Disclaimer: I own nothing of this series.

Summary: AU "Shadowkiss," Rose's POV. "There is a cave. There are faces, there is darkness. And there is blood. I emerge, Awakened."

Warnings: Violence (blood, gore). Non-graphic sexual content. Mental illness (metaphoric, literal). Cursing.

Author's Note: While plot points from the series are brought in or referenced, this story is more of a character study than a plot-driven retelling of the series.

Title from the song "We Live Underground" by Lights On.

::::

No More of You

::::

There is a cave. There are faces, there is darkness. And there is blood.

I emerge, Awakened.

In the mirror my eyes glimmer red. A severe new haircut intensifies my chin's sharpness. I drop the dull knife that hacked the tangled locks off, ridding myself of the hassle. I look older. I look commanding.

Necessary, with this lot of idiots.

They question too much, talk too much, hesitate too long. Without me nothing would be accomplished. I'm surprised they made it this far until I came along.

Nathan leans into the doorway behind me. He seems like someone who would stride his way into a room. The slouch sends a particular message about my position in his group. I have become a valuable member over the past week, once he stopped testing me.

His error. Underestimation would be his undoing. Plenty of people tested me before my Awakening. They saw my age or my body and assumed immaturity. In fact, the only one who never had was—

The thought breaks off, jagged and sharp in my brain. I deny it and turn around.

"Are we almost ready?"

"Nearly." He eyes me, searching for any weakness. Scanning my body, as well, from the heels of my black boots up the lacy edge of a strapless black dress. Its design echoes one of a particular lust-charm infamy. Finding it was intentional.

Done appreciating my skillful armor, he says,"Your information has proven accurate and valuable so far."

I bare my teeth in a grin. A promise. A warning. "Of course it has."

"Come." He turns his back to me. My fingers flex at the temptation. "They're waiting."

I follow.

: : :

The scene is perfect.

The wards are up, but we don't need them to be down tonight. The plan is simple, a show to weaken their morale and make them question their safety. And while Nathan thinks he came up with it all alone, I maneuvered myself to be the mouthpiece. I have my own goals.

Lingering in the shadows, I watch the sparse line—an illusion of greater numbers, hidden—at the gate. Our Awakened troops had created a blockade as the sun's rays disappeared, shocking the Guardian on duty. He squealed in fear: more than one of Nathan's men laughed in response. Now there is a milling of force on the other side of the line.

Unnerved, they posture defensively and attempt to keep their signals hidden. To most of ours, the signals are obscure or old. To my fresh eyes, unknowingly watching, they think we have a way to cross the wards. They are preparing for a siege. Our behavior is unusual enough to demand attention.

My shoulders re-settle, loose, as Guardian Petrov calls out, "You cannot pass the wards. Leave now or face your deaths."

A number of the troops laugh.

Her voice raises a notch higher. "What is your purpose here?"

"Time to deliver," Nathan's cold voice orders, too low for any but me to hear.

Grasping a branch below me, I swing my body in a graceful twist and land in a crouch between the troops and the Guardians. My fingers brush the ground, then my thighs, to straighten my clothes as I rise and balance on the sharp-heeled boots.

A surge of power lies in the way I unsettle all those faces I recognize.

One in particular makes me smile wider. Dimitri's unreadable face is not as emotionless as he thinks. I can read the lines of his shoulders and the curl of his fists. Oh, he does not understand how much more I am now—but he will, eventually.

He is mine.

"Purpose?" I call back to Guardian Petrov. How the blood has rushed from her face! "You already know the answer to that," I remind her, striding forward with an exaggerated sway to my hips. "You always knew all of my plans before they even happened." A light breeze ruffles my shortened hair as my toes stop just before the ward line. "Or am I not as predictable anymore?"

A brief silence is interrupted when Guardian Alto sneers, "You aren't going to get to the Princess, Rose." They shift into sterner, fiercer poses.

I tilt my head, a pose of curiosity. "I rather think that's up to Lissa. She's been missing me a lot, right? We don't have to still be separated."

"She'll never—" Guardian Alto begins.

Dimitri interrupts, his accent thicker underneath the flat tone. "What is your message?"

I purse my lips slightly, flutter my lashes. Taunting him, blatant as he'd never let me be pre-Awakened. "Ah, comrade, you still notice things about me no one else does. Why don't you come over here?" He hesitates. "I'll tell you."

The emphasis is clear. He's resolved when he moves forward. Guardian Petrov places a hand on his arm; he makes his case in a quickly muttered exchange. The other Guardians fade into the background as his argument is accepted. My eyes shamelessly drag up his lean, muscular body as he approaches. I remember the feeling of it moving over me, inside me. Oh yes. Mine.

Well-back from the boundary line, he stops. "This is not an attempt to take the Princess. You are not in charge of them," he gestures at the troops, "after… only a few days." A pause. Seething emotion is running underneath his mask.

I smile. He is the brilliant one.

"Your message," he repeats.

"Galina says hello, and that our stalemate in the caves was hardly a defeat for us," I say. My smile widens as his eyes narrow. "Also, thanks for the gift." I wave my hand up and down my own body. "She liked to see all that training passed on to your own student."

Guardian Petrov's face catches my eye for a moment. A snarl curls her lip. The sight is amusing, almost as much as Dimitri's failed attempt to appear unmoved by words from his own former mentor.

Duty done, I slip in a personal message. "And I say that I will have what's mine." A glimmer of understanding crosses his face only for a brief moment.

Still restrained by all that used to keep me back, too, he only says, "We will protect the Princess. Just like you would have wanted."

