Birthday Challenge Fourteen at His Most Faithful, featuring plenty of rhyme. It is a strange result. I'm not sure if I like it or not.
Again have some more Bellamort.
As she rested beside her Lord and allowed her coal-coloured eyes to scroll over his face, she felt like a newborn foal in his embrace. She was shacking and making thoughts she knew she should not be, but they slithered and took shape, rather than withered and escaped.
Her breath shook like a crook, as her grip tightened, almost as if she was frightened.
She was not. Not from fear of pain at least, only that he would leer and her heart would sear.
If he hated love, why was she fated to feel this?
Somehow, that was her life.