Light glinted deadly off the edge of the machete. Samara inspected her new blade with utmost devotion and precision. A faulty weapon could mean life and death in the heat of the moment.

Today's morning was no different than yesterdays. Everyone still kept to themselves and spoke only in hushed tones, and it was beginning to take a toll. Their constant state of terror was aging them faster than time itself, giving them shaky fingers and ghoulish features. Alice was by far the worst affected out of all of them. She barely ate and kept only to herself, secluded from the others. Samara had tried communicating with her but the young woman was in a state of trance that Samara had no way of breaching.

The Native kept herself busy on the stairs leading to the upper cells. That was the secret. If your mind was always buzzing with a present task then you did not have to think about the problems plaguing them…or her. Unfortunately for Samara, she had no task at hand except sharpening her machete and even that proved futile. Samara's mind was still focused on Lori and her baby and her nerves were at the ground. She swore if anyone remotely annoyed her at the moment she would bite their heads off.

It also didn't help that her traitorous eyes would at times waver over to Daryl. The man had caught her once, and Samara doubled her vigilance. She did not want him to know that he also held a part of her attention. That ever since yesterday he had been plaguing her thoughts, giving her heat waves that left her both hot and cold. She shouldn't think about him. He was the past, but then again why did her chest clench every time he came into her vision?

In her heart, she knew what she wanted, but her mind had different ideas. The rational part of her knew all the cons of such an endeavor but her feisty life-giving organ did not care.

Goddammit, why can't I for once stick to what I decide?

With a flick she brought the whetstone back on the blade and lost herself in the methodical swing of stone gliding against metal. Her mind wandered to the man lost below in the darkness. Had he gotten that delusional phone call? And if yes, what did he talk to himself down there? Who had his mind conjured up on the other end? Samara wouldn't be surprised if it was Lori. The mind could do wanders, fucking you up in unexpected ways. She just hoped Rick was alright…or at least still alive.

Perhaps she should have followed Hershel's advice and descended down there and talk to him, but Samara was afraid of confronting him. Afraid that the sight of her might make things worse.

Goddammit…

The stone lay forlorn in her hand as Samara's forehead dropped on her bended knee. She was so tired and sore that she almost wished she hadn't woken up this morning. The pills worked up to a point, but Samara was reluctant to use them so often since she noticed that she had been popping them like tic-tac's yesterday.

A screech of old hinges followed by a grave hush had Samara's attention back on the group. Her stomach clenched.

Rick walked almost sedated into the cell block, covered in blood and dust. He looked worse than she had expected. Like a skeleton come back to life with only some meat and skin hanging off his bones. His face was so haunted, eyes sunk and cheeks gaunt, that it made Samara wonder if he was still alive or not. Everyone seemed to share the unease as he stepped forward, straight to his son and the baby.

As if on instinct, Samara's hold on her machete tightened. A grieving man was dangerous since they could be awfully unpredictable. For now, Samara did not trust Rick to be completely sane, not after that display of maddening sorrow. If he tried anything, she swore to her gods that she would launch her machete like a spear.

But the man gently stroked his son's head as he gazed down at his sister in his arms. The boy handed the infant over to his father without a prompt and Rick took her in his arms. A spark of life seemed to bleed into those blue eyes as he lightly rocked the small child.

"Hey…"

Samara sighed with ease. He was back, or at least a part of him was. What a strange sight it was, seeing him with a baby. For a while Samara had thought that the man would shun the baby, but her fears had been unwarranted. Rick carried no ill will towards the little girl. He instead managed to conjure a sad smile as he kissed her forehead, love evident in his tired gaze.

"She looks like you." He said to Carl, prompting the boy to actually scrounge up a smile.

Carl didn't look any different from his father, minus the blood and dirt. He too was emotionally exhausted as he had literally been abandoned by his only parent after his mother died. After he had to put her down. Whatever skeletons the boy carried he had not shared with the grownups. Hershel had tried to talk to him, even Carol, but the only thing they had managed was an apathetic 'I'm alright'. Beth had managed to break his shell, but whatever they had spoken was unknown to the Native.

As she watched them from her vantage point, Samara felt an incredible sense of sadness. They looked so broken as they finally stood together as a family once again, united in heartache. This was a cruel picture of a family. She almost wanted to cry at the wretchedness of this world. Stealing away mothers and fathers, siblings, friends and lovers and leaving the ones left alive to pick up the pieces with only memories to haunt forever.

Rick's gaze rose to his son.

"Where is she?"

"Samara buried here by the baseball field."

The urge to bolt was fierce. He was staring right at her, but there was no supposed anger or blame in his features as Samara believed there would be. There was just disillusionment.

"Will you show me?"

The Native hesitated, every bone in her body screamed no, but she complied in the end. Her flight-or-fight instinct were so heightened that she almost felt like fainting as she led the way for the mourning procession. Only the four of them stepped outside for the baseball field, the walkers rattling the chain fence at the sight of them. Rick did not seem to hear them as he had only eyes for the small creature in his arms.

Gods, she now regretted ever burying the dead. So close to the Kentucky man had her break out in a cold sweat of anxiety. She had not been prepared today to be in his presence, much less talk to the man.

As the sight of the graves grew near, Samara noticed with morbid interest a white flower on Lori's grave. A Cherokee Rose upon closer inspection. She did not remember ever leaving a flower…

"What's that?" Carl asked once he too saw the flower.

"Cherokee Rose. It's been associated with the Trail of Tears." Didn't Daryl give one to Carol a long time ago? "It's said that the petals are the grief of the Cherokee mothers as they were relocated to the southeast. Many of their children and people died on the path and from their tears, the Roses bloomed."