"And you? Who will protect you, Dimitri?"

A flash of alarm flickers, there and then gone. The Guardians at his back shift marginally. They probably guessed by now what I want, but lucky Dimitri: it looks one-sided. But I know, just like he does, that he is mine. After the cabin, claiming each other's bodies, before my fateful Awakening in the midst of a bloody rescue attempt…there was no way I'd let him go.

He knows that. It settles into the lines of his face.

"You can't leave me behind, comrade," I taunt, turning on my heel.

As much as I favor my new existence, that fact boils in my blood: none of them stayed for me. A desire for vengeance wars with my longing to possess him again. To this, he doesn't say anything.

"Neither can she," I add. "Through Lissa's eyes, there's so much to learn." I pause, glancing over my shoulder to watch their emotional responses. "You should probably call the Queen's plane now. They might be needing…backup."

The plane is still in the air, but not for long. Lissa spoke to the Queen before it took off and knew where it would land. That was all I could tell through the pain of the bond, but it was enough for us to send a group to attack near its location. Collateral damage to start off the game.

My triumphant laugh rings out when they start to panic. I, and my troops, take off at a run— though they will not be so foolish as to follow us out of the safety of their Academy.

But now, they will also be watching Lissa, aware that her eyes might not be her own. Enough pressure on that sore spot and eventually, she will rebel. She will make a mistake that will bring her back into my protective embrace. Awakened beside me, we will be unstoppable.

When she rebels, her Guardian will follow after her. Dimitri will chase his charge right out of the wards, both with his overprotective shadowing and also as he trails behind her in pursuit. He'll walk right into my arms, too.

: : :

Nathan's goal is to bring down the royal houses. My information catapulted his cause further than he'd get with just any Academy student. And in fitting so neatly into his plans, I am able to achieve my own. Motivations that are not entirely out of line with his, simply…unstated. Underneath the surface.

We operate in synchronicity because he thinks I am a strong yet simpering pupil. I allow him to think that the kisses on my throat are exciting, that his touches give him power over my actions.

When I have what is mine, we will leave devastation as we establish our own territory. Lissa, never out of my protection again. Dimitri, finally mine without hesitation or restrictions. This is an intoxicating dream of our future.

The goal keeps me moving through the long days. I train robotically, unceasingly, whenever I am not hunting and feeding or in counsel with Nathan. I also battle through the strange pain of the bond to keep an eye on Lissa's breaking point—a task that becomes harder when she starts to block me from her mind.

My frustration, then, leads me to human nightclubs and the throats of pathetic human males. After a dance or a grind or heavily pawing at my body in a bathroom, they become a meal.

My patience is quickly wearing out when, one day, I am dragged into the pain of the bond and watch through a wavering, unsteady connection as she speaks to someone else who has the glow of a spirit user.

"—save someone—if you charge a stake with—" His voice ripples in and out of audible range.

I snap out of it, hissing and clawing my head to try and ease the bond back into manageable pain. Any displeasing sensation is to be avoided. Yet it is such a useful tool to see into Lissa's mind that I accept her occasional incursions. Never of my choosing, always defying my attempts to block the agony, they are scattered but usually yield promising information.

I stride down the hall to find some grunt to kill, angry that I endured pain for nothing…until I realize that there was a recognizable background behind the man who had spoken to Lissa.

Oh, yes.

: : :

I do not question the tunnels that surround me. The darkness beneath Las Vegas feeds my strength, just like the blood of that runaway I drank less than an hour earlier. Pushing tentatively at the white-hot pain of the bond, I register that Lissa is still in the hotel above. She is surrounded by her friends. Besides Eddie, there is no Guardian with them.

Excellent. She finally ran off.

To my displeasure, Dimitri is not in her party.

I wait and kill one of my cannon fodder companions for breathing too loudly until, finally, a goon comes running full-tilt around the corner. A lookout. "Belikov is on his way," comes panting forth out of his mouth, and I beam in satisfaction. No Guardian would be too far behind a runaway charge, especially if he had some clue of where she was headed.

I grab the lookout by the throat and toss him back in the direction from which he'd come. "Lead me there." We cross two tunnels over and hear the footsteps. I step back and send the troops forward with the order, "Leave him for me."

Sauntering behind the swarm of them, I watch in delight as a handful of Guardians fight back against the assault. Three of mine die before the quartet of Guardians notices me lingering.

Dimitri is the one to see me first, of course.

He does not hesitate in his fight. That's what makes him the most powerful prize: a true warrior, oft compared to a god. I find that is no longer an accurate description. Instead, I liken him to one of the Awakened in his strength and drive. Irresistible.

I call out, "They won't kill you, you know, Dimitri. They have their orders."

He doesn't reply, but his next strike breaks a grunt's arm. They shriek and fall away.

I click my tongue. "Now, temper, temper." He'll be healed of that flaw he always struggles with once he joins me. "No need to be so eager."

Tired of waiting, I twist behind a lackey, using him as cover. Lunging underneath a flung arm, Dimitri turns to protect his far side from the lackey's punches and loses his line of sight on me. I sweep low to the floor, wait until he's dispatched the one he fought, and only then launch myself onto his back. My arms and legs wrap around his torso. In his ear, I whisper, "I'm right here."

The scent of his throat is intoxicating.

My indrawn breath comes out harshly as he slams us both back into the wall. The move squeezes my ribs close to crushing and my arms flex involuntarily. Pain triggers a hissing growl that let loose across his neck. My limbs fall and he is away in an instant, turning, ready to strike again.

