the reminder of that first, earth-shattering almost-orgasm. Alarm bells were going off in her mind, screaming for her to get out now while she still had an ounce of willpower left. Before he moved his hand to stroke her cheek and…oh God.

Spike caressed her cheek gently, feeling his already semi-hard cock stiffen as the scent of her arousal surrounded him. The same need to possess that had overtaken him in the apartment came flooding back, and he longed to throw her down on the bed and bury himself in her. Her green eyes were hooded and her breath came out in short, uneven gaps. Fuck, she was gorgeous. He wanted her, he’d wanted her from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her, and bloody hell, he was buggered if he was waiting any longer to have her. The girl wanted him, that much her body had already revealed. He ran a hand from her cheek down the column of her neck, so lost in her captivating scent and the gentle pounding of her heart that he nearly missed the whispered word that the girl spoke.

“What was that?’ he asked huskily, closing his eyes and reveling in her intoxicating smell. God, he couldn’t wait to feel her surrounding him, consuming him. Drowning him.

“Y-yes,” Buffy said again, hoping she didn’t sound quite as breathless as she was feeling. His hand on her skin made her feel as though she were on fire, and she was rapidly forgetting the many extremely important reasons why this couldn’t happen. Why she needed to push him away. He’s a vampire, she reminded herself, although that excuse was starting to feel flimsy, the voice that used to yell it getting quieter with overuse. There was always the good possibility that he wanted her dead, but that was effectively shot down by the numerous occasions on which he’s saved her life. Oh God, now she was talking herself into it! Bad Buffy! Bad!

She wasn’t going to jump into bed with him, she just wasn’t. Never mind how sexy he was, how completely drool-worthy. Never mind that he smelled fantastic and he wanted her and was staring at her with the sort of smoldering gaze she’d only read about in smutty romance novels. Never mind that his touch was sending shocks to her very core.

She wouldn’t. She couldn’t.

She let out a quiet whimper as his hand slid lower to stroke her collar bone. God she was so wet, so hot…

“Yes what, luv?”

Spike’s low, gentle words pulled her out of her lust-induced stupor long enough for her to remember herself and what she had been about to do. Oh God, had she seriously been considering throwing herself at him just then? Just jumping on him and wrapping her legs around his waist and grinding her wet heat against his hard length as he kissed her into oblivion with those utterly sinful lips of his…

“M-my boyfriend,” she managed to stutter, almost crying out in protest when his fingers ceased their gentle ministrations on her skin. Oh God, why did this have to be so confusing? She couldn’t be the kind of the girl that just jumped into bed with the first guy who showed an interest—despite the fact that he was the first guy to show an interest in a long time—especially when the guy was one who had kidnapped her, a vampire she knew next to nothing about.

But God did she want to.

Spike dropped his hand, his eyes narrowing. She was still thinking about that git? About some pathetic human male? A surge of jealousy overtook him as he thought of another man touching his girl, another man breathing her scent as he buried himself between her legs…

Spike’s jaw ticked and he growled again, the urge to kill almost overwhelming. The curtains were tightly drawn, but Spike could feel the sun blazing outside, and it frustrated him even more. He needed the darkness, needed to snap the neck of some red-blooded American male and pretend it was the ponce occupying his girl’s thoughts. Clenching his fists, he tore his eyes away from the golden girl who was staring at him with wide-eyed apprehension bordering on fear. His demon whimpered when he saw it, demanding that he reach out and hold her, stroke the fear away. To tell her that he would never hurt her, could never hurt her. After one night of holding her, he was a man entirely lost.

Covered in her, he thought, smirking ironically. So Dru had known what she was talking about after all.

Buffy watched the slow smirk spread across Spike’s face and raised her eyebrows. She’s spent the last thirty seconds watching the vampire’s face as his emotions ran the gamut from shock to fury to annoyance and now…amusement?

“What’s so funny?” she demanded angrily, pulling self-consciously at the hem of her skirt. She grimaced, swearing to herself and on every dead relative that came to mind that she could eat her own hair before ever going near another dress again. If possible, she felt more grimy and sore than she had yesterday; although she didn’t feel half as exhausted. Who know spending the night with a vampire would be so relaxing?

The vampire in question was smirking at her still, and she was filled with an overwhelming desire to stick her tongue out at him. She held back at the last moment, realizing that, him being the sort of man he was, it was bound to give him ideas.

“Nothin’, luv,” he said, trailing his gaze over her body. She shivered when his eyes met hers again. There was something new there, some new emotion that had her heart racing. It wasn’t the lust that he normally projected—although that sure as hell affected her in shiver-inducing ways—but something else. Something deeper.