A small smile graced the boy's lips. He seemed to like the idea.

"It's peaceful here." Rick remarked as a light breeze undulated the great sea of green. "I don't think we have one bad memory of this one place. I can still remember the baseball match. It's one of the few happy moment we had. Lori would've liked this place."

Well…Samara had picked it for practical reason, but she let Rick think what he liked.

As she watched his profile basked in the morning sunlight, Samara almost recoiled. How could someone look so at peace and grief-stricken at the same time? Was this the acceptance stage of grief? Again, the Native felt the need to run. She did not do well near people in distress. She never knew what to say or do to comfort them.

But Rick needed to know. She hadn't meant for it to happen, but she had been presented with little to no choice. It hadn't been her fault.

"I'm sorry." Samara's voice cracked at the end. "For everything turning out like this. For what had to happen." For what Alice and I did.

Rick sighed. It came from deep within, so desolate that it sent a stab of pain in Samara's heart.

"I am too, but we can't change what happened. Lori's dead, but our baby is alive. I am thankful for that at least."

Those blue eyes appraised her with an eerie emptiness.

"I don't blame you nor Alice for anythin'. I know it must've been hard. You did the only thing possible." The man swallowed thickly, pushing back the tears, and gazed back down at the baby. "I'm just glad that a part of Lori survived, and it's here, in my arms."

His lips contorted into a tired smile.

"Thank you, Samara. For bein' there for her."

Don't look at me like that. He should hate her. She chose his wife's fate when she had no relation to her. Samara was barely a friend, he shouldn't be so relieved. How could she tell him that she chose based on her experience with countless deaths? Samara had known that there would have been little chances for Lori to survive if they forgo the baby. That bullet had hit too close to home for her to survive with amateurish skills and no special equipment. But the baby had a chance only if the mother died.

"…I didn't want to do it, but Lori insisted. She chose death instead of seeing the baby die." Any sane parent's choice, really..

Rick nodded knowingly. "She was always protective of Carl. I don't doubt that she fought you tooth and nail for this baby's life. She was a good mother. I just wish…"

I know…Believe me, Rick, I know.

Despite his words, Samara still felt guilt and would for a long time. She knew herself. When something ate at her soul, Samara would fester it to the point of madness. A sort of self-inflicted punishment. The woman was masochistic in that regard.

"I should leave. I have a shift coming up." She didn't, but Samara felt that it was time to let the family to their privacy.

Rick nodded, his gaze never wavering from the child.

As Samara moved away, that urge to run became more and more prominent. Her steps quickened, but there was no direction she could take. She wanted to disappear, to stick her head in the sand and never come out. Her heart was up to the point of breaking and she needed someone or something to stitch it before it burst. The demons were coming out and Samara could not find the strength to repel them this time.

She needed to vent. She needed to rage. She needed to punch something. To retch and cry until her eyes dried up like a desert.

She needed him.


She found him over watching the fields from the bridge. As usual, he was frowning heavily, gripping his crossbow with white fingers as vigilance squared his shoulders. He was tense, alert for any surprise attacks.

He heard her before he saw her. At first, the man did not react save for a quick side glance. Not even when Samara crept near and russet fingers gripped the chain fence, rattling it softly. The woman said nothing as she let her beehive mind settle down. The urge to let her mouth run free was neigh, but she needed to choose her words carefully. She knew the man was on guard, so every word, every gesture counted.

"I cried for you."

That caught his attention completely.

With a deep breath, Samara opened the gates to her black heart.

"When I realized that you weren't coming back, that you were dead, I couldn't hold it in anymore. I didn't think I had any tears left in me, not after John died, but they just poured out and they just wouldn't stop. I felt like dying in that moment."

His silence was a comfort, as if sailing on a calm ocean. It gave Samara the determination to go through with her confession.

"I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep. I thought I would wither away and I felt like I deserved it. I was walking through a fog with no direction. It was because of me that you died. Because you got attached when you shouldn't have." The guilt she had punished herself with had been unflinching and excruciating. She had given herself no sympathy, thinking that she had not deserved it. She had brought the two of them together, had progressed matters to them screwing on a sofa and then continuing that activity throughout several weeks. Their joining had been their downfall. Nothing good ever came out of friends with benefits. Feelings always got involved, in one person or both. "But then Glenn tells me that, against my belief, you were alive and looking for me." It had given her so much relief that her armor chinked and the tears poured out in waves. To know that there was someone waiting for her beyond Woodbury's walls had given her the determination necessary to attempt the impossible.

Samara turned to him, her face barren. She was tired. So tired from the stress and anger and sorrow accumulated these past few weeks that she was dying inside bit by bit. Her insides were twisted and knotted, bleeding venom and decay. Her mind was in a constant state of frenzy, between fury and no means of venting it. Between needing compassion and keeping a strong front. She wanted no help from others but for how long can the human psyche sustain that mentality before it breaks?

The only person that could have comforted her, she pushed away to prevent further grief, but what has that accomplished except for additional dismay? As much as she tried to deny it even Samara needed a consoling touch. Someone to be there for her through thick and thin.

"You want to know why I couldn't let you touch me after? Why I couldn't even look at you?"

Daryl stood patiently as she approached him slowly, her heart bleeding through her eyes. Her fingers reached for his neck and touched the hideous mark that will forever be tattooed upon his skin. The only proof that Death had almost claimed him as one of her own soldiers.

"You bastard…"

She slapped him. Hard.

"You stupid son of a bitch."

She slapped him again and the man offered no retaliation as he calmly accepted her blows. The anger was eating her raw. Those repressed emotions were gushing forth with furious speed as she lashed out blindly. She wanted to hurt someone, make them pay for what was done to her and her friends. For having to spend a month in hell and to know that the future only held death and destruction. There was no peace to be found, only fire.

