They're bleeding, and that's satisfying. She's giving as good as she's getting for once. Hurting him feels good. It fills up those empty places inside of her. He sees her when he's suffering at her hand. Only her. She is the center of his universe when they're hurting each other. It's what she needs.
See me.
She draws blood again; the black blood of the dead. It's a catharsis that doesn't last. It never does. To feel good, she has to keep doing it. Over and over. It's why she can't kill him. She needs him. Needs him so he can suffer.
Hate me.
Something breaks when he slams her bodily against the wall. A rib maybe. It doesn't matter. All that matters is the pain. She feels. She needs more. So she antagonizes, feinting. It's obvious. He sees it. Takes the opportunity. Her head is cracked against stone. The pain is sickly sweet. Disorienting. Addictive. Like a drug. She practically swoons.
Hurt me.
One more. One last parting blow. She sinks her weapon of broken glass deep into his flesh. Not a killing blow. She could have. She won't. Can't. He's bleeding. She's broken. Both of them are done. Satiated. For now. They sag. Collapse on the floor. Reeling. Floating on temporary agony. There's no words. No panting breath. Just existing. Just feeling. They enjoy the high silently.
Need me.
In her mind she is grateful. Thankful. Every hurt is a declaration between them. She has carved her devotion in his flesh. His affection is battered into her bones. And for now, it's enough.