No! Buffy thought, feeling the panic rise in her. God, she needed to get a grip. Vampire equals evil. Sexy, yes, but evil. No deeper emotions. He was probably keeping her here for some evil plot, or…or…

“Why are you keeping me here?” she asked, hoping that this time, maybe, she would get a straight answer.

Spike regarded her quietly for a moment, contemplating an answer that she would accept. He considered sitting her down and explaining everything, telling her about how Dru’s visions had led to her capture, how he hadn’t wanted anything to do with her and now he couldn’t bear the idea of letting her go. No, that would probably only frighten her—he was coming to find that very little frightened this golden beauty more than something she didn’t understand, or couldn’t explain. Best keep it simple.

“Jus’ want to get you cleaned up, luv, like I said,” he answered gently. He wanted more than anything to put her at ease. “Keep you safe. You can have a bath, rest a bit, and when the sun goes down I’ll get some bandages and fix you up right proper.” Show you all that I can give you. Wipe your mind of whatever git is waiting for you back home.

Buffy had to work to keep her jaw from dropping. He wanted her to take a bath? He wanted to heal her? This had gong beyond weird, this had entered Twilight Zone territory.

“Why?” she asked finally.

There it was, the million dollar question, and Spike had no answer. Well, that was a lie—he had a thousand answers, none of which made sense to him and none which he was willing to share. He knew they would not be welcomed.

“I…” he paused. “I don’ know.”

Buffy watched him for a moment, chewing her lip as she tried to assess how serious he was.

“So let me get this straight,” she said. “You have me kidnapped, threaten me with torture, rescue me from torture, abandon me with the torturer, save me from certain death, and now you’re holding me hostage in a motel room so that you can heal the wounds that, in the long run, you inflicted?”

Spike raised one eyebrow. “Well, actually, I wasn’ the one who had you kidnapped. That was Dru—” he stopped when the girl held up a hand.

“Not the point,” she said, closing her eyes and breathing deeply. “Everything else is…about right?”

Spike nodded slowly, bracing himself for anything. He’d seen this girl put up a fight—he would have been able to overpower her easily, had it come to that, but if she thought he meant her harm, he had no doubt that she could cause damage.

Buffy was tired. Tired of trying to second-guess every move that everyone made, tired of searching for hidden motives where they may or may not have been. Nothing that had happened so far made any sense to her, but she was getting used to it. And as odd as it sounded, she wanted to trust Spike.

Right now, a bath sounded perfect.

With a small nod, she turned and strode toward the bathroom.

The bathwater was cold by the time Buffy roused herself out of it, dripping wet and shivering. The minute she had entered the bathroom she’d run the water as scalding as possible, filling it with as many scented soaps and bubbles as she could find in the limited resources of the motel cupboards and shedding her grimy little black dress. She had been tempted to throw the thing in the trash—or maybe flush it down the toilet—until she realized that it was the only clothing she had, and no way was she walking around out there in a towel. Things had been tense enough when all clothes were on. So instead she’d opted to soak it in the sink, scrubbing at every stubborn bloodstain until she was sure that the fabric would wear away.

The bath had been heaven. A solid two-hour block of heaven. The soap had stung some of her more open wounds at first, but it went a long way toward cleaning them, too, and a quick inspection had revealed that—as long as Spike made good on his promise of antiseptics—it was doubtful that they would infect.

Spike. Buffy’s mind immediately strayed to the blond vampire in the next room as she carefully toweled off, mindful not to disturb developing scabs and sore muscles. Actually, she was feeling considerably less sore, her wounds healing into scabs faster then they had in the past. Maybe it has something to do with vampire inflicted wounds, she thought, ignoring the nagging voice in her mind that was arguing that vamp wounds should heal slower, not faster. Still, for whatever reason, she was well on the road to complete recovery—more than she’d ever thought was possible in such a short time. And as much as she hated to admit it, she had to give credit where credit was due. If Spike had left her in the alley—or even left her in his car—instead of caring for her as he had, allowing for her to sleep in a comfortable bed and have a warm bath, it was doubtful that she would be healing as she was. Hell, it was doubtful that she would still be alive.

Which brought her back to the never-ending vicious circle where logic tried frantically to justify fact, and failed miserably. Logic insisted that vampires were brainless, heartless killing machines. She should know; she’d experienced it, watched while one had snapped the neck of a kind, innocent girl. The memory haunted her still.