Why did everything turn out like this?

"That's what you are! Stupid! You're an idiot!"

She continued to hit him and she loathed him for just standing there. Why did he not do anything? Curse her. Yell. Hit her. Anything!

Do something!

"Asshole! Fucking hick!"

With each strike of his flesh, Samara felt everything unravel inside her. The pieces were cracking once more and she had no strength to keep together. She did not even care for the pain the strikes left in her damaged hand, she welcomed them as the last piece of stable ground in this hellish storm she was riding.

"Why did you offer yourself?! Why did you have to play the hero?! I didn't need you to do that, you asshole! I just wanted you to stay alive! You should have let me die!"

He moved. Daryl embraced her in a tight hug, leaving her no room to move. In vain, Samara tried to struggle, but he was unrelenting. That fear of being trapped—especially now since not recently she had been tied down to a chair, her pinky hacked off—escalated into hysterics and almost had her collapse mentally.

Let me go!

She struggled and yelled into his collarbone, tried to beat at him, but nothing she did moved the man. He remained fixed, holding her tightly against him.

Don'ttouchmegetofffuckyoubastardpleasehelpme—

It felt like hours until Samara finally ceased out of pure exhaustion. She just lay lifelessly while Daryl offered nothing but his warmth. The Native hadn't even noticed the bitter tears that soaked his shirt.

"You just hung there…struggling." Her voice was hoarse and muffled, broken in so many pieces that she feared she would never recover. "I could see your skin turn blue…your veins bulging. I saw life leave your body. Why did you do it?"

His arms loosened as strong fingers cupped her face with a gentleness uncharacteristic of him. She had never seen him so distraught, his face contorted into such painful sorrow. His heart too was bleeding.

"Can't you tell?" The coarseness in his voice had Samara in tears again. "Don't you see why I couldn't let you die? Look at me."

His forehead touched hers. So up close, Samara found that his eyes were actually beautiful to gaze upon. Such a pleasant shade of blue that it ignited a spark of soothing comfort. How come she hadn't noticed this before?

She knew, without a doubt, what lurked behind those handsome eyes. What emotion churned deep within this man. Samara had known for a while now, but had simply refused to acknowledge it.

"No…"

She tried in vain to look away, to turn her head from this intense man but he would not allow it.

"It's been there at the back of my mind. It was just a matter of time." His thumbs wiped the tear traces, his rough pads making her skin flush. "I didn't wanna admit it because I knew I'd end up the fool, but it don't matter no more. The fights, the arguments, those shoutin' matches that you could hear from miles away only for us to end up back in the warden's office, fuckin' our brains out. And after all that thunder and lightnin', for it to start all over again like a clean slate. All that shit don't matter no more. There's only you and me now."

Her mind was revolting. The logical side of her being was screaming for her to run from this man. That he will be her downfall, but her heart wouldn't allow her. It kept her chained to him, to comfort and the opportunity of happiness. She wished she could stay forever like this, but nothing ever worked the way she wanted.

"And this."

He kissed her and Samara lost herself to the moment. It was not fiery passionate as their past sessions, but tender and soft. Barely any pressure as their lips brushed against each other.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this." Samara whispered, their breaths mingling.

"I know. It ain't your fault, it's mine. It was never just a quick one in a dark room for me. Never was. It just took me a long time."

He cupped her face again and kissed her. This time, it was more than just a brush as Daryl almost devoured her lips. The Native was left stunned, but his eagerness was not unwelcome. She could feel the repressed want behind his actions. The days she had denied him this very action and it was now seeping into her being, sending shivers down her spine. He did not relent, he did not allow her space. The hunter latched onto her like a predator its prey, her life trapped between his jaws, and the man did not show any signs of conceding soon.

Not that Samara minded. This was why she had come here in the first place. A break from this harsh reality was always welcome in desperate times. But the moment Daryl lost himself into the dance of their lips and his arm circled her entire back and squeezed, was when her injuries reminded her that she was not exactly fit for any rough and tumble activities.

"Ow! Fuck!" Like lightning, the nerves in her dislocated arm went aflame. Tiny colorful splotches dominated her vision and sent her mind reeling.

"Shit!" Daryl backed away in horror. "I hurt you."

She caught his wrist with her four-fingered hand (goddammit, she will never get used to thinking that) and stopped him from further breaking the spell.

"It's fine!" She squeaked rapidly, her fingers tightening even though she felt like screaming. Her body had still not recuperated from the madness of two days ago. "It's fine. I'm alright."

Every pore of his body seem to doubt her words, as he assessed her from head to toe, taking in every wince, twitch of her muscles and awkward angle of her body. Nothing escaped his notice as his frown deepened worriedly.

"I'm fine, Daryl." She gingerly settled her bandaged hand on his chest, capturing his attention towards it. "Really."

The small smile on her lips seemed to have conquered his doubts as he took her injured hand and kissed it affectionately. Samara wished she could have felt his rough lips on her skin but unfortunately the bandage was too thick.

Her four fingers wrapped around his hand and tugged. Like a puppy, he came after her no question asked, his crossbow held loosely in his other hand. His mind was in another dimension. Any thoughts he might have had about watch duty or their group troubles seemed to have vanished as his blue eyes darkened with lust. His eyes raked over her heavily and Samara knew he was already picturing her naked and doing unspeakable things to her body.

That's right. Come with me.

Inside the garage, the darkness was almost consuming, but Samara found it a relief. There was no fear or coldness here, only the warmth of Daryl's body and his excited breath mingling with hers. He was just as eager as she was, maybe even more.