Between my rage and disappointment at the loss of such pleasure, I almost don't lift my arms quickly enough. One wrist knocks a stake out of his hand. It clatters away to the floor, lost in the melee. Contact with it burns my hand.

My pained hiss exposes my fangs: I see him look, but his next punch doesn't waver. Infuriated, I snarl, "Why can't you just accept me? It's always been like this with you, always denial."

He doesn't answer. His expression is stone.

I swing a fist at him again. This time he's the one to barely block it. I remind him, "You cannot erase the fact that you belong with me. That was decided in the cabin. I will not give up what is mine."

His lips part, briefly, as he ducks my arm.

"Say it," I demand. My leg swings high in a kick that he ducks easily. "Don't hold back on me, now, comrade—say it."

Still he refuses.

I could pour on the anger, but instead, I realize that he is trying to trap me against the other Guardians. Many of my troops have been taken down, to my good fortune: I am able to maneuver my way over a staked body and use more as cover to retreat.

We make it a tunnel over before my desire wins out.

Just ahead of him, I pivot and pause, stretching my body against the wall, leaning as though I have not been running, arching my chest to show off the curves barely concealed under silky fabric.

Dimitri does not disappoint, his single-minded pursuit turning into slow pacing as he takes in my pose. His eyes flash about the tunnel, searching for a vantage point or trap.

He's the best, and he knows me. I'll forgive him for not following because of that.

"I suppose Lissa will just have to remain out of your reach."

That finally sparks his full and intent focus on me, and me alone. Awareness surges back into his eyes where I had not seen it lacking. "Where is she?"

I grin. "He speaks."

"The Princess," he demands, edging forward. "What have you done with her?"

Looking up and down the length of his glorious body, I purr, "You know what I want, and that's what I'll have before you see her again."

He stands still and silent. I lounge against the wall, breathing deeply and evenly to calm the raw energy that coursed through my body. When he's thought for long enough, I add, "She's been enjoying our company." And lick my lips, a blatant lie.

Dimitri's expression settles into a grim resolve. I say nothing more to encourage him, knowing his perception of honor will not allow him to do anything else, knowing his sense of responsibility will not allow him to take the risk. "Allow my companions to leave unharmed," he says. "And I will go with you to the Princess."

I push away from the wall. "Oh, they'll have taken care of those useless lackeys by now. They're fine."

"Then you need no bargain from me," he says slowly. The stoic mask is not enough to conceal his quickly-strategizing mind. "Just me. That's what you want."

My smile turns fully suggestive, promising, as I stride toward him.

Jarred from contemplating my behavior, he reaches for a stake. This is when he realizes that he had never retrieved it when I knocked it away. He was too rushed to come after me. The knowledge lights fear in his eyes—an emotion that makes me feel like soaring.

So I do, right into him.

His body is rigid as I pin him to the wall. Arms corded tightly with muscle resist my superior strength at his arms are pinned to his sides. He remains rigid as I nuzzle his chest, appreciating his scent. Restrained power courses through his veins.

"Must you be so eager to see her?" I murmur. "It's been so long since I saw you."

My lips press against his collarbone. I part his shirt with one hand to continue a trail down his chest.

"I am not here for this," he says. "Take me to the Princess."

The catch in his voice betrays him. While he clings to memories of a damaged, pre-Awakened version of me, I know the power of my own body.

"There's no reason we can't have a little fun on the way…"

"There are many," comes between gritted teeth at a near-whisper. As if he meant not to say it aloud, the words echo all the restraint he possesses.

But I do have a timeline, and have no care for holding back when being Awakened means I can have whatever I want. And while some of my troops are in place to secure the Princess they have not yet done so. I need to restrain my Dimitri before that happens.

So I trail my lips up to his ear to whisper, "One more thing."

I wait long enough for him to give in. There is no sweeter sound that his rough reply. "What?"

"How could your forget your own first lesson?"

He is a trained warrior, oft described as a god of combat. Rough fingers sink into my waist as soon as the last syllable has left my lips: while his mind is processing the implications of words, his body knows how to react to a threat. His body does not react in time.

My fangs pierce his neck. I am not comfortable when I gulp down a first draw of his blood, my stronger body fighting against being pushed away. But on the second sip I am curled back into his chest. My palms cradle his face and his body slackens against the wall, slowly sliding down until I am straddling his crumpled legs.

One hand sneaks into his duster to remove the cell phone that could also be used to track him.

I release him after five sips, licking the wound to staunch the bleeding. When I lean back, his expression is serene. I have no memory from my former life to compare it to, but I want more of it. I'm pleased that it will be seen again.

Now that I have part of what's mine.

: : :

The other Guardians find Lissa before my lackeys, which costs another one his head. But I have one of my prizes and that consoles me for a few days.

He is dazed most of the time. I keep him that way, admiring the way the lines on his face smooth out, how his strong muscles belie soft skin on his arms and torso. Two nearby goons carried him into my quarters and another brought the chains that I use as an extra precaution, but ever since, none have entered my small territory. Not even Nathan, who thinks I have my own personal food bank stored safely away and doesn't care because I keep letting him kiss me.

The chains turn out to have been quite necessary when Nathan makes a call and I end up away for a day.

When I re-enter our shabby base in the desert outskirts of Las Vegas, I pause in front of my ramshackle hole. A door had been fashioned and it works quite well. No one lingers by other's territories here, he's not been bothered. But I know what will be behind that door.

