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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.





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