Like a lioness, she pounced on him, hoping he could make her forget even for a little while.

That was all she wanted.


She was beautiful.

There, as she sat on top of him, disheveled from their kissing, her lips prettily swollen, her chest rising and falling with sweet urgency and her olive eyes dark with want. She wanted him, badly.

Daryl did not know how long it passed since they ended up on the floor, half their clothes gone, kissing and biting and sucking on their skin like two desperate animals in heat and for the life of him he did not care. She was back, in his arms, no longer pushing him away like a leper. The urge in him to fuck her until her skin turned blue and black, until she walked bowlegged and begged him for more was on the edge of his sane consciousness, barely within his self-control. It had been too long. So much energy had been accumulated within him that he had not been able to vent it in any way possible. Too many things have happened—from his return to the living, to her disappearance and presumed death; her reappearance in tow with his brother along with a slew of other problems, the most dangerous they have faced yet.

Goddammit, ever since he saw her come out of that car, the only thing he had wanted to do was hold her. Comfort her. Kiss her. But she had denied him that pleasure for whatever reason her twisted mind conjured up. He had never wished her ill will so Daryl did not understand why she was fighting so zealously against the tide. He had accepted it some time ago.

He loved her.

Every part of her. To her smooth and silky raven hair that shined almost indigo in the bright morning light, to her olive eyes speckled with golden flakes that he had tried on several occasions to count but never managed to finish, to her foul temper and cynical remarks to her almost gentle smile when she was in a content mood. And that dimple on her cheek…the one he discovered in the forest, he had not been able to not see it since. It added to her charm and he knew that if she smiled fully, the dimple would show plain as day.

No matter what happened, no matter what he or she did, Daryl knew that a part of him will always hold her dear to his heart. She was the first he'd ever grown so fond of. The reason why he had denied himself this chance, why he had tried to keep her at a distance and pathetically failed. The emotions that came with Samara had been foreign to him. Aliens that have landed on his planet and Daryl had been lost in translation. He had been too ashamed to ask for advice—a grown ass man searching for counsel in the matters of the heart was pitiful and far too revealing of his former life than he wished. He had been reduced to sorting this tangled and thorny path on his own and hope he would come to see the end of it in one piece.

And he did…And now he knew what he wanted and he would do anything to keep it. Life was short. Shorter now than ever so why deny himself this pleasure? If this is what he felt, he might as well ride its turbulent and fervent tides until one of them closed their eyes forever.

Daryl's fingers tangled in her hair and pulled the Native back to him, their lips tangling and tongues battling for dominance. She was so hot inside, her tongue making perverse wet noises and little moans escaped from deep within her throat that it took all his willpower not to flip her over and take command. He knew what she wanted—rough, desperate, painful, angry, maybe even hateful—and Samara knew how to elicit that from him, but Daryl would not give her that. Not this time. He would not give her the quick and rough fuck she wanted so desperately. She came to him so he was the one setting the pace whether she liked it or not.

Daryl was not blind. Something must have happened to heavily unbalance her and she sought refuge in the only way possible she knew how to take control—riding him with abandon. But he will not oblige. He needed to show her that it could be better. She did not need a justifiable reason to come to him.

Slowing down her pace, Daryl's hand slipped from her hair to her cheek and held her to him while their lips danced with slow precision. He could feel the exasperation behind her short-lived spurts of energy, but she would just have to practice patience. They had time, there was no need to rush.

Catching her lower lip between his teeth, he naughtily nibbled on it eliciting a breathy sigh from his Sacajawea. Samara responded with her own tongue, licking at his lips erotically before catching and sucking it into her mouth. The free hand that had been on her hip, roughly kneaded her flesh and made her skin pinprick as she violated his mouth with her wickedness. Slowly, his hand lowered until it reached her curved backside and squeezed.

Samara gasped into his mouth and her eyes almost rolled into her skull when his hand brushed between her thighs. Daryl could feel the heat emanating from her core and almost groaned himself. It became worse when Samara suddenly bucked, grinding without any shame against his hardness.

Daryl hissed as his back arched. The woman was undulating atop him like a mesmerized cobra, building fires of unstoppable ecstasy inside his being. She wasn't even being fair. Samara had picked an unhurried and tortuous tempo, teasing him with the entire feel of her heated sex.

She was playing dirty and she knew it from that smug grin on her lips.

Well…two could play that.

With one push, he raised his upper body along with hers. With one hand he applied pressure on her chest until she was bent enough that he had free access to her breasts. Samara almost howled when he tugged on her sports bra, freeing one breast and latched onto her nipple, sucking the hard bud with unrestraint. The woman lost all notion of her previous action, sitting complacently in his lap as he devoured her breasts with rough kisses.

Samara didn't have large breasts—a feat he preferred in his women—but they were satisfying and quite perky for her age. The Native had little fat to her body, all toned and solid limbs. A far cry from the woman in the photo. Daryl had found her off-putting at first, but with time he grew to adore her body, no longer minding her hard angles. What he probably adored the most were her thighs—they were lean and strong as a horse's and could squeeze him to hell and back. And the way she sometimes clenched and moved her pelvis when he was inside her…it was all he could take not to finish prematurely.

Slender fingers tangled in his hair and aggressively tugged for attention. Reluctantly, he let go of her now tender and flushed breasts only for Samara's free hand to dive to his pants and undo his zipper. Forgetting his previous proclamation of taking things slow, Daryl hastily helped her in relieving himself out of his pants and helped her in the process as well, all but ripping what clothing she still had left.