My fingers tug down the hem of my tank top until it matches the edge of my bra. My jeans are practically painted on, so I don't fuss with them. I ruffle my hair with one hand.

Sure enough, clarity has returned to his eyes. They track me as I enter the room, exhaustion not dampening the quiet anger tumbling about with sadness and guilt. These last two were so familiar before my Awakening that it is almost like a comfort to see again.

He lies on the bed, face-up, arms spread wide and tied to the tops of the headboard, and legs straight out. "Good morning," I smile, slipping off my shoes and climbing onto the bed. I swing one leg over his torso, settling my weight securely over his hips. "You've been asleep a long time."

He remains as rigid against me as he had in the tunnels. I roll my hips as I settle over his body, twining my fingers through his hair. He's not unaffected, the tightness in his jaw indicating that he thinks he knows my next move.

But I have something else in mind. His wrists are bruised under the chains but not, I had seen, nearly enough. My hands settle on his biceps. I squeeze, slowly, until the undeniable pressure causes his eyes to crease at the corners in pain.

I laugh. "Too weak to lash out, yet?" Releasing his arms, I flick the broken manacles open. His arms flop down to the mattress weakly. "I thought you'd have tried to escape by now. It tells me something, that you haven't."

He remains unmoving and watchful.

I sit up, looking at him spread out beneath me. "You've accepted me, at least enough to stay. I'm grateful for that," I tell him, caressing his cheek. "I knew you wanted to be with me."

No change.

"Lissa's fine," I tell him, tapping my head with my other hand. "Your companions got to her first."

He's not fast enough to hide the flicker of surprise. It's quickly buried underneath anger.

"No, I didn't have her when we met in the tunnels. Funny. I used to think you could always tell when I lied," I murmur, tracing his cheek. "But then, I used to think you were perfect. Now I see what more we both could be."

Nothing.

My mouth twists into a frown, but I brush it off when my fingers skim down his chest. "Well, I may not have her, but that's okay—I have half of what's mine right here." Leaning forward, I remind him, "I'll have her, too."

"You won't."

Finally. I listen to his raspy voice with relish. "Oh?"

He commits to breaking his silence. "She will stay safe. You have no more leverage."

"I have you."

A faint smile comes to his lips and fades quickly back into smooth certainty. "No one will risk themselves to get me back. They believe I am already gone."

His eyes reveal what he has not said aloud. "So do you," I say. "Oh, Dimitri. You won't be gone when you're Awakened. Just more than now. And it will happen when you agree to be mine."

"I thought you were certain I already was yours?" he questions.

"First, you need to admit it. Ask me for it," I tell him, exposing my fangs in a wide smile. "We can have the world. No one would stop us from being together. Think about what it was like before—always looking over our shoulders, knowing the Academy instructors would think our relationship was wrong. If I hadn't been Awakened, what would our future have been? Moroi not allowing us, dhampirs judging us. Others telling us what we could not be. Awakened, we can live our own lives on our own terms, not forced to let each other go for careers. For supposed friends who wouldn't understand."

He shakes his head. "Since when has another's opinion stopped you from doing what you believed in? This is how I know you are no longer the same Rose. You believed in that job, in that purpose. Your best friend was your life, and you were hers."

Incensed at his dismissal of my better self, I snap, "No. She wasn't. Because she never even knew about you. It wasn't allowed. Well, no one can tell me who to be with or what to want anymore. And I know what I've always wanted: you. All that's left is for you to finally have the courage to want it, too." I lean towards him, my body on display, and purr, "Choose me, Dimitri. For once, choose to be mine."

My strong warrior. My willing co-captain. My treasured possession.

His jaw clamps tightly and refuses to open again. Patiently, I give him time for his brain to consider the possibility before I simply grow too full of desire for his body.

I nuzzle his throat. His pulse leaps, body craving what he refused to ask for the whole time I hovered over him. Catching a glimpse of his eyes, I see longing and guilt twisted with anger. A delightful cocktail. My lips touch his skin and his chin tilts upwards in response.

And I send us both back into pleasure.

: : :

For nearly a week, he receives the same offer when he is conscious.

For nearly a week, he refuses to speak a word to me. His body betrays him, offering up that thick throat without hesitation the second I stroke it with fingers or lips. Warring emotions always dance across his face. But that is all that he gives me.

I know him and I know he is mine. He wants me. That was foundational to our entire existence together, to every moment in each other's presence.

He'll choose, soon.

: : :

The next time Nathan calls me away for a day, I think nothing of it.

I return to an empty room.

Two idiots had not stopped Dimitri's escape. He left them crumpled in the hallway as he made his weakened way out. Not weakened enough, clearly.

They never regain consciousness as I rip their throats out.

: : :

I track him, of course. He makes his way swiftly west, and eventually I catch enough of his trail to realize that he has contacted Guardians for refuge. Before he makes it to them, the bond spikes its way into my brain and I hear Lissa receive that news.

"—need to pick him up," says Eddie, his phone held up in front of his face.

Our eyes rove to the right, landing on another face. Christian's expression blurs but he nods. Her emotions batter me—anxiety, hope, determination—and she declares, "We'll meet them, too."

"What? But Lissa, you're not sure if—"

"We have to try!" Desperation reeks out of her pores and I feel less pressure from the bond as it seeps with that emotion's darkness. "I have to try. It's her, it's—"

The bond pulses and I am left hissing and clawing at my head to regain my sense of self. That last emotion she felt was the opposite of darkness. Poison in my head.

But…all is not lost. I may, in fact, have been granted the rest of my desires.