And yet, she couldn’t ignore the fact that Spike had been…well, not heartless, that was for sure. She wouldn’t go so far as to say kind, but he hadn’t been heartless. Violent, definitely—although not towards you, her inner voice pointed out—threatening, certainly—although not lately, came the retort—Sexy?—unbelievably—but not heartless. Never heartless. For a leather-clad creature of the night, Spike wore his emotions on his sleeve. One look into those deep blue eyes and Buffy had seen every conflict, every bit of pain and confusion and passion that he felt. No two ways about it, evil or not, soul or not, Spike was not heartless.

Okay, so he has heartfelt reasons for taking care of me, she thought acidly. That still doesn’t shed light on the situation.

Wrapping herself in the towel, Buffy reached for the hair dryer, running her fingers through the tangles as she let the warm air do its work. The fact remained that she was stuck in a hotel room with the blonde vampire, at least until nightfall. This brought on a variety of reactions, the first and foremost being the gleeful jig that Devil-Buffy was dancing. She hadn’t forgotten the mind-blowing orgasm that she could have had, had Sane-Buffy not pushed him and his fabulous fingers away. Devil-Buffy wanted to get down and dirty with the man, now, for as long as was physically possible. Devil-Buffy was contemplating the size of his…package, remembering the considerable bulge she had seen in his pants when she had been tied to the bed. How would his length feel in her hand? Her mouth? Buried between her thighs?

“Oh God…” Buffy moaned, remembering the way his hands had felt on her skin, sending shocks to her core. No one had ever affected her the way he did. Figures, she thought, her fingers slipping beneath her towel to flick her tingling nub. She shivered with guilty pleasure, imagining his hands, his tongue. The perfect guy comes along and he just happens to be undead.

Her eyes fluttered shut as she dipped her fingers lower, bringing the juices up to circle her clit. She moaned softly, wishing that it was him kneeling before her, working that talented mouth on her pussy. It could be, Devil-Buffy whispered treacherously. You know he wants you. You know you want him. You’re drenched for him. You haven’t gotten any in years—hell, you’ve hardly gotten any at all—and the moment you find a guy that turns you on, what do you do? Pretend you have a boyfriend so the good touchies will STOP!

Sane-Buffy was trying desperately to justify her actions, insisting that she didn’t want to be anyone’s one-night-stand, that she couldn’t put herself in such a vulnerable position with a man she didn’t know, a man who was a known murderer. Sane-Buffy was having trouble making her point, though, while Devil-Buffy was plunging her fingers into her quim, supplying sinfully wicked images of Spike on his knees, worshipping her pussy with his tongue.

“Ooh…yes…” she moaned breathlessly as tiny shocks of pleasure rippled through her. She was on her back on the bathroom floor now—when had that happened?—writhing under her own hand as she fantasized about the vampire in the next room. He was grinning wickedly at her, his fingers never ceasing their attentions on her pussy as he kissed his way up her body (the towel had conveniently disappeared) latching onto one of her nipples with his mouth and suckling on it. Buffy brought her other hand to her mouth, laving her fingertips with her tongue and brining them to her left breast, tweaking and rolling her erect nipple to duplicate what Spike was doing in her mind. She could feel herself approaching the edge, and she hurried her ministrations, rubbing herself frantically as she got closer and closer to her release.

“Yes…” she breathed. “Oh…ooh…Oh God…”

Buffy was no stranger to orgasms. Despite having only one sexual experience in under her belt—and a failed one at that—she had done her fair share of masturbating in her twenty-four years. She wasn’t a nympho or anything, but she wasn’t above experimenting with her body for a little satisfaction. On her twenty-first birthday, her best friend Kathy had made a show of presenting her with a number of naughty sex toys, most of which Buffy had ended up enjoying at one time or another when she’d been feeling particularly horny.

This one blew them all away.

“Oh…Ooh…YES! SPIIIIIIKE!!!” Buffy wailed as the most powerful release she had ever experienced ripped through her, sending her spiraling out of her body and up to the stars. She came down panting and sweating, reeling from the blissful waves of release that were coursing through her. Her dream Spike faded away as the harsh light of the bathroom ceiling fan permeated her post-orgasmic haze. Suddenly, her heavy breathing sounded too loud, her back sticking uncomfortably to the damp towel that had fallen open sometime during her fantasy. Oh God, she though, pushing herself into a sitting position on the cold linoleum. Her compromising position, not to mention her proximity to the very vampire she had been fantasizing about, came rushing back to her. She threw a worried glance at the door, remembering something Kathy had said about motel room walls being thin as paper.