Instead of settling back in his lap as he thought she would, Samara smirked naughtily and shimmied down his body, leaving a trail of kisses and rough nibbles. Daryl almost groaned out loud when her tongue licked the faint v shape of his lower abdomen. He was no Ares, but he always believed his body was in good shape for his age and Samara seemed to be of the same mind as she all but worshiped his abdomen, lavishing it with her hot tongue. Teeth scrapping against sensitive skin had him strain against his skintight boxers, driving him mad with lust. She was teasing him again and he loved every moment of it.

The woman had a playful side to her when it came to the bedroom. He'd noticed it before, but back then she had tried to suppress it in favor of reaching her own high as fast as possible. Not today it seemed. She was intent on driving him over the brink for her own lascivious amusement.

He cursed lowly and shut his eyes tight when her warm mouth ghosted over his covered length, her tongue sneaking out for a few impish licks. Strong fingers tangled in her hair urging her to relieve him from his confines lest he lose all of his sanity. The Native complied with sharp nails and scraping teeth.

But once he was finally out of his last restrictions, free to slip into a world of sexual bliss, the woman's touch disappeared. Alarmed and heavily dismayed, he opened his eyes and searched for the cause of her cold-shoulder.

Samara was naked as the day she was born, settled with her bended knees on each side of his lap, moments away from nestling comfortably with him inside her. Those willowy fingers that could bring so much harm and so much pleasure wrapped around his length and guided him towards her entrance—

Goddamn, she's so wet…

It never ceased to amaze him that for someone with her experience she was still so mouthwateringly tight. Like trying on a glove a size too small, but Daryl loved it all the same. The two of them might not have the greatest emotional chemistry, but they had a deep sexual one that made up for that.

Once she settled all the way to his base, they both groaned with barely suppressed energy. The thin line between love-making and fucking was so thin that it became transparent, but Daryl was intent on savoring it and that meant taking it slow and not like two beasts rutting in a frenzy.

Those powerful legs tangled behind his back, squeezing his hips and in reaction, her muscles contracted with him inside. Daryl growled as he clenched his eyes shut to relish the waves of pleasure crashing over him. She just knew how to push his buttons…

His fingers dug deep into her rump, eliciting a throaty chuckle from her. Watching him struggle and squirm was a pastime to the woman atop him.

But he knew how to shut her up. A quick and rough buck upwards was all it took to wipe the haughtiness of her face and make her a quivering mess. Daryl gripped her hips and ass as he bucked fiercely inside her, leaving her no respite. Samara held onto him frighteningly tight, the last bastion to her sanity, as the man devoured her completely. The woman had to bite down on her dislocated arm to muffle the shouts that wanted to escape her so desperately.

There was no mercy to the hunter, but he knew he could not do it for long. He had a promise to keep. To his slight frustration, he slowed down his pace until he could feel every slide of his manhood against her walls and he swore the intensity of their coupling spiked through the roof. Samara let out a desperate moan, her nails digging into his back, urging him to pick up his pace. This was torture. Exquisite, beautiful torture and Daryl never wanted it to end.

This was the first time he ever took his time with the woman. Their joining had always been fast and harsh, each desperate to reach their own release, never once taking in the time to enjoy. And he could understand why now. It was infinitely better and considerably more torturous. Every sway of their hips was felt tenfold, every friction of skin left them hot and cool to the touch, Daryl could explore her flesh leisurely and Samara loved it all. She was panting and moaning and shivering, each stroke of his length seemingly making her more painfully wanton.

She feels so good…

Inside everything was scorching hot that Daryl thought he would develop a fever. His mind was in a haze, his body acting on basic urges. He never wanted to let go, holding her against him almost wishing they could merge into one being and forever live in this passionate sensation.

His lips found hers and they kissed until their breath left their bodies, leaving them panting for air. Daryl did not give her much free time before he dove right back in and stole her breath away. Her skin was soft under his touch, her spine quaking as his fingers brushed over it feathery light. His fingers moved to her breast and kneaded it lovingly with just enough amount of roughness to make her mewl.

Samara's hands traveled to his chest, her nails leaving pink marks across his skin. The feeling had Daryl buck harder than intended. She knew it was a weak point and she was devilish enough to exploit it. Like a cat she flexed her fingers over his chest, altering between leaving indents and lightly brushing against. It was driving him crazy.

With enough pressure, he pushed the woman into his chest trapping her arms between them with enough force not to hurt her already disturbed arms. He would not handle her the power in this little dance of theirs. The moment he began filling her more deeply, Samara slumped against him without any willpower to move. She was completely in his control; a puppet dangling on his strings. Her walls were so slick and soft against his member, Daryl swore he could only compare it to satin. She accepted him wholeheartedly inside, her body already knowing him.

It could only be him and no one else. Who else could manipulate her body to such heights? Could give her what she wanted without any words exchanged? He knew her body, the slight twitches in her muscles, the subtle changes in her mood. Daryl could tell only by looking at her how she wanted it. And deny it as she might, Daryl knew she enjoyed his passion more than she would like to admit.

In and out of her he slid, his entire being on fire. The world had stopped and it was only the two of them, locked in each other's burning embrace. Daryl could feel it deep inside—the delightful churning—ready to reach the end of its fuse and send him to Nirvana. The hunter knew it would be like fireworks being set off. He had been away from her touch for too long and it had affected him more than he thought.

He knew she didn't have long left either. From the heightened pitch in her voice to the way her inner walls were contracting against him and to her quivering thighs, he knew she was close to reaching her peak. Daryl wanted to see her come for him. He loved that moment—seeing her face wreaked with pleasure, pleasure he brought upon her. It was a personal high.

