"Bella."
He calls her, when all others have left. He twists her ebony hair around his fingers, while whispering secrets to her. When he looks her in the eyes, her breath catches in her throat. She loves it when he scares her like that, when he makes her want to scream.
They start the dance they always do. Because that is what it is: a calculating dance that they adore. Twisting back and forth under the others skin. A deep, throbbing pulse that both sickens and satasfies... She wishes that when she looks into those eyes, which send shivers down her spine, she would find some possessiveness. She doesn't, though. Oh, if only she could hear him tell her that this won't end. Even if it is a lie. That, maybe... he cares?
She reprimands herself for thinking of such foolish, girlish frivolity.
And instead, she allows herself to feel comfort in that shallow, black veil that surrounds bonds them together like second skins. Her mind shrieks the name, her lips mouthing it, "Voldemort... Voldemort... Voldemort..."
He calls her name, and she feels herself bubble over with anticipation. She knows that he is ready for the dance...
He covets her.
Running his skeletal fingers over her pale skin. Tracing her dark veins, from her legs to her throat. She doesn't move, doesn't even flinch. But, watches him with curious wonder. Her dark maroon lips twist into a smile. And her skin prickles with goosebumps. He thinks that she is the perfect Death-Eater specimen. She is fearless, merciless, powerful and beautiful.
He would tell his Death-Eaters, "Sacrifices must be made." and even kill those who were not strong enough to be in his allegience. But, he was unsure if she should enter with him into the fray. The blood-lines needed to be preserved. He couldn't lose his pet...
But, he did know his Bella, more then she knew. And he knew that nothing could make her leave his side, not unless he killed her himself. Was that an idea, a mercy kill? For her? Impossible, he didn't have mercy...
She peeks up at him, confused by his sudden, somber mood. He chuckles hoarsely, and takes her face roughly in his hands. He looks in her eyes. Her black devil eyes... His fingernail scrapes into her cheek, and begins to bleed, lightly. When she looks up and sees the blood, she just can't resist her urge to laugh.
He watches her; his sparrow, his black widow, his raven, sing for him. And he knows that, really, he does care.
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Disclaimer: I don't own Belatrix Lestrange or Tom Marvolo Riddle. I only play with them for my own amusement and, hopefully, yours.