She gulped nervously. How loud had she been?

*~~~*~~~*~~~*

Spike had begun pacing furiously the moment his golden girl had retreated to the bathroom. The girl…he frowned, realizing suddenly that he had not idea what her name was. Christ, how could he still not know her name? So much had happened in such a short time, so much had changed. Here he was, brooding like his ponce of a grandsire, risking everything for and pining after a human—and he didn’t even know the chit’s name!

He had just resolved to find out the moment she emerged when he heard the oddest sound coming from the bathroom. It was high and keening, almost breathy, and he immediately crept closer to the door, sliding into gameface so that this hearing was enhanced.

“Ooh…yes…” a female voice moaned. Spike’s eyebrows shot up as he recognized the sound of his girl’s voice. Well well, he thought, smirking. What do we have here? His nostrils were picking up the scent of her arousal as it rolled off her in waves. More breathy moans and needy whimpers traveled through the bathroom door, and Spike’s smirk widened, his semi-hard cock—he never seemed to go completely soft when she was around—turning to steel in his jeans. So, his girl was diddling herself, was she? An image of her, lying on her back on the bathroom floor, her tanned thighs spread wide as she played with clit and her sweet, succulent tits sprang into his mind and he groaned, reaching down to his mammoth erection and stroking himself through his jeans.

“Yes…” another breathy whimper, “Oh…ooh…Oh God…”

Christ! Spiked thought, his jaw clenching as he stroked his throbbing cock. Was she trying to kill him? For a moment, he seriously considered joining her in the bathroom, just slipping in and suggesting that they…help each other out. But no, as had as it was—as hard as he was—he held back. Instead, he slowly released himself from his pants, hissing as his cock jumped out and into his hand. He began stroking his length steadily, wishing that it was her hot little hand squeezing him…or even better, her mouth…those shiny pink lips sliding up and down his shaft as she took him in deeper and deeper…

“Unn…fuck…” Spike swore under his breath as he pumped himself harder, imagining threading his fingers through her golden tresses as she deep throated him, swallowing and moaning around him. He felt himself begin to tremble with his impending orgasm as his balls tightened. He wasn’t particularly eager to cum in his hand, but at the moment he didn’t see much of an alternative. He braced himself against the bathroom door, stroking himself furiously. He was so bloody close…

“Oh…Ooh…YES! SPIIIIIIKE!!!”

Spike’s eyes shot open when he heard his girl, screaming his name—his name!—as she came. He shot his load into his hand, shaking as his orgasm shuddered through him. Bloody hell, he thought, panting for unnecessary breath. She’d screamed his name! She’d brought herself off, thinking about him! Not some pissant human boyfriend—the girl was turned on by the Big Bad. The thought made him hard again almost instantly. Was that even possible? Buggering hell, this woman did amazing things for his—already quite impressive—libido.

Spike tucked himself away gingerly, wiping his spendings on his pant leg and backing away from the bathroom door. Knowing what he knew now, his first instinct was to grab her, toss her onto the bed and shag her senseless. In fact, every part of him—including his newly raging hard-on—was demanding that he do just that. Now that he knew how much she wanted him, his demon was screaming for him to take her, to mark her, to claim her as his…

To claim her?

Shit.

Spike froze as the bathroom door opened just a crack. He heard the shallow breathing of his golden girl as she stuck her head out just slightly, her face flushed and her eyes bright. She bit her lip and chewed it gently as she met his eyes, glancing down at the ground shyly. Spike smirked again, charmed by her sudden modestly. She was so fucking adorable.

“’Lo, pet,” he said, clearing his throat when his voice came out rough and unused. His smirk broadened as her blush deepened and he caught his tongue between his teeth, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Have a nice bath?”

Buffy gulped, her mouth going dry as she watched his tongue waggle. God, did he know what that did to her? He probably did. He probably knew exactly how she had fantasized about that tongue, how it made her knees feel all jello-y to think of the many things that he could (no doubt) do with it.

Dammit, how the hell was she supposed to keep her hand off this man?

“Yes, thank you,” she said, praying that that breathy voice wasn’t hers. Jesus, could she sound any more desperate? She might as well just throw herself on the bed and spread her legs wide. Mmm…

Get it together, woman! You came out her to tell him something!

“My dress,” she blurted, and blushed deeper when he arched an eyebrow at her. Lord, she was hopeless. Every move he made, every quirk of an eyebrow made her cream in her panties. Not that she was wearing any.

“What about it, pet?” he asked. Ooh, that voice…meltage.