Gripping her hips tightly, he began bucking into her fiercely. Samara responded the way he knew she would and matched his pace, her head thrown backwards and moaning loud enough to wake the dead. The sway of their bodies, the sweat rolling down their damp skin, their trembling limbs made for one picturesque image. The air was electrifying and the heady smell intoxicated their minds, throwing them into pure, erotic bliss.

Her walls clenched and quivered. Daryl embraced her, one arm around her back the other pushing her rump into him and the final cherry—he bit her neck with enough roughness to make her scream.

And how did Samara howl.

The feeling of her climax against him sent him over the edge as well, joining her in this ecstasy. Daryl thought there was no greater feeling in the world than two people finishing at the same time, especially when those involved shared a bond beside that in body. There was a sort of magic to it that could never be replicated with a different person. It was unique and Daryl couldn't get enough of it.

This woman quivering in his arms…he loved her like no other woman in his life. She was his salvation and his curse. A woman doomed to forever slip through his hands, never once remaining trapped for too long. She was not what he wanted in a partner, but she was what he needed.

Daryl wanted to never let go. He could sense it. It was faint and barely noticeable, but the first rumble of a distant storm jolted through his being bringing him to a sharp awareness. Something told him that she would fly away again and leave him alone as he had been all his life. Usually, his instincts were never wrong but he hoped to God that this prediction wasn't about to come true.

Such a bitter-sweet feeling to his climax that it made him hold onto her for dear life.

Stay. For once in your life, stay.

Here. With me.

His heart clenched in pain.

Don't let go…


Samara sat nestled in his lap, her back resting on his chest. She was as content as a lazy cat basking in the sun. Her needs had been met and the frenzy in her mind seemed to have dissipated to a background noise. She knew the problems wouldn't go away with just one roll in the hay, but dammit if it didn't calm her down greatly.

She softly caressed the arm lying on her stomach and Daryl seemed to approve of her affection as he nuzzled and kissed her neck. His other hand held her damaged one with tenderness, stroking the bandage gingerly. The Native could sense his contentment on her skin. The man was happy to have her in his arms and she knew that his fondness far outshined hers. For such a quiet and reserved man, he was by far the more affectionate of the two of them.

In her own way, Samara did care for him. More than she thought possible, more than she should have. The Native was so afraid and yet, she wanted him to stay beside her. To never leaver but she knew that was a fantasy. An ideal she could not follow through…at least not now.

—He really did deserve someone better.

"What happens now?"

Daryl shifted, the hand on her stomach applying more pressure. His nose burrowed in the conjecture of her shoulder and breathed in deeply.

"Don't know." She heard his muffled husky voice. "You wanna talk? About this?"

Samara almost chuckled. "I think we have more pressing matters at hand than our standing in this fucked up world."

He nodded into her, understandingly. His hand detached from her stomach and cupped her chin, turning her head to the side so she could see him. He was dead serious.

"But once this whole Woodbury problem is over, me and you—if we're still alive—we're gonna have a talk. We can't keep doin' what we've been doin'. It ain't right. I just don't have the strength to continue this fucked up game."

A game…Was that what it was? Was Samara playing with him? At this point, even she had no idea. But she conceded, knowing that he spoke true. Worse was the fact that she already knew what her words would be.

"I think that would be for the best. But until then…can I stay with you for just a little while longer?"

The corner of his mouth upturned for a moment before he kissed her fondly. His hand left her chin and slid downwards amorously. Samara felt her nipples tighten as those coarse fingers passed over her breast, giving them a light squeeze before venturing further. The Native whimpered into his kiss when those magnificent fingers of his reached her sex and stroked—

"We got an intruder!"

The voice crackled through Daryl's walkie like a war horn. As if electrocuted, they disentangled and reached for their clothes, dressing in a hurry. Samara almost balked, but there was nothing to be done. The times were still dangerous and the situation could not be ignored no matter how much she craved his warmth.

She just wished it didn't have to be now of all times…


Samara hurried in the courtyard along with Daryl, rifles ready. Anger ran rampant through her body. She refused to believe that Woodbury was already attacking. They were not ready for violence yet, not after the last attack. Rick might look calm now, but she bet underneath he was still disturbed. The others had not gotten rid of the paranoia and fear. They were now the metaphorical cornered animal, clawing and hissing at anyone that came within short distance.

The two trackers joined Merle and Dale who were behind cover in the cage. Merle gave the two of them a scrutinizing once over and scoffed derisively. Guess someone realized what they had been up two…

It wasn't like they didn't look the part. Disheveled clothing, mussed hair, swollen lips, flushed skin and the scent of sex. She just hoped Dale didn't recognize it. That would become rather awkward.

Further away she could see the others in different areas, hiding behind corners and cars, on the bridge behind pallets and Glenn even held a riot shield protectively. Everyone was on edge and with good reason. The unknown was upon to reign on them once again.

"What is goin' on? Is Woodbury attackin' again?" Daryl hissed to his brother, worry evident.

Merle shook his head. "One guy. He's walkin' through the field with a biter on a leash and get this…geek's got no arms."

Samara's brows raised in surprise. What the hell was going on?

The walkie at Dale's belt crackled and Sasha's voice whispered.

"He's near the inner gate. The walkers are getting agitated. I think they're starting to realize something's wrong."

Samara peaked through the metal gaps in the walls of the cage. Indeed, there was a man with a collared walker approaching the gate. The man seemed to be covered in home-made armor and it was a wonder he could even move in it from all that silvery tape.

"Who is that?" Dale asked as he watched the strange man with astounded, but curious eyes. Anyone willing to walk around like that must be a little bit crazy.

"That there is Milton." Merle huffed in amusement, a sly grin creeping over his lips.