Instead of snatching Dimitri back immediately, I linger outside of his temporary shelter. The motel is old, isolated, and closer to Court than I'd dared venture yet. But that wouldn't have stopped me.

I could barely stop myself now. Not when rage boiled in my gut at his audacity—to leave me when he was mine, to escape after I'd made my offer, to reject my wishes…

No. He would either be mine or be no more.

: : :

Lissa and her companions arrive just after the Guardians did. The two groups meet in the parking lot—a distraught reunion. My Dimitri's body is weakened, my marks on his throat all too obvious, but he grants Lissa a small, genuine smile.

I am too far away to hear, but from their body language I make educated guesses. Guardian Alto rants at her about safety. They talk about their imminent departure for a safer area.

Then Lissa hugs him, her fingers inexplicably clutching a stake. My veins boil. They are both mine but no one can touch him, not even her! I do not want to wait anymore. Now is the time.

My lackeys surge forth and the parking lot below is thrown into chaos.

Guardians clash with my troops, the Moroi are clustered into the center, and Dimitri is in the midst of it. He fights like none of his power has been drained away. He fights like my troops intend to kill him. He fights like he knows I am coming.

The road-weary Guardians begin to falter. None are dead yet, though some of mine are. But the important thing is that they are being drawn away from the defenseless Moroi. Specifically, from those that are mine.

Another lackey dies and I decide it's time. I leap from the roof, repeating my first re-introduction by ascending from up high into the fuss below.

I tuck and roll, coming up swinging with one fist in a pointed claw. The claw drives into a Guardian who is about to win over yet another of my idiot goons. It goes in under his ribcage. The momentum carries my extra strength deep into the chest cavity and through the mass of squishy internal organs I take a firm grip of one that is usually protected by the sternum.

A couple of my meals have been my practice in finding hearts, just for the sight. Ripping out this Guardian's, I let the blood splatter, unstoppered. A glorious scent.

Lissa screams my name.

The rage from Dimitri's escape fuels every sharp movement. I drop the heart and my bloody hand claws into the eyes of another Guardian who did not see me. Then I duck under their reflexively flung arm, grabbing and twisting it and relishing in the sharp snap. A glance from the corner of my eye shows another lackey is about to fall under another Guardian stake and I pivot—

Guardian Alto blocks me and I snarl as I swipe a stake away. It burns my fingertips through the blood coating. "Get out of my way!"

He does not reply.

So many from my past life do not seem to like replying to me.

A duck, a twist, a turn, a lethal dance—until I kick him in the ribs and smirk at the crunch. He crumples, unable to breathe, but his eyes remain focused on me under a totally emotionless mask. Circling him as he struggles to remain upright, I snarl, "Oh, I will enjoy this."

He rises to his knees, coiling to strike, but I am absolutely filled with a thrill of power. I remember every moment of humiliation I felt in his classes and I know another heart will be in my hand shortly.

Except.

The bond. A spike, the way it sometimes does, the way that does not signal an imminent connection. It's like a throbbing pulse that I shove away—or did, when Lissa was not feet away from me.

Light stabs me from the inside.

My knees crunch into the asphalt. The asphalt is all I see for a blank, gray moment. A scream rings out, my scream. It ebbs just enough for me to lift my head. "Cut—that—out!"

My heart aches oddly at the sight of Lissa's startled green eyes. Spirit shines around her hand and the bond throbs again.

Something is cracking. The light changes around me.

Her wide eyes flare with determination. So, too, does the Spirit around her hand.

I clutch my head and scream.

This is not the same feeling. This is—this is feeling. I feel my heart. The rage has dimmed. I feel fear.

All is terror.

My eyes open again to faces that I know but don't recognize, to eyes that shine in awe and shock and panic and hope. To a world that suddenly has true color in it, and a best friend who looks like her heart is breaking in front of me. Green eyes pin me in place and Lissa's voice sobs, "Rose?"

"Stop it. Stop it!" That's my voice. I can hardly tell through the warped sound and the way my entire body hums in pain. "It hurts! Stop it!" Why are those blurred faces only staring at me? Why aren't they—

Awakening.

A cabin surrounded by snow.

Blood.

A stake in the wards.

Bodies.

A cave and a blond Strigoi.

Dimitri.

No.

No. Pain is clarity.

What am I?

But I already know the answer to that, and it is terrifying.

I am more frightened than I ever thought I could be. And through my hazy eyes I see Lissa standing too close, holding silver in her glowing hand.

"Stop me!" Why haven't they stopped me? Clawing at my head, I shriek, "Lissa! Stop me!"

Kill me.

While I'm still me.

The glow dims. As it recedes, that gaping pit of darkness inside me boils anew and I scream all the louder.

Light returns, searing. Bright beyond vision, washing me almost back into myself, until something pierces my back and…

I…

am…

released.

: : :

The world returns in stages.

Tears are on my cheeks. They seep under my closed eyelids. Dull pain ripples through my mouth. And my muscles. And my head. But there is relief as well, and the constant nag of an underlying symptom is gone.

The bond does not hurt me anymore.

This is when I feel her hands on my back. They clasp me in an embrace and I realize that my knees press awkwardly into the asphalt. Loose pieces dig into my shoulder where it rests nestled against her knee. My head rests on subtly strong thighs.

Keening cries vibrate my skull. Are they my own? I can't be sure. I think they are mine.

There is movement around us. There are voices around us. We cannot stay here forever, no matter that I can feel her hands clawing into my back to try to keep me cradled to her.

I do not resist as other hands drag me away.

