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Dawn couldn't sleep.

She knew it was her own fault, for being so freakin' paranoid and having a crazy, wild imagination that simply couldn't leave well enough alone and just accept the fact that her sister was having wild monkey sex with her vampire lover and just wanted a bit of privacy.

That *was* what was going on -- wasn't it?

She had been terribly worried from the moment she and her mother had left Buffy and Spike's room, scared to death that something was going to go terribly, horribly wrong -- and Spike would be completely alone to have to deal with the consequences of it.

Then, when Buffy had called and told her that the mating ritual had gone off perfectly, but now they wanted to wait until morning -- she had to confess, it had seemed a little odd to her. She had tried to think positively, tried to not worry and give them space.

After all -- they had just experienced a very profound, very powerful thing. It only stood to reason that they would want a little bit of privacy to adjust together, to get used to the changes in their bond without her and her mother around to make things seem awkward and -- well, just a little bit icky.

But after several hours had passed with no word from the Slayer or the vampire, Dawn had been too anxious to simply let it go. She had figured that she could just make a quick call. If she was -- er -- interrupting them...well, then, a bit of embarrassment was a small price to pay for making sure that her best friend -- and her sister, for that matter -- were indeed safe.

But her conversation with Spike had left her *more* worried, rather than less.

It seemed odd, the light, cheerful sort of tone he had used with her, the slightly inappropriate laughter at times when she knew him well enough to know that he usually would not have laughed -- his whole manner had seemed a bit -- well, *forced*.

She had wondered if she had been imagining it, but it had seemed to her at the time like he was rushing her to get off the phone -- just trying to get through the conversation and appease her so that he could hang up.

*Well, of *course* he was trying to hang up!* she berated herself, rolling her eyes at her own ignorance. *This is the vampire equivalent of his honeymoon -- and you're the annoying relative!*

Still -- something did not quite seem right to her.

Why had he actually acted *surprised* that she might be concerned -- as if there was no reason in the world for her to be afraid?

As if her sister had not tried to kill them both just a matter of a few short hours ago?

*No,* she thought again. *Something is *so* not right. Maybe I should call again...*

*But -- what if you're just being paranoid? What if you call again, and you just interrupt them again? They're gonna hate you in the morning...*

*But what if he's in danger? What if they need me? I should go over there...*

*Yeah -- and scar all of you for life! Right.*

"Great," she whispered aloud with no little sarcasm. "Now *I'm* the one who's turning into a schizo."

Dawn sighed heavily, rolling over in the bed, turning away from her mother, in the next bed. Joyce had willingly accepted Buffy's claim to want to wait until morning. Honestly, Dawn thought she probably just didn't really want to think about it much. For a mom who had learned far too much about her daughter's private affairs in the past few days -- Denial could be a beautiful thing.

Dawn closed her eyes, determined to forget her worries and go to sleep.

Surely she was just being paranoid.

There was nothing to worry about. Chances were incredibly good that Spike and Buffy were just making with the heavy duty smoochies -- and then some -- and wanted a little bit of privacy.

And if that was the case -- she was more than happy to grant them that privacy.

That *was* the case -- wasn't it?

*************************

Spike stared at the cruelly expectant, coldly smiling Slayer, one eyebrow slowly rising in a dubious look of disbelief. Had she *really* just said…?

“Come again?” he asked slowly, in a deathly cold, calm voice, a dangerous glint of anger in his crystal blue eyes at what she was suggesting.

The Slayer did not seem the least bit intimidated by his demeanor – if anything, she seemed to find it amusing.

After all – what did she have to be afraid of at the moment, anyway? He was the one chained to the bed and helpless, wasn’t he? he reminded himself with bitter self-disgust.

“You heard me,” she smirked, a soft sneer in her voice to match the hardness in her eyes. “*You’re* going to kill Dawn.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, love,” Spike said in a quiet, even tone that barely managed to cloak his rising anger, “your little mind control trick doesn’t work anymore. And as we’ve already established the fact that I’d rather die than see her hurt – I don’t see how you think you’re *ever* going to make that happen.”

“We’ve also already established that I have no desire to kill you,” the Slayer reminded him, a slightly teasing note to her voice, which faded away in an instant with her next words. There was a dark, chilling menace in her eyes of jade as they met his and she quietly made her point.

“Things change.”