And indeed, it was him. Milton fucking Mamet rolled up in tape and foam and other junk protecting his body, guiding around a walker on a dog catcher pole.

"Milton…Is that the scientist you told us about?" Dale looked to Samara.

She nodded.

"He ain't no threat." Merle spat as he watched the little man awkwardly avoid the inquisitive undead, probably pissing himself in fear. "You so much as glare in his direction and he breaks down like a little girl."

"That don't mean he's alone." Daryl interjected as he left the cage and ran to a different cover, much closer to the foreign man. His crossbow was loaded. One wrong step and he'll shoot to kill.

"So…" Merle stated vulgarly, ignorant of the tense situation or even that the old man was there. "You and my bro did the dirty, huh?"

The surprised/shocked look she got from Dale had been among the most awkward moments of her life. Can't this bastard ever shut up?

Thankfully, the situation at hand saved her from Merle's further obscene prodding as Milton frantically fluttered a white handkerchief.

"I come in peace!"

Samara kept her amusement in check at his choice of words, but Merle didn't. Milton had never been the most social of people. Figures he wouldn't know what to say.

"Are you alone?!" Samara heard Rick's voice bellow.

"Yes! Please, open the gate! The biters are coming closer!"

Rick weighted his choices and made a signal forward. Tyreese, Glenn and Michonne provided the distraction while Daryl covered their leader. The others warily watched the horizon for any other living creatures willing to shower them again with a hail of bullets. The gate opened with a screech and Rick grabbed Milton, hurling him inside. The leashed walker was left behind to wander absentmindedly, poles till attached.

Milton almost tripped, his glasses askew on his nose. The man did not even get the chance to breathe as both Daryl and Rick ambushed, weapons fixed on him.

"Hands up! Get on your knees!"

Without mercy, Rick forced Milton down and patted him for any concealed weapons while Daryl held him at gunpoint.

"I asked if you were alone." Rick said as he gathered the supplies and few weapons he had on. He was not pleased, Samara could read it on his rigid features. Every pore in his body exuded poison enough to kill someone and who better than one of the very people that killed his wife.

"I am!" Milton was out of breath and his glasses askew. She knew the man was just coming down from his adrenaline adventure among walkers only to fall into a pit of hatred. Samara could see them all…how they looked at Milton. There was anger, disgust, fear…The smell of hate was heavy in the air.

Rick took another watchful look over the field before picking Milton up and along with Tyreese, dragged him inside the prison. As they passed Samara, Milton looked to her. There was fear in those pale orbs of his, but there was also resolution. A determination that forced him to brave the open country with only a walker on a leash.

Samara smirked, but the sentiment never reached her eyes.

"Welcome to my house, Milton."


Milton was forcefully shoved into a metal chair, the jolt sending his glasses tumbling on the cold ground. Samara picked them up, vaguely noticing the tiny cracks in the glass.

I don't remember these from back in Woodbury. Must be recent.

"What are you doing here, Milton?" She handed him his spectacles.

"I came to bargain a truce."

Samara didn't even need to turn around and look at the faces around her to know their doubt. She herself did not believe it. Truce and the Governor did not go hand in hand.

"Truce, my ass." Merle spat, his features contorted nastily. "Is this some new play? Send in the sheep to ease us into the slaughter, huh?"

"No! He was the one that wanted to meet. He wants to negotiate."

No, more like Milton wanted to negotiate and the Governor let him do whatever he wanted. The bastard had just opened fire upon them a few days ago, leaving casualties behind. It seemed a mighty strange prelude for a peace treaty.

"There's nothin' to negotiate!" Rick yelled, cornering Milton in his chair. "We had that field and courtyard until your leader tore down the fence with a truck and shot us up!"

"He-He said you fired first…"

"Well, he's lying." The sheriff was beyond furious. Milton's proposition must seem like a slap in the face after everything that happened. Samara wouldn't be surprised if the sheriff took a swing at him. "He killed an inmate who survived in here and my wife!"

Milton looked aghast, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. It seemed the Governor had not been inclined to divulge everything that transpired here.

"I-I didn't know anything about that." He spoke meekly, fearing the danger he was currently in. The man pacing agitated in front of him looked seconds away from tearing him in half. "As soon as I heard, I pleaded with the Governor to seek out a truce. I barely convinced him of this. Please, hear me out."

"No!" Rick refused adamantly. The mere thought of sitting face to face with that bastard had his fists tremble in anger. "We're gonna kill him. I don't know how or when, but we will."

"We can settle this." Milton insisted unwavering. "There is room in Georgia for all of us."

"You know better than that, Milton." Merle interjected, a mocking smile on his lips. "He won't stand for havin' neighbors in his back yard. Dangerous ones, too."

"Please, listen. He doesn't want more bloodshed. We've already lost enough. But the Governor will protect his town. He's gearing up for war. The people are terrified. They see you as killers. They're training to defend."

"You mean, attack." Sasha scoffed, her arms crossed. She was in the' no truce' camp, it seemed.

"I'll tell you what." Daryl grabbed the back of Milton's chair and lowered enough to be terrified eye to vicious eye. "Next time you see the Governor, you tell him it's gonna be his last."

"We're taken too much shit for too long." Glenn's eyes narrowed forebodingly. "He wants a war? He's got one."

Around and around Milton searched for a sympathetic face. Someone who would listen to sanity and logic but all he could see was a sea of anger and grief, ready to unleash a tidal of violence on the man he followed. Samara almost felt sorry for him…that if until he turned to her with those puppy dog eyes.

"Samara, please! If you don't sit down and try to work this out, I don't know what's gonna happen. We has a whole town. Look at you! You've lost so much already. You can't stand alone anymore."