Because the physical pain has not erased my memory.

Opening my eyes and craving blood, smiling at the blond who had done this to me.

The cabin at the Academy, in one last glimpse back as we leave behind our intimacy.

Ripping a stranger's throat open in an alleyway, using my hips to keep him pressed to the wall.

My hand ripping through skin, organs, and muscle, grasping a heart—and pulling it out.

Dimitri lying on an unkempt bed, throat bared and eyes mere slits in an endorphin rush.

No…

They haul me away and I dangle in their grip.

: : :

Time passes, then. I cannot tell how much.

Around me is a bare, dark cell. At least, it seems dim to me. My eyes were much sharper not too long ago. Now all they can follow are places where the walls meet. Long clean lines, predictable.

Most of the time I am curled into my safe corner. This is where I can't hurt anyone.

Lissa comes to visit. The bond is blocked on my end—I had lots of practice before returning to sanity—so I cannot see what she is up to outside of my cell. Or see myself through her eyes, monster that I am.

But she does not let me ignore her.

"You need to eat something."

"Stand up, come on. Walk with me."

"Tilt your head back so the water doesn't run into your eyes."

"Say something," she whispers every time before she leaves me to my half-eaten meal, listless legs, and clean body. This is the one command I do not comply with, besides not looking directly at her. She does not command that one of me, yet.

My mother also appears. More than once, there's a man I do not recognize—or look closely at—who comes with her to the cell door. They do not enter, or try to, and I do not answer them. I barely hear their voices.

There are other friends I recognize—Eddie, Christian, Mia, Adrian—but I cannot speak to them, either. I do not listen to them.

Twice, there are dreams vastly different from my usual nightmares. Adrian seems to be in them, reaching for me, his voice beseeching, but I cannot respond there either.

My own reasons for remaining closed off are unclear even to me. I want to scream and cry and throw myself into everyone's arms, to beg for hugs and tender touches of friendship and love.

I also want to stop existing.

Ghostly hands claw at my arms occasionally, and I let them. The faces of the dead drift in front of my eyes—not just Mason, who sometimes seems to block others from coming near me. I see the casually-slaughtered grunts whose necks I snapped because I could, who I didn't even have a pretense of duty to kill. Even if they were Strigoi like me, I killed them for a surge of power it gave me.

Worse, I see the human men, whose names I cannot remember and who died for my bloodlust. I murdered them. And I see Dimitri—

I crush those memories.

I am crushed by guilt.

: : :

One day, Guardian Alberta Petrov earns my docile compliance as she pulls me out of the safe corner where no one will be hurt. She brings me to a chair, voice cradling me like a baby blanket. She's been in my life longer than any other adult at the Academy: it's impossible not to feel a hint of comfort from being in her presence, little as I deserve it.

There are always several Guardians outside my cell. Their numbers increase whenever anyone visits me. Today, only one extra waits at the door to the cell. I comply because I am afraid to see that broad-shouldered figure standing so close.

Compliance is only evident in my stillness. What she wants remains a mystery. It is hard enough to be out of my corner: hearing her words would be extra difficult. My worry erupts when I register Alberta sighing. My eyes flicker to her face. She is looking over her shoulder.

I tune in to hear, "—that we haven't."

"We have already discussed this. I am sure."

A jolt of pain and pleasure spirals down my spine at the sound of his voice.

"She's still not—"

"That is exactly why."

Alberta is moving to stand when I whisper, "No."

She freezes. Her eyes meet mine and suddenly, reality seeps back into my world. Shadows sharpen. She has too many emotions for me to decipher, but I do see exhaustion and hope. "Rose?"

"No," I repeat, throat dry from the first word I've spoken in too long. "Not him."

Sadness replaces the hope. "You do not want to speak to Guardian Belikov?" she tentatively asks, body tensed and leaning toward me.

"Not him." My hands are cramping from the grip I've got on the table. Her eyes flicker down to them, then back to my face. From the look on her face, she's seriously considering my plea.

"Roza." Him.

This what does it. I fling myself back from the table and, in the sudden rush of sound and bodies reacting, I scramble into my safe corner.

This is where I can't hurt anyone. This is where I can't hurt anyone…

"Belikov, stay where you—"

"I might be able to—"

My hands clamp over my ears but reality has returned and it is sharp and already I know I cannot ignore it again. It is too present. My eyes close in vain. I can feel the coldness of the air around me. I can hear more than one uneasy shuffle of boots.

"You're causing this reaction."

"But she is reacting."

A new voice interjects: "This is the most responsive she's been. We might get some answers, one way or another, if he tries."

I don't want to hear them arguing. I don't want to hear his voice. I have to stay here in the corner and they have to go away. He has to leave.

Careful, large footsteps come closer to me and I huddle back to keep myself untouchable. His feet stop too close. I can sense the hulking mass of someone larger than me lowering to my level, and his scent gives him away.

My lips tremble. "This is where I can't hurt anyone…"

"You won't hurt anyone, Roza." That beautiful voice is soft and tragically sad.

How would he know? "Leave. Now."

"We are glad to hear your voice again," he says. "We've been worried."

"Why?" comes strangled out of my throat. My hands form claws around my head. "No. It's not safe. You. Go away."

"If you need me to, I will. But tell me why. Rose. Why me?"

Because the last time I smelled his scent, it was with my nose pressed to his neck—while he—while I—

"You could have died. I bit you. I hurt you. You should have died." My voice is almost too loud, and I hear an uneasy cough somewhere behind his looming shadow. His impossible shadow. "Why didn't you join their faces?"

