God, I am SO sorry for taking so long to update... I was supposed to take a couple of months off and come back, but I ended up not updating for almost 2 years... Go me! I have a million good reasons why I didn't, mainly a LOT of health issues, but it does not matter, now I'm ready to work on this.

I was hoping to re-work earlier chapters. I want to make major changes to chapter 6 and chapter 18, and a few minor changes in the rest of the fic, but I haven't had the time to do that yet... I will definitely make the changes to chapters 6 and 18 before I post another new chapter. After that, we'll see.

It's been so long that I don't even know if anybody that used to read that fic is still out there. Hopefully... If not, I'll be happy to hear from new faces.

Thank you SO much for all the favs and the reviews while I was gone, I have to say it did motivate me to come back and rework on this fic. All your comments and favs were greatly appreciate and cheered me up! :D

I know this chapter is seriously depressing, but no worries, the story will have a happy ending. Or I guess as happy a ending as this story can get... o_O It's dark, it's messed up, it's depressing, but that's the kind of "love" stories I like to read now. I just grew out of the "too fluffy" stuffs (aging sucks for that! XD).

Without further adieu, this is chapter 25. Enjoy!

Day 222

Forty.

Forty years old.

Today he was forty years old.

The day you hit a round number, you can only reassess and meditate over your life decisions and accomplishments. Even Albert Wesker reflected on the choices he had made on this occasion. For a normal human being, forty years old was considered middle aged. As for him, who knew how long he would live with the virus running through his veins? It could be a hundred, two hundred, five hundred… He had become almost indestructible.

He had to admit, at forty, he was hoping to have accomplished more with his career. Fifteen years ago, he thought once he hit forty years old, he might have replaced Spencer and be the one bringing Umbrella to the next level. But things had not gone according to plans and he had to improvise to ensure his survival. Umbrella would sink sooner or later and he could not possibly go down with the ship. Now he had sold his soul to a new organization. His original plan had been to move his way up within this new organization, the same way he had planned to move his way up within Umbrella. But he always had a plan B in the back of his mind. Wesker always had a plan B. If Umbrella did sink, what better person to recreate it than him… He currently lacked the resources to attain his goals himself, so he could simply use the resources of the organization in the mean time while pretending to work for them. He would wait a few years, play his cards properly and shape things his own way. Once she completed her work on the virus, he would have three working viruses within his hands.

Forty years old. At forty years old he had not expected letting himself fall so hopelessly for a woman… Especially not one so… weak and needy. Every day she tainted him further with her self-righteousness.

The question still remained, what would he do with her once her work was completed? Would he have to kill her? Would he gather the strength and courage to handle the task himself? He knew the answer perfectly well… Deep down, he fully acknowledged no harm would come to her as long as he was still alive. Part of him recognized what she truly meant to him, but everything in him was fighting to deny it.

He looked at her from the corner of his eyes as he was sitting on his armchair feigning to read a few documents. She was rifling through his notes and reports of their latest discoveries with the virus. As the days went by, he would leave her on her own to work at the laboratory while he busied himself with other tasks, mostly unrelated to the virus. An old habit of his was to keep detailed notes of any research he conducted. Today she took it upon herself to fill his notes with her latest developments without even asking him for his consent. He watched as she scratched and wrote over his notes. She was taking more liberties as the days went by, feeling a trifle too comfortable for his own likings.

This was not the only liberty she would grant herself. Some nights as he was reading on his armchair, she would join him and sit on his lap. She would curl up in his arms, resting her head on his torso, her legs hanging over one of the arm of the chair. Sometimes he would be less receptive, his attention fully taken by his work, but other times he would caress her back, leave a kiss on her forehead or take that as an opportunity to initiate sexual intercourse. The first few times she had done it, it took him by surprise, but he eventually grew rather fond of it.

Emily cherished those moments of endearment, comfortably nestled in his arms as he was reading. They were the very rare moments that truly felt like a relationship; that she shared more with him than that which resided between her legs. In those moments she felt at ease, able to stop the wheel from uncontrollably spinning in her head. Tonight was no exception; she wanted her few minutes of quiescence. She replaced the notes neatly on his desk and walked slowly to him as he looked absorbed by his documents. She squeezed by under his arms and sat herself on his lap.