“It…it was all gunky,” she said, forcing herself to meet his eyes. He probably hadn’t heard what she’d been doing in the bathroom at all. She had no reason to be embarrassed. He probably thought she’d lost her mind—she had to stop acting so jittery! “So I washed it.”

He smirked again, and felt her face reach inferno temperatures. Great, now he definitely thought she’d lost it.

“That’s good, then,” he said, and Buffy could hear the amusement in his voice. “Wouldn’t want to walk around in a gunky dress.”

Buffy grimaced at him. “Yeah, well,” she said, feeling incredibly stupid all of a sudden, “just wanted to warn you that I’m going to be walking around in a bathrobe and…that’s why.”

She pulled the white robe tighter around her, cinching the belt roughly and stalking out of the bathroom. When she had made the decision to wash her dress instead of throwing it out completely, she hadn’t taken into account the fact that it might take a while to dry. Thank God she had managed to find a robe in the bathroom, therefore sparing herself the embarrassment of a towel. Why had she felt the need to warn him, anyway? It wasn’t like he cared. It wasn’t like he was half as affected by her body as she was by his. Besides, the robe covered more than that skimpy dress ever had. Sure, she wasn’t wearing anything under it, and it happened to hug her curves in strategic places, but that was no reason to post warning signs.

God, when had she turned into such a ditz?

Around the time a certain sexy vampire melted your brain, a snide little voice replied.

Spike, for his part, was having trouble remembering that he didn’t need to breathe. As he drank in the sight of her, stalking angrily toward the opposite bed, he sent up a silent thanks to whoever had invented summer robes. Short, thin and a size or so too small, the garment may have concealed more than her dress had, but not by much. Through the straining material, Spike could see her pert nipples, and the line of her thong was non-existent. Fuck, he thought, feeling himself harden as she arranged herself against the pillows on the bed. There was no way in hell he was going to last the day without touching her.

Arranging his duster so that it concealed his burgeoning erection, Spike reclined on the other bed, closing his eyes and crossing his arms behind his head. His demon was raging at him to touch her, taste her, be near her, while William was yearning to talk to her, learn about her, see her smile. They had spoken for a little while when she had first woken up, but somehow the conversation had gravitated toward him. His life (or unlife), his motives (or lack thereof), and his relationship with his sire (or what remained of it). Spike frowned slightly as, once again, his demon barely reacted to the thought of Drusilla. Whereas before, just the mention of his beautiful sire inspired longing, devotion, and a number of physical reactions, now there was only mild annoyance that she could cast him aside so easily, and the familial connection that would always bond the two of them, to each other and to Angelus. To Darla, too, but his great-grandsire wasn’t exactly an issue anymore since Angelus’ hero complex had taken care of her last year. It troubled him that he could forget Dru so easily—and yet, at the same time, it felt…liberating. Before now, he’d never seen his sire as a burden, content to put up with her insanity, her mind games and the occasional “punishment” in the name of love.

Now that he’d met his golden girl, things were different. He still needed a plan, some course of action to take once night fell. Not that his plans had ever really amounted to much—he’d always been too impulsive, too impatient to mastermind plots and all that rot. That was Angelus’ cuppa, not his. He’d take a good brawl, a fight with fists and fangs over a kill of “cunning and finesse”, as his grandsire had once put it. Not that Spike had any plans to kill this girl—he didn’t even feel any great desire to turn her. After his disastrous first attempt at siring—just days after his own resurrection—Spike had avoided turning anything but minions. Aside from that, the primary reason why he was reluctant to turn the girl was…her heat. Her light. He hadn’t nicknamed her his “golden girl” just because of her gold hair and bronzed skin. Dru had called her Sunshine, and rightfully so. She radiated light. Life. Warmth. Things he was supposed to loathe and destroy—and yet, he was drawn to her. The idea of snuffing that light made him physically ill.

Right, so, no killing, no siring, he decided, nodding firmly. The remaining options weren’t quite as simple. He knew now—knew that his demon wanted to claim her. Hell, it was raging for it, demanding it. The thought was daunting, to say the least. Sure, he’d been eager to mate in his younger days, but since Dru’s rejection, the idea had lost its luster. He had resigned himself long ago to never mating—Drusilla was the only one for him, and if she didn’t want to mate, well, that was that. Spike cracked an eye open and watched the girl as she fiddled with the remote control, flipping through the channels on the telly. There was no denying that the bird was beautiful—not that he had ever tried. She had spunk, too—he didn’t have much experience with human women, but judging from the ones he had eaten over the years, she was surprisingly brave. Any other woman would have been driven round the bend at this point. She was resourceful, too, and reasonably intelligent. All things considered, it wasn’t hard to understand why his demon wanted her as a mate—besides the problem of her humanity, that was. He’d never heard of a vampire being mated to a human. His ponce of a grandsire hadn’t even claimed that Slayer of his, no matter how bloody in love with her he’d professed to be.