"Whose faces?"

"All of them, all the faces all the faces all the faces—" My clawed nails dig in to release some of the pressure. Some pressure eases when pain erupts in my scalp. "There are so many faces—"

"Breathe. Rose, breathe." I feel hands lightly brush my own.

"I killed them!"

My shout ricochets around the cell. Wetness eases down my fingertips, soothing. For a long moment, there is no sound but the echo of my nightmare, until he reaches out again.

"Roza, no. You're bleeding." Large, impossible-to-fight hands rip mine away from where they are helping.

I scream.

It is a high keening, one that sounds beyond me. One that makes my throat tremble at the pitch and how long it goes and how my ears ache at the desperation I am releasing into the air. But it's not enough, because my hands are still held captive so I have to let it out. Tossing my head back into the rough wall helps with little jolts until my back is no longer in the safe corner. Sobs and pleas pour out—

"—no I killed them I hurt you so many bodies please no—"

—as a solid, warm mass presses to my back. Along my sides, too, wrapping around my wrists and keeping the wet tips of my hands away from my body. I think I am twisting against this immovable grip. Trying to escape. But all I can feel are the violent explosions of air from my lungs and the way my throat is quickly filling with pain. And all I can see are the faces.

So many broken, bloody faces.

: : :

I don't stop for a long time.

: : :

Eventually, I run out of air. My arms have long ceased straining against their hold. I must have devolved into crying at some point, based on how my eyes feel.

He turned me within his grasp: my face is tucked into his shoulder, and I can smell him. I wrack in shuddering breaths. My breakdown has an audience, I realize. They've kept their distance, but they still are there at the entrance to the cell.

He transfers my wrists into one of his hands. The other carefully strokes my hair.

My short hair, hacked off with a blunt blade. My former pride, discarded on a whim and brutal practicality. It barely touches my shoulders now.

Throat raspy, I croak, "How the fuck can you be comforting me after what I did?"

I'm almost disappointed when he doesn't admonish me for my language choices. It would have felt like normalcy. But my heart skips a beat when he does say, "Because none of your actions were your own."

"I remember every second of it," I argue.

"And if you were in your right mind, it would not have happened. That is what your…condition did to you."

"I'm a monster."

"You are not." His voices strengthens from soothing to commanding. "You are yourself again. You are Rose. Not the being who created those memories."

I bite my lip to hold back another sob. "I don't believe you," I whisper. "I can't. What I did…"

He hesitates, then lowers his head so that he can speak to my ear. In front of his colleagues shifting uncomfortably in front of my cell, he whispers, "I love you anyway, Roza."

That does it. The tears return.

Gentler, but still flowing freely, I hide my face in his shoulder and the faintest flicker of warmth comes into existence. Until it appeared, I had not realized that all I could feel were the darkest of emotions—rage and despair and apathy.

Now, a tiny trickle of sadness has joined them, and though it's hardly the lightest of emotions, it breaks through the fog like a light mist. Sadness is lighter. Like the difference between being crushed under a rock, and swaddled in a heavy blanket. The sadness does not free me, but it is a better emotion to feel than what was keeping me under not too long ago.

My bout of tears has faded when he finally hauls me to my feet. Knees wobbling, I make it to the chair with his assistance. I'm reluctant to let him go, but I have enough presence of mind to remember why he would have whispered his confession.

Her eyes are turbulent. She smiles at me and presses a glass of water into my hands. "Rose. You're back."

I mimic her trembling smile. It gives my face something to do. "I suppose so."

: : :

Once I am confirmed among the living again, we figure out that Nathan has been staked. I give them what I know of Galina's other plans, which is not much. Attack royal families, use humans to get around their limitations, lead by intimidation.

If I could give them more it might even have seemed worth suffering.

Nathan's death is a tiny consolation prize.

: : :

Sunlight on my face. A simple joy of life.

Joy, as an emotion, is still beyond me right now. But I do like the warmth, so I accept lying in the grass with my face tilted back as a small step towards rebuilding myself.

Even though I'm in my pajamas, I don't care about being in the middle of the school courtyard. There are no students out and about right now, not during the daylight hours. There are more Guardians patrolling than usual, but they trust me to be myself now. They watch more because they fear what I might do to myself, rather than what I might do to others.

Grass feels tingly under my fingers. Tiny blades rustle under my fingers and I count them, slowly.

I've made a little arc feeling out one-hundred and twenty-seven by the time I hear brooding feet approach. "Hey, Comrade." My eyes stay closed.

"You won't be able to do your best in class if you keep this up," he gently scolds.

Scolding makes me feel like curling up into a ball. I haven't admitted that to anyone yet, and refuse to let myself be so weak. Instead, I sigh loudly. "They shouldn't have let me back yet."

"Is that what's bothering you?"

My head tilts down slightly to protect my throat. "They should have kept me in the cell."

"You are not a criminal," he repeats, echoing a past argument. An edge in his tone makes me shiver. It is anger: I don't do anger so well anymore, either. It's enough to make me peek one eye open. That's all I can allow myself, a single glimpse of his stoic face. He's crouched beside me, making eye contact the instant my eye opens.

No, his anger is not directed toward me. Seeing that relaxes me. I allow myself a lingering moment before shutting the eye again.

"We both know how dangerous I am," I murmur.

"Only when you were not yourself. But you are no longer dangerous, at least not to others." He sits down. "Show me."

I lift my arm robotically. He takes my hand. This is routine: he scrutinizes my fingernails for any lingering blood, then flips my arm and looks for any mark. Repeat with other arm. Finish by checking my scalp for any fresh wounds.