Still musing over his life's achievements, it took him a few seconds to notice her. Her presence was bothering his every sense. He was irritated by the fact the commemoration of his lifetime milestones was tainted by her very own existence. She was the stain on his resume, the headache to his everyday cogitation, the roadblock to his ambitions. She was a cockroach that he would be better off dismissing ASAP... The sensation of her body on his suddenly burned him; she had to come off. He grabbed her by the arm and forced her back on her legs roughly.

"Not tonight, I'm busy," he stated, a touch of annoyance in his voice.

She stared at him in disbelief. This was a first… Who was he to deny her one of the only joys she could extract out of this miserable life? Hurt, she left to lie on the bed, pouting.

Hours passed and he realized he had only read a few pages, his concentration at its lowest. She kept popping in his head, a mixture of guilt and annoyance fighting for his attention. He saw himself put the documents he was reading down and walked slowly towards the bed. She was lying on her side as to avoid his sight. He undressed quickly, and then joined her in the bed, ready to make her forget his earlier misstep.

His mouth found the hallow of her neck, kissed freely the tender flesh as his hands possessively held her back against him. Normally, she would have welcomed the affection willingly. Still angered and driven by a sick curiosity to see how far she could push him, she gave him the cold shoulder.

"Not tonight, I'm busy," she spat out, almost proud of her rebuff. She knew her actions were reckless and she would come to regret it, but she was getting fed up of being his recreational tool available on command.

His previous irritability came back in an instant, her words triggering a complete change of heart in his behavior. He allowed the anger to possess him, to progressively lose contact with reality.

"Miss Reynolds, surely you're not presumptuous enough to think you can refuse me what I want?" he snickered.

"Oh, I am," she answered with the same mocking tone as his.

Furious, she got up and tried to climb off the bed, but he caught her wrist and forced her back on the bed. Her strength insignificant compared to his, she ended up pressed under the full weight of his body, her wrists firmly secured in his grip. She struggled, despite knowing it was pointless.

"Let me go!" she ordered him.

The most devious smile played on his lips as he roughly pressed his mouth on hers. She squirmed under him, so desperate to break free, but to no avail. Panicked and outraged, she chose another avenue than her usual passivity and bit deep into his bottom lip. Successfully startling him, he backed up from her. His finger touched his lip, looked at the stain of blood dripping from the tip of his fingers.

"I see what kind of game you want to play. Fine, if that's the way you want it," he hissed between his teeth.

She was terrified. Oh God, what had she done?

One hand kept her firmly pressed against him as his other hand fiddled under the bed to retrieve the handcuffs that had been used numerous times in the past to tie her to the headboard, the same ones that had recently become an enjoyable toy for other "activities".

"Albert, no! No! Don't do that, don't do that!"

"Quiet!"

He straddled her, locking her legs in his, ensuring she had nowhere to go. Nowhere… She granted him the worst terror-stricken look he had ever witnessed and enjoyed every second of it.

"Albert, please, you can't do that! You can't do that!"

One hand was tied as the handcuffs were slid through the headboard. He looked at her a last time, enjoying the situation thoroughly, then closed the handcuffs on the other wrist, making her entirely his prisoner. She clanged the handcuffs against the headboard several times, trying pointlessly to break free.

"Why, hmm? Because you think I can't hurt you? You think I care about you? Hmm?"

As he talked, his hands took hold of her shirt and ripped the fabric swiftly, in one graceful movement, even though the act itself was the antithesis of grace. She squeaked as her naked breast was revealed, the action taking her completely by surprise. Everything she said and did fueled him more. He drank every look of terror on her features, every sound of dread she produced.

"You think you hold that kind of power over me? Hmm?"

His hands roamed her body, defiling her to his heart content. Her body tensed exceedingly with every movement he made. His face was twisted by the contempt possessing him at this very moment. His movement increased in viciousness as time passed but with a maniacal restraint to not hurt her. They were surprisingly soft, the caresses meant to tickle her, the same caresses that generally titillated her. It was meant to be humiliating, not physically painful. He wanted to make her suffer in a different way. Soon enough he will do something irreparable. Maybe he already did.

"Who do you think you are, hmm? Who do you think you are to refuse me my pleasure? To entice me? To obsess me?"

His hands cupped her breast, squeezing them gently. She closed her eyes tightly, the humiliation too severe to look him in the eyes as he molested her.

"Don't you understand, dear heart? You're merely a tool to me."

"Albert… please…" she pleaded, her eyes still tightly closed.

"And you're mine. All mine."