Love. Spike blew out a sigh. He had no doubt that—as attracted as he was to her—he would have no problem falling in love with the girl. But her loving him—that was another matter entirely. There was no divorce in claims, no changing your mind when you realized “Oh, I don’t like this person as much as I thought I did.” Claims were forever, and they couldn’t fabricate feelings. In his campaign to keep William from claiming his precious childe, Angelus had told tales of vampires that had claimed their mates against the will of the one claimed. They were gruesome stories of growing hatred and discontent, unrequited love that grew into resentment and deceit and generally ended in a dusty ending for one or both of the parties.

Spike had already spent an eternity in a relationship of unrequited love. He wasn’t all that bloody eager to get back to it.

*~~~*~~~*~~*

Buffy was in daytime television hell.

Oprah was consoling a sobbing housewife as she detailed exactly how her husband was a cheating bastard. A smiling soccer mom explained why her cleaning detergent kept her freakishly happy family sparkly clean. A variety of attractive people were sucking the juices from ostrich eggs for money. Spongebob was trying to convince Squidward of the merits of customer service.

Buffy was contemplating suicide.

In her current situation, suicide would be considerably easy—consisting of turning to the vampire lying in the bed next to hers and declaring Okay, you can kill me now. What? Oh no, I’m not crazy, I’ve just been watching mind-numbing television for the past half-hour, and I’ve realized that life’s just not worth it. No messy stains on the sidewalk, or the uncomfortable business of shoving a knife somewhere into her person. Not that she had a knife. Or a building to throw herself off of.

Buffy risked a glance toward her vampire companion, her mouth nearly dropping open when she realized that he was sleeping. That was almost insulting. Here she was, perfectly able to get up and walk out that door into the sunlight, and he was slumbering peacefully like he didn’t even care. Her gaze flicked toward the door, then back to Spike. She could go. She should go. This could be her only chance of getting out of here alive.

Not that he’d really shown any interest in killing her. Not since coming to the motel, anyway. And really, after everything that had been happening—well, she really wasn’t sure that she wanted to leave. Devil-Buffy was reminding her, forcefully, of the tinglies that he inspired, tinglies in that down-low area she hadn’t once felt for a man outside a movie screen (or a centerfold).

Spike shifted slightly, his hand traveling downward to scratch his stomach—his unbelievably toned stomach—as he murmured something unintelligibly. Buffy had to hold back a moan as his tongue darted out to wet those full lips of his. Oh God, did he want to kill her? Because at this rate, she was highly likely to drown in the drool she was producing. He looked so…angelic. So peaceful as he slept. The fact that his chest didn’t rise and fall as it was supposed to didn’t bother her as much as she though tit would. When he lay completely still, he looked like a statue. Like one of those beautiful, white marble Roman statues. Granted, he was lying down, and he had far too many clothes on (a problem that Devil-Buffy was more than happy to rectify, although Sane-Buffy managed to hold her back) but all in all, the likeness was there.

Buffy flopped back against the pillows with a defeated sigh. Devil-Buffy had won, fair and square. A sinfully gorgeous man was holding her hostage with no foreseeable intent to harm her. In fact, if anything, it seemed as though he planned to seduce her. Buffy felt a rush of tingles flood her. Nope, she wasn’t going anywhere.

Not that she was going to give in. No siree, no giving in for her. She just wasn’t going to leave. There was a big difference. Heck, it would serve him right if she did leave. Teach him to be such a careless kidnapper. Honestly, did he know nothing about being a proper villain?

Buffy huffed in his direction, crossing her arms over her chest and punching the off button on the remote, cutting short the insipid little song that an animated cow was singing. Bouncing around on the bed a bit until she found a comfortable position and sighing loudly, Buffy snuck another furtive glance in the vampire’s direction, glowering when he didn’t even stir.

“Stupid vampire,” she muttered. Here she was, graciously (stupidly) giving up a perfectly good escape opportunity. The least he could do was wake up and acknowledge it.

With another giant sigh, Buffy wrapped herself in the coverlet and reclined against the headboard, resigning herself to mentally redecorating the apartment.