That part always makes me feel cared for, cherished. Those emotions are still foreign to my healing soul. I've graduated to happiness now, but more subtle emotions wildly fluctuate in and out of my grasp.

His fingers linger in my hair, which has grown to my shoulders. I still mourn the loss, and I think he does, too. To me, it's a clear symbol of the damage I did to myself, to who I used to be. Just as symbolically, it is growing back pretty quickly.

I pull away and sit up, letting my eyes open. I can bear to look at his hands. One of them rests on his leg and I take it in my own. I trace his nails, his knuckles, the width of his palm. His wrist. I rub where the bruising had appeared in our horrid shared memory.

He twists our fingers together. Our touch is concealed between our bodies and by his duster. "Stop lingering in this guilt, Roza," he says, a commanding tone underlying the plea.

An older version of me would have bristled at that, but this version has seen his growing frustration. "Why do you keep coming back?" I ask.

"Because I am not one for you to feel guilt about," he replies. "There is no need for it. I forgave you almost as soon as it happened."

If I look into his eyes, I will see if he is being honest. "But you can't forgive me for all those people I killed."

"No. I cannot. You have to do that for yourself."

"There were so many," I whisper. Why I can say this in the brightness of the afternoon sun is a mystery, but not since that first scream in my old cell have I mentioned it. Somehow it spills out. "So many bodies. I can still see their faces. And if I let my guard down, their spirits come to me."

"Rose—" One palm cradles my face.

I remain stiff, seeing those dark flickers in front of my eyes again. "I'd lure them away, you know. Use my body. Most of them were guys at clubs, human guys with no clue and one too many drinks. And I used that against them, danced with them, led them out, let them—do all sorts of stuff. With me. Before they died." I shook my head. "Before I killed them."

He says nothing, just strokes my cheek with his thumb. Somehow that convinces me where no words ever did. He did not flinch when I spoke. His hand remained firm and steady.

When I look at his face I see what I both hoped for and dreaded. I see sadness and pain. But I also see what I think might be love.

I haven't felt love again yet. There's a broken piece of me that needs mending first. Only once that's healed could I even think of seeing if we were still a possibility.

My eighteenth birthday passed during my time Awak—as Strigoi. I hadn't marked the day at all. He would have, though—I know him well enough to know he would have marked that day in some way. Acknowledged what had been lost. For me and for us.

My palm is against his cheek without me realizing I want to touch him. He drops his hand to my shoulder in surprise, but acceptance flashes across his face when I nudge his chin gently.

He turns his head to expose his throat to me. This is the first time I have seen the damage with my own eyes. Scars nestle there: small, clearly from fangs, but fading and pink. The sheer trust astounds me. If I doubted his words or his eyes, I couldn't anymore. Any lingering blame would not have let him allow me to turn his head like this again. Tears trickle from my eyes.

Thumbing them away, he says, "Can we go inside?" Underlying the question is an admittance, a plea: he cannot hold me the way he wants to out here, with Guardian patrol eyes watching.

I nod.

He stands first, helps me up with one hand. Then we establish personal space. I curl my arms around myself and wipe away the last of the tears. He watches me carefully, one hand on my shoulder as support and guide.

Guardians nod to us as we pass. Seeing him comfort me is no unfamiliar scene. Seeing me cry is no longer unfamiliar, unfortunately. Returning to classes is recent—as in, tomorrow will be the day I am brought back into the novice ranks. We're all waiting to see how I handle it.

I led us back to my dorm, and he escorts me inside. He walks beside me to my room. Everyone is asleep, of course, so no one sees him linger in my doorway before stepping in.

The door closes. His arms lift me, secure, surrounded, and I surrender to this warmth pressed and around me.

While one might easily mistake this as a sexual encounter, we know we're not ready to leap back into that. Our connection is clearly not platonic, though: we hold each other like lovers, clearly too full of romantic care to bear any witness.

He strokes my hair, cradles me to his chest, rests his chin on my shoulder. And I curl my arms around him, on my very toes though he holds most of my weight, and sink into the feeling of being totally surrounded.

Held like this, it feels like nothing bad will happen again. Even if it's a lie, it's a lie I want to believe.

When we finally break apart, he cups my face between his hands. I lift my eyes to him, though it is hard, in response to his unspoken request.

That maybe-love shines on his face. "You can refuse me at any time, you know," he says. "Just not out of guilt."

My lips crack into a smile. "Why would I refuse you?"

"It's been a while since you've looked me in the eye for long," he reminds me. A faint crease of concern appears.

I smooth it with my thumb. "I'm scared a lot, now," I admit. "And it's hard to look at you—"

"Without remembering," he finishes, remembering an earlier confession.

"But I'm…healing."

And that expression must be joy.

He pulls me back to my bed, tucks me in despite my grumbles. Then he lays on top of the covers, letting me curl my body into his the way I wish. One arm holds me close, and the opposite hand curls into mine.

"If I were permanently damaged," I being to ask.

"I'm not leaving," he cuts me off.

"Not even if—"

"You will never be rid of me, even if only as your mentor. If that becomes what you need from me."

"I'll always need you," I whisper. "There won't be a time in my life when I will not, Dimitri."

But I cannot say in what role anymore. Not when he keeps finding me with small wounds I give myself. Not when I wake up shrieking from nightmares. Not when I keep slowly rediscovering emotions—and losing them again. And I know he hears that silence as he presses a kiss to my forehead.