"Albert… stop, please… I'm begging you…"

"You're all mine. That means you must obey me. Always."

"Stop… please, stop!"

"Everything I ask, you must obey. You must obey!"

"No… Albert, STOP!" she screamed in a last attempt to reason him.

No, he did not want to hurt her... He never wanted to hurt her... But he was doing quite the opposite at the moment. Everything fought inside of him, every thought contradicting the next one.

His fingers brushed her nipples deftly, softly, exactly the way he knew always drove her crazy. A queer moan was heard from the bottom of her throat. She loathed her body for answering his touch. She felt shameful, humiliated, violated…

"Who's controlling who now? Hmm?" He chuckled proudly, smiling this demented smile she wished she had never had the misfortune to witness.

His fingers moved down painfully slowly, caressing the bottom of her breast, her belly, her navel... She wriggled, tried to kick him, but it was utterly useless and she was fully aware of it. But she refused to stay still; she would not concede him that pleasure as well. He dismounted her only to rip the bottom of her pajama as easily as he had ripped the top.

She had to understand. She had to comply to his every desire. This was a lesson she needed to be taught. She could not hold that kind of power over him. She could not.

Starting from her navel, one finger moved down. One single finger, to go deep inside of her. One finger to defile her, to break her. Yes, he wanted to break her. To finally break her! He observed her with a maniacal satisfaction and chuckled as the finger brushed delicately the outside of her folds without entering, just to tantalize her cruelly. She winced as the sensation tickled, taking absolutely no pleasure in the act. He was just trying to prove a point and it worked perfectly.

Then she did the last desperate thing she could possibly do: she cried. She had fought so hard not to cry, refusing to reward him with the ultimate submission, but her willpower was exhausted. The tears fell in torrents on her cheeks and she wept loudly.

"I hate you!" she screamed at the top of her lungs.

He laughed loudly, pride reverberating with every breath. God, that laugh… She would never forget it…

He brought his face two inches from hers, tightening her wrists painfully in his hands, and spat at her all of his pent up resentment from the last few months.

"No, you don't. Every part of you asks for nothing more than to be owned by me," he hissed between his teeth, stating it as if it was a sure statement. And maybe it was…

"I hate you…" she cried even more vigorously.

"You want me to do this to you. You want me to own you…" he stated satisfied.

"I hate you…"

"You're all mine, dear heart…"

"No… I hate you!"

"You're all mine… I own you…"

"No… I hate you!" she screamed, then moved violently the very few unrestrained parts of her body in a last attempt to cause him pain. She was so desperate to physically hurt him. Just like he was hurting her…

"No, you love me," he smiled proudly.

"I hate you!" she screamed over and over and over, determined to not let him win, to not let him be right.

"No, you don't. Stop fighting the inevitable."

"Please, Albert. Please, stop! Please!" she cried, chanting her new tune repeatedly as frantically as the first one.

He rose, towering over her, savoring once more the delicious view, his hands finding new territory to profane before the ultimate abuse.

The more he tortured her, the more excited he got. He wanted to possess her entirely, it obsessed him. He wanted to brand her with his name, so she would always be his, only be his… He always wanted more of her, he wanted to consume, to devour her. It was not a desire anymore, it was a need. She was always on his mind, always taunting him. It made no sense... There she was under him, in her least desirable attire, her clothes half-ripped under her body, every muscle contracted in fear, the tears running down her cheek. It was a desolating view, yet the more vulnerable she looked, the more he wanted her. Because the more vulnerable she was, the more power he held over her. And he liked this power, this power of supremacy. This power was within his hands at the moment, and not hers. She was powerless, and he was free. Free of the unbearable clutch she held over his mind.

It will happen, he was ready, he will force himself on her. But why? He had never raped a woman before. He had never seen a point to it. He would always obtain what he desired using other methods. All the pleasure resided in the game of seduction, in the idea that he could have every one of them with the proper skillful management. All the pleasure resided also in what happened once he got them in his bed, obviously... He had always found a way to convince even the least lenient, and he had convinced quite a few over the years. It was thrilling... There was no pleasure in forcing himself on a woman, no pride. It was only for the weak... So why her? Why now...?

The more vulnerable she was, the more desperate he was to protect her. She was so small, so fragile, so defenseless. He had to protect her, he needed to protect her. Protect her from who? From himself, perhaps… It made no sense. He was stuck in a vicious circle he could not possibly escape.