*~~~*~~~*~~*

She wasn’t leaving.

Spike swore he could feel his heart beating. He had been lying there, eyes shut, breath stilled, giving the best impression he could of the inanimate corpse he became in sleep—and she hadn’t moved. He knew she’d noticed his vulnerable position, could feel her heartbeat accelerate as she’d battled her indecision, rustling the covers, muttering about his stupidity, but she hadn’t done the one thing he’d expected her to do. She hadn’t gotten up and walked out into the sunlight.

He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. Stupid bint, didn’t she know this was her last chance? After this, there would be no going back. If she didn’t leave now, there was no fucking way he’d be able to let her go later. He might as well have opened the door for her. Practically offered to drive her home. But she just sat there, oblivious. Like she wanted to stay.

He wouldn’t let himself believe that that meant what he thought it meant. He wouldn’t give in to the hope that she might actually want him, want to be with him. She had too much bottled up vamp-hatred for that. He’d seen the type. It had been a while since the force of it had been directed at him, though, and it was surprisingly frustrating. In her eyes, he was instantly held responsible for all the evil in the world. And yeah, while he might have been a big part of it—at this, he barely suppressed a smug smile—but he wasn’t the only one out there.

Spike waited a moment longer, listening as the girl quietly hummed the theme song to Gilligan’s Island. He had listened to her rant about daytime television with amusement, barely able to keep himself from snatching up the remote and flipping to Passions. Bloody brilliant show. He’d discovered the merits of it during his days as an invalid in Sunnyhell, but he hadn’t been near enough to a telly since then to catch up on the more recent installments.

“Din’t know you fancied the classics, pet,” he rumbled, grinning when he felt her jump.

Buffy shot him a withering glare, wishing that her blood didn’t heat up the way that it did whenever she heard that sinful voice of his. So, now he chooses to grace me with his presence, huh? she thought, determined to ignore the fluttering in her stomach—and possibly lower.

“Classics?” she snorted, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “You’re one to talk.”

Spike swung his legs over the side of the bed and stretched, long and languid, his muscles bunching and then relaxing under that tight black tee of his. Buffy felt her mouth go dry. Whuh.

“What’s that supposed to mean, luv?” he asked lazily, leaning back just slightly so he was propped up against the headboard, facing her, his arms resting on his thighs in such a position that his hands managed to oh-so-conveniently frame the part of his anatomy that Buffy was determined to forget even existed. Not looking there, not looking there, not looking there…

“Just that you were probably around when that stuff was being filmed,” she frowned, realizing that she had no idea how old he was. “Or before that. Was it before that?” she met his eyes curiously, silently congratulating herself on finding a distraction from those enticingly placed hands. He quirked an eyebrow at her, that irresistible smirk of his back in full force.

“Interested in my past, are we, kitten?” he asked, and Buffy felt a thrill at the new nickname. “Or is it just more of that vamp fascination of yours?”

Buffy glowered at him. “I was just curious,” she grumbled, turning away. Vamp fascination, my ass. It’d be a cold day in hell before she admitted to giving a crap about anything where he was concerned. Spike was silent for a moment, and Buffy had to physically restrain herself from glancing his way again.

“Tell you what, luv,” he said finally. “As long as we’re playin’ twenty questions an’ all, I’ll answer yours if you answer mine.”

Buffy perked up at that, swinging around to pin him with a skeptical look. She could feel her heart leaping at his words—he wanted to ask her something? What could he possibly want to know about her?

“Okay,” she replied slowly. After all, if they were going to be stuck there until sundown, they might as well do something. She waited expectantly, feeling suddenly excited. This was good; this was something she could focus on. Something besides unbearable daytime television or her own raging hormones.

“Before that,” Spike said simply. “My turn.”

It took Buffy a moment to realize what he was talking about. When she realized he was saying before Gilligan’s Island, she scowled.

“That’s not an answer,” she said, her scowl turning into a pout as he laughed at her. “I’m not answering your questions if you don’t play fair.”

Spike grinned. She was bloody adorable when she pouted. He’d never thought he was the playful type—he’d never had the opportunity to try. Dru didn’t take well to teasing. But messing with this girl was too much fun to resist.

“But that was the question, luv,” he said, blinking innocently. Buffy felt the corner of her mouth twitch into a smile before she squashed the impulse.

“Nuh-uh,” she said, shaking her head sternly. “You’re not getting out of this one, mister. Answer the real question.”

“And that would be…?”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight,” he replied promptly. Buffy rolled her eyes.