He held her gaze, unflinching, though he felt his stomach drop at the calm, deadly tone of her voice and the slightly veiled threat of her words. But the fear of her killing him was nothing compared to the slight inkling of doubt in the back of his mind that kept wondering -- *was* there some way that she could manage to control his mind again, and force him to…?

Her dark, rich laugh filled his ears, as she shook her head, relenting slightly. “No – I don’t wanna kill you, Baby…” she assured him as she sat up a little more, keeping her eyes focused on his face as she arched her back and reached behind her to run her fingertips slowly up the inside of his thigh.

“I have much more interesting plans for you.”

Spike tensed under her touch, trying his best not to move or pull away, knowing that such a reaction would only give her the satisfaction of knowing that she was getting to him; she would see it as a victory, if a small one. He could feel her piercing gaze focused on him, watching him closely as she slowly trailed her hand upward, stopping within an inch of his exposed, vulnerable manhood.

Her soft, chilling laugh suddenly reminded him – he did not have to show his fear and disgust outwardly for her to know about it. She could *feel* it, through the bond he shared with Buffy.

And apparently, it was enough for her, for the moment.

She relented physically, her hand sliding back down his leg as she climbed off of him and stood up beside the bed, laughing cruelly at his fear. He warily opened his eyes, seeking her out, as he struggled to control the tremors he felt rising in his impossibly tensed muscles, of mingled dread and relief that filled him at the sudden absence of her invasive, unsettling touch.

“But we’ll have to get to that later,” she told him, leaning over him to caress his cheek in a casual, yet frighteningly intimate way that was designed to evoke fear, rather than pleasure. “We’ll have plenty of time,” she assured him with a sugary sweet smile of pure menace, as she met his wide, apprehensive blue eyes.

“But first,” she finished, turning and walking toward the table where she had dropped her shopping bag, “we’ve got a dominance ritual to finish. Don’t we?”

He stared at her for a long moment, though her back was turned to him and he could not see her face. He could hardly begin to process what she had said. How in the world did the dominance ritual tie in with…?

Then, suddenly – he understood.

She meant to complete the ritual, to defeat and dominate him and bring him back under the control she had lost when Buffy had allowed him to claim her – and then use her power over him to *force* him to kill Dawn. The very thought sent a chill of fear through him.

But – it wasn’t really possible – was it? She couldn’t actually…

“Don’t know how you mean to perform the bloody ritual with me chained to the soddin’ bed,” he pointedly out derisively, as a way to possibly make this work to his advantage suddenly occurred to him. “If you’ll recall, that was how *you* got out in the first place – they had to do the spell because the ritual can’t be done unless I’m free to fight back, pet!”

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, and the cool smirk he could hear in her voice sent a little shiver of dread down his spine, as she worked over the bag on the table, keeping her back to him so that he couldn’t see what she was doing. “When we get ready to do the ritual – you’ll fight me, all right.”

The cruel, evil pleasure of expectancy in her voice was dark and ominous and made him suddenly desperate to know what she was doing – what she had gone to Walmart in the middle of the night to buy – and at the same time, terrified to find out.

Then, the suspense was ended as she turned around to face him, her arms full of what had been the content of the shopping bag – and his stomach dropped at the sight of the objects she held.

She shrugged casually, smiling at the wide-eyed fearful look on his face, “Can’t guarantee you’ll be in any shape to *win* -- but you’ll most definitely be free to fight me.”

Although he knew by now that it was a useless effort, Spike could not help but pull against the chains that bound him, as she made her way slowly back toward him. The feeling of being trapped, helpless, began to overwhelm him, and he fought back a choking, smothering sense of panic as she reached his side.

Slowly, systematically, she laid her little toys down on the bed beside him, above his bound arms, inches from his head, deliberately allowing him to see each one as she laid it down.

Although he wanted very much to *not* think about it, his mind began a mental catalogue of her little arsenal as she carefully arrayed the implements of torture that she had gathered around him.

She must have truly frightened the cashier at Walmart, he thought, dressed all in her black leather, and purchasing the wide variety of different knives she had chosen. A few regular kitchen knives, relatively dull – but any knife could be sharp enough, with Slayer strength behind it, he reminded himself with a sense of dread – an exacto knife with a razor sharp, though tiny, blade – even a dangerous looking hunting knife that she had most likely picked up in sporting goods.

More alarming to the vampire than the knives, was the little black and red fire starter, the kind of long-handled lighter used for lighting candles or pilot light that had gone out – though he knew that she had a much darker purpose in mind for this one.