He was determined to hurt her, it was a form of vengeance for how tortured she caused him to be. And the further he hurt her, the easier he could convince himself she meant nothing to him... It drove his every move. Because he needed so hopelessly to convince himself this was not happening. This was not happening... It can't... He can't... He...

Then it hit him full blast in the face.

I love her...

He suddenly stopped himself in his track, the realization sinking in slowly. 15 years since the last time, 15 years... He had aged considerably in 15 years, matured. How could he fall so stupidly for her...? At least the last one was more his equal, as twisted and manipulative as he was. This one was puerile, naive, kind... Why...?!

His breath was uncontrollable, as ragged as hers. He stared at her for a moment, his gaze unfocused, panicked by the simple realization of his feelings. When he finally regained a glimmer of self control, he left the room without saying a word, slamming the door behind him.

It took Emily several minutes to realize he was gone. She continued pleading for mercy aloud over and over, up until she realized his evil shadow was not towering over her frail body anymore. It was over… The tragedy was averted. But maybe it was meant to be... She knew that once that line was crossed, she would have stopped loving him. She would have reached her own kind of freedom… But loving him was all she had left to hang on in to life now...

For several hours she lied still on the bed, naked, parts of her torn up rags still attached to her body. She felt abused, she felt dirty. She had wriggled so violently that her face was covered by a clutter of her hair tied in knots and damp with tears. The view was pitiful. The air was cold and she started shaking uncontrollably, not so much from the temperature but mostly from the traumatic experience and the exhaustion her body had suffered trying to fight him off of her. She should have tried to reach for the sheet with her feet and cover herself, but she could care less. Instead she curled into a ball still lying on her side and leaned her forehead against her knees, trying her best to cover her head with her arms still handcuffed to the headboard. She tried to withdraw within herself, the position almost protecting her from the cruel world. Tears fell down her cheeks in torrents, the only sound in the room the one from her muffled sobs. She mended her soul as best as her capacity let her, the time passing a foreign concept she did not grasp anymore. Hours passed as she lied there, her misery easily discernible.

Later that night he came back. As soon as she heard the keys being inserted in the door, her heart rate accelerated in a fury. She dared not to think about what would happen next. As he came in, the unsubtle stink invaded her nostrils, even through the layers of snots and mucus accumulated from the sobbing. He reeked of alcohol; bourbon or scotch, most likely. Nothing in his behavior showed he was drunk, as if the alcohol had no effect on him. He was calm, smooth and collected. He showed the part of himself she was more accustomed to.

For hours he had desperately tried to drown his sorrow with alcohol, musing over his new found feelings. The alcohol had no effect on him anymore, the virus killing the impairment caused by the substance. It had not stopped him from ingurgitating copious amount of it. Old habits died hard. He wanted to forget what had happened. He wanted to forget how he felt. He wanted to forget her all together.

Had he really given up his humanity for this humiliation? Now that he was so close to perfection, reborn as a superior being. Why did he retain such weakness...? How could he sink so low? She made him act impulsively. He was never impulsive…

He finally dared taking a look at her. As he saw her frail naked body curled up in a ball, crying quietly so he could not hear her, the guilt submerged him. The view was painful to endure. He had just spent hours cogitating over his own feelings, but he had never stopped himself to question his own actions. The view was like a violent punch in the face, one he had not felt in years. All the more since he was the sole cause of it. The guilt pulled on his heart with heavy strings.

Before joining her, he collected a damp towel, a few tissues and the key for the handcuffs. When he sat on the bed, she recoiled from him in fears, her back pressed against the wall. He reached for her hands, untied the handcuffs carefully. When he was done, he softly placed a hand on her shaking body; it was meant as a peace offering. The gesture snapped her back to reality and she recoiled even more.

"Don't touch me!" it was meant as a unquestionable order, but instead it came out as a raspy yelp.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said softly, keeping his hand on her body.

"No! No… Don't touch me! Don't touch me!" she kept repeating, still visibly shaken. She could have escaped easily; nobody nor anything was left to restrain her. But she was frozen in place, too traumatized to attempt anything.

"I'm not going to hurt you."

"Stop! Leave me alone!"

"Dear heart, I'm not going to hurt you," he answered calmly.

"Don't touch me!" she screamed.

"Stop it, Emily!" he ordered. It was not menacing, nor scary, but firm enough to make her understand there was no point in fighting.