“Not what I meant, smarty-pants,” she said, and Spike grinned mischievously. Buffy felt her breath catch in her throat as she looked at that smile. It wasn’t one of his usual cocky, shiver-inducing smirks. This was a smile of pure enjoyment, of mischief. It gave him a boyish charm that she’d never seen in him before. It lit up his face, made his blue eyes sparkle. For the first time since she’d seen him in gameface, she honestly forgot that he was a vampire.

Of course, his next words served as a jarring reminder.

“I was turned in 1880,” he said with a shrug. “You do the math.”

Buffy gaped at him, her mind racing through the calculations as she tried to comprehend what this meant. Turned in 1880 when he was twenty-eight, that would make him…

“One hundred and fifty-four?” she squeaked, her brain barely computing this information. Dear God, he was…old.

Spike watched her warily as it sank in, surprised to find that he was nervous for her reaction. He wasn’t used to feeling ashamed of his age—age was a source of pride to vampires. He was only a century and a half, and already he was a master vampire with three slayers under his belt. And now, faced with the disbelief in this one girl’s eyes, he found himself wishing he were younger.

Buffy cleared her throat, then offered him a weak smile. “You look good.” Spike laughed appreciatively, breathing an inward sigh of relief. His respect for the girl multiplied tenfold.

“My turn now, luv,” he said, and Buffy nodded. She seriously doubted that she could top that one (one hundred and fifty four!) but she was eager to answer his questions so that she could ask the thousands that were bubbling up inside her. There was so much he woud have done, could have seen…had he traveled? Learned languages? Met people that she had only read about in textbooks? She was so wrapped up in imagining his past that she almost missed his question.

“Sorry?” she asked, blushing when he looked at her with one eyebrow raised.

“Name, luv,” he said gently. “What’s your name?”

Buffy’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you serious?” she asked. “You honestly don’t know my name?”

Spike looked irritated. “Well, no,” he said. Bloody bint made it sound like it was his fault. “I don’t recall you ever offering that information, luv.”

“Well, no,” Buffy spluttered, turning over the events of the past two days in her mind. It felt like she had been through so much with him. It was a bit insulting that he would go through the trouble of holding her captive and not bother to find out her name. “I just thought, since you kidnapped me…”

Spike barely contained the growl that coursed through him. “I told you, I din’t kidnap you. That was Dru. And I don’t think she even knew your name. Kept callin’ you Sunshine.”

“Yeah, but still…” Buffy muttered petulantly. Damn him for making sense. She sighed, keeping her gaze trained on the coverlet. “It’s Buffy,” she muttered. She wasn’t ashamed of her name. Really, she wasn’t. It was a perfectly respectable name, as most names went, and it had fit her pretty well for most of her life. Now, though, telling his bad-ass, one hundred and fifty-four year old vampire, it felt…silly.

“Buffy?” Spike said the word slowly, as though trying it out on his tongue. Buffy felt a shiver course through her. Maybe silly wasn’t the right word—he made her name sound positively sinful.

“Yeah,” she replied, glancing up at him. “Buffy Summers.” He was watching her intently. She bit her lower lip, waiting for him to pass judgment. She’d experienced a variety of reactions to her name—at this point, the absolute worst thing he could have done was laugh.

Spike didn’t laugh. Sure, it had been his first impulse, but he wasn’t a complete idiot. He’d caught that glimpse of insecurity in her eyes when she’d said it—for whatever reason, she cared about what he thought. She cared if he thought her name was laughable. And even if he thought it was a bloody awful name (which is was) he was damned if he was going to tell her that. She was laughing with him, teasing him—trusting him. For once, he wouldn’t let his big mouth ruin that.

“Think I ate a cheerleader named Buffy once,” he said casually.

Buffy’s head shot up, her eyes wide with shock. Sure, he hadn’t laughed, but God! She opened her mouth to tell him just how disgusting he was, just what she thought of his eating people, when she caught the look on his face. He was grinning at her, his eyes dancing merrily as he took in her disbelief. She closed her mouth with a snap. He was teasing her!

Picking up a pillow, she hauled off and threw it at his head. He caught it, still laughing, and she stuck her tongue out at him.

“Meany,” she grumbled, trying valiantly to keep from smiling. After a minute, she gave up, erupting in giggles.

If, forty-eight hours ago, someone had told Buffy she would be spending the day in a darkened motel room, laughing with a one hundred fifty-four year old vampire, she probably would have kicked them in the groin and doused them in pepper spray.

Now that she was here, though, she couldn’t help wondering it maybe, finally, things were looking up.