“Oh, and one more thing!” she announced with the giddy glee of a child at the carnival, as she climbed up on the bed to straddle his waist again, waiting until she was settled comfortably to reach into the pocket of the skin-tight leather pants.

He strained uselessly against the chains that held him there under her, biting his lip to keep from growling with frustrated fear.

“You know those little stands by the check outs with tacky little key chains and good luck charms and stuff?” she asked casually, taking out a small glass vial and holding it up with a vicious, vindictive little smile. “It’s amazing what passes for a good luck charm in a little out of the way California town populated mostly by Hispanic Catholics.”

It was a tiny bottle of holy water – and judging by the expression on her face – and the slight bulge still in the pocket of her pants – he was sure that it was not the only bottle she had bought.

A dark, heavy knot of foreboding formed in the pit of his stomach – but he fought it back valiantly.

Wouldn’t solve anything, losing his head now.

“So what’s your plan, then, pet?” he asked in a voice of boredom and mild curiosity, trying to mask his fear with calm unconcern. “Taking time out for a party before you get down to business? Bit unprofessional don’t you think?”

She chuckled, a low, dark sound in her throat. Her smile slowly faded with her laughter, until hard, glittering green eyes glared at him. “You really *are* stupid, aren’t you?” she commented flatly – not asking, stating a fact as she saw it. “It should be completely clear what I’m doing.”

“Well, why don’t you enlighten me, pet?” he suggested with a smirk that he knew would simply infuriate her. “Since I’m such a bloody moron – why don’t you explain to me what your brilliant little head’s concocted?”

The patronizing note to his voice, the mocking sparkle in his blue eyes, caused the Slayer’s expression to darken with anger, her eyes narrowing with menace.

“Personally,” she said, in an unearthly soft, dangerous voice, “I’ve always preferred object lessons. Much more effective.”

She twisted the cap off of the tiny bottle in her hand, tilting it slightly as she held it out over his chest. He tensed in anticipation, but she did not allow the fluid to spill out onto his skin – not yet, anyway.

“Here’s the thing, Baby,” she remarked softly, moving the bottle back and forth in a smooth, vicious little hovering dance.

She seemed to be very much enjoying her little game, tilting the bottle sharply – but not quite sharply enough – here and there – smiling as his wide eyes followed its every move, belying the casual defiance in his words, relishing his little gasp as she suddenly tipped it a bit further than she had yet, and he was sure that she was going to burn him with the holy water – but she didn’t.

“You’re right – for the ritual to work, you have to be free to fight me,” she conceded in a calm, quietly patronizing voice. She was silent for a moment – before she suddenly leaned forward, grabbing his hair and tilting his head back, poising the bottle over his throat – directly over the mark of Buffy’s claim on him.

His stomach leapt up into his throat with terror. Instinctively, he knew that she had chosen the most painful possible place to burn him – and she was not simply playing around this time.

Sure enough, in the next instant, she tilted the bottle a bit further, allowing a thin trickle of the liquid to flow out – onto the sensitive spot on his neck where her alter ego had made him hers.

He choked back a strangled cry of pain, biting his lip until it bled, breathing hard as he struggled not to reveal just how badly she had hurt him – but his very struggle was all the revelation she needed.

She laughed softly, pleased with the effect of her actions, as she leaned down closer, bringing her face within inches of his, as with her free hand she turned his face back toward hers, waiting until he reluctantly met her eyes, his own full of pain and a fear that he could not conceal.

“The ritual doesn’t say a thing,” she whispered, holding eye contact as her lips drifted suggestively nearer to the seared flesh of the mark, “about what condition you have to be in to participate in it, just that you have to be *free* to fight back. *Somebody’s* got to be the stronger party, right?”

Her smile widened slightly, as she lowered her lips in a soft, tender kiss that was agonizing against his badly injured skin, compounded by the natural sensitivity of the mark. He pulled weakly away with a stifled moan of pain, but her soft hand on his cheek was unyielding, refusing to allow him escape as she finished her leisurely affections to his wounded throat.

Finally, waiting long enough to make it clear that it was *her* decision to stop, she raised her lips from the wound, her hand caressing lightly through his hair in a mockery of affection and tenderness, and his heart sank as understanding came with her whispered words.

“You have to be free to fight me – no one ever said you had to be strong enough to win.”





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