She was terrified, terrified of him… He collected her with an unnatural gentleness and sat her on his lap, her legs dangling over his, her side pressed against his chest. As she was still shaking slightly, he collected the sheet, covering her delicately. His movements were as gentle as if he was handling a wounded animal. He brushed the messy hair with his fingers off of her face, to discover the most desolating look. Her face was covered in crusty tears, her gaze livid with the weight of painful disillusions. With the gentlest touch, he cleaned it affectionately, taking his time to not brusque her. When he was done, he cradled her, his hand absently caressing the length of her body. He was trying hard, so hard to cover up for how badly he wounded her.

He might have loved her for days now, weeks, months. It did not matter how long it had been marinating in the pit of his mind, he had simply refused to acknowledge it. But those days were over; now he was fully aware of it. He did not need to appreciate it, not even accept it, but simply to live with it.

But if the words were spoken, there was no turning back. It was game over. And he was not ready for that. He might never be ready for that.

They stayed tangled in the strange position for over an hour. He was the only one to move, the only one to show affection. Her body appeared lifeless, as if a part of her had died from the earlier misadventure. It did not stop him from fondling her back, from kissing her forehead, from pressing her softly against him. He had to mend his previous blunder if he wanted a chance to have her look at him with more than disgust again.

The silence was heavy. He was terrorized to be the first one to speak, but he knew he had to. He owed it to her. He owed it to himself.

"Today's my birthday," he blurted, not even knowing why this had been the first thing to come to his mind.

"Really?" she whispered, looking up at him as she sniffed loudly from her previous vigorous crying.

"Yes, I'm 40 today."

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

"What would be the point of me sharing this information with you?" he stated coldly.

She turned her head, avoiding his gaze. The few words he had spoken summarized everything painfully.

He put a finger under her jaw, forced her to meet his eyes.

"I'm telling you now," he whispered, the words heavy with meaning.

She closed her eyes, feeling the tears coming. She sighed, relieved and confused all together, noticing his efforts.

"I love you..." she whispered, her eyes still closed, the words burning her lips as they escaped her mouth. She did not say it to please him, nor as a necessity to express it. It was more like a curse. A curse that devoured her soul a little more every day. She meant it as an insult.

His fingers brushed the tears escaping her eyes. For a slight second, he contemplated the idea of answering the words. Just for a slight second... Then his lips brushed hers lightly, so softly. He muttered the only thing he found the courage to say.

"I know it's late but... There's something I would really like for my birthday."

"What?" she asked weakly, finally reopening her eyes. Her voice was strained, her mind exhausted.

"You," he said devilishly, devouring her with his eyes.

She looked at him for a long time, clueless on how to react. There was so much softness in his eyes, she felt herself slide dangerously.

Getting no reaction from her, he brought his mouth to one ear then purred sweetly: "Let me make love to you, dear heart". The words had to be pushed out painfully. He knew she would read into it, he knew the words did mean more than he wanted to admit. But it could not be helped, it just came out.

The words brought more tears to her eyes. She should have refused, tell him he disgusted her, that his touch would repulse her. She should have spat in his face, slapped him, punched him. Anything. But she did not. Instead she focused on the words. Make love. He never said that before... It was always "take", "fuck", "sex". Not "make love".

"Are you completely stupid? The man was about to rape you a few hours ago! What is wrong with you?! What is wrong with you!" she thought to herself bitterly.

But she already felt herself being dragged in. Sex with him was such a sweet means of escape, her mind would drift as he applied himself tirelessly to make her come, forgetting everything that was tearing her inside. And she wanted to forget so desperately. She wanted to forget how miserable her life was, how miserable he had made her feel...

He brushed the tears with his fingers and kissed where they had fallen, sucking on the skin as if to mend the symbolic wound they had left. She thought it was unusual, yet so endearing as well. It was enough for her to sink deeper and get trapped in his deception once more. It was so much easier to bullshit herself than to face reality. What other choice did she have? What could she really do, other than forgive him? It was either to feed herself this ridiculous fairytale, or accept the desolate turn her life had taken. She had nowhere else to go than the delusions her mind had created.

At first he was not sure how she would react. After all, she might not be warm to the idea of having sex after being molested by him. She closed her eyes, crying endlessly. When he thought his offer was about to get dismissed and already felt the disappointment, she reopened her eyes and nodded faintly. Smirking, he then proceeded to carefully unwrap his birthday present.