Samara's bandaged arm flexed. She knew what she lost. Was reminded of it every day, from the instant she woke to the moment she closed her eyes.

"We lost more than you can think. Some of us more than the others. You want me to believe the Governor wants truce? Peace?" With features set in stone she took off her bandage and shoved in his face him what remained of her little finger—crusted blood, raw meat and all. "This is the Governor's mercy!"

Milton closed his eyes in faint nausea, but she could see the pain in his pale eyes. "I know…I know what he did." His eyes stole a furtive glance at Michonne. So he knows about that too…"Look, I cannot excuse or explain what Philip has done. Even I can't understand, but I am here trying to bring us together. We have to work this out."

"There's nothing to work out!" Michonne exploded, startling everyone within her range. Samara could safely say that she could count on one hand the times she heard Michonne raise her voice and this was one of them. The woman was holding herself back with what little was left of her willpower, Samara could see it, but she too was close to her breaking point. Andrea had noticed the perilous signs as she cautiously made her way towards the sword-wielder. Just in case… "You want to make this right, get us inside and we'll end this once and for all. You know just as I do that that man is too dangerous to live. You must have seen the walker heads."

Milton shook his head, either to be rid of the image she conjured or to express his denial. Samara thought both.

"I can't do that." His voice was cracked, the words regurgitated forcefully.

"Then we got nothin' to talk about." Rick's voice was stone cold and his gaze spoke volumes of the hell within him. "Tell your Governor the answer is no."

How sour desperation smelled, Samara thought. Milton had the same feel as a drowning man. Salvation was near yet so far away and there was nothing one could do but scream at their bleak situation. Samara knew that feeling all too well.

Milton rose to his feet forgetting all about his captivity level. His abrupt action almost got him stabbed or shot as most of them reached for their guns, crossbows and machetes. But lost in his misery, Milton was beyond prudence and acted on his heart.

"There are innocent people! Women and children! We wants to arm thirteen year olds! Old people that can barely carry a gun! Is that what you want to fight? Is that what you want to kill?" He faced them all in turn, hoping to instill a slither of empathy. "Samara, I know what he did was beyond wrong, but you can't want this. This senseless slaughter! Both sides will lose if we go to war. There's no winning! You have to see that!"

Oh, he really didn't think this one.

"You're pleading with the wrong person, Milton. I want to see Woodbury burn, and all its people."

In another time Samara would have felt great pity for the man. His slumped shoulders, the loss of hope in his features, but the Samara of now was full of hatred and anger and suppressed violence. The Native knew what she wanted both in body and mind and Woodbury destroyed was high on her 'to do' list.

"I can't believe that this is what we have come too." Milton sat back in his chair, mentally exhausted. Even his voice barely carried any motivation. "Killing each other for no different reason because we couldn't put aside our pride and talk. We're better than this. We're still human, right? I'm sorry that your wife died. And you friend. But you killed some of our own people too. Friends, family. I'm not asking you to decide now if you'll go to war or not, but at least listen. No harm will come to both parties. Perhaps, we could find a motive, even as obscure as you think it to be, to live peacefully and without further, needless deaths. Isn't that worth trying?"

Rick gave him no answer, but Samara could see the cogs turn inside his head.


Oh hell…

"You can't be considering it." Tyreese watched Rick like a hawk, anxious revulsion contorting his features. "It's insane!"

"I am."

The strongest of the group were gathered, far away from Milton's ears, discussing his proposal with bathed breath while the rest remained with their captive, watchful of his actions. Heavy tension hung in the air, creating an uncomfortable current. Samara could see the ones for and against the idea and the Native could loudly proclaim that she thought the notion to be a very bad one.

"We can't have a truce, not after—"

"I never said anythin' about a truce." Rick placated the furious Michonne. The woman looked ready to gouge his eyes out. "I don't believe the Governor wants that, no matter what this Milton says. That man is up to somethin', and I want to know. If he wants to face me, I won't turn tail and run."

"What if it's a trap?" Daryl asked, he too doubtful with Milton's 'peaceful' solution. "Get us there only to have us captured and used as bargain."

"He ain't like that." Merle huffed from his darkened corner. "Governor wants us dead, he'll do it while the whole of Woodbury watches. That way his lies has legs to stand on. I'm with the Officer Friendly on this one. Governor wants to size us up. We back down, he'll know we're scared."

Like cornered prey.

They couldn't have that.

"I'll go." Samara never doubted that Rick would ever sit the bench this round. Not when he had the opportunity to come face to face with the man that caused his wife's death. Samara just hoped he wouldn't do something stupid and get himself and the others killed. "Daryl I want you there as well. Hershel, too. Everyone else, stay put. Do not come after us."

Michonne stalked away in disgust, her snarl a loud echo against the bleak walls. Samara understood her hatred completely. She too did not like Rick's compliance with Milton's request, for reasons obvious.

"This is stupid." Samara stepped in front, ready to burst their little bubble. "You're going into the shark's territory now of all times while blood is still fresh on the ground. You only came out of your insanity a few hours ago and now you want to go have a friendly chat with the man that caused all that blood?" The woman scoffed unconvinced. "I'm not really sure that's a good idea, Rick."

It didn't escape Samara's notice the shadow of pain that crossed over his features and while she might feel sorry for attacking him in such a manner, her words rang true. She would not risk others' lives on some insane suicide mission.

"I know what it looks like, but I can't back down." Rick's voice was low but firm as steel. He hid the pain well, but talking from experience, Samara knew that inside he was screaming, crying, dying. "My wife is dead because of that man, but I can't think about that now. This is about all of us. I need to look him in the eye and I want to see what's in there. Then I'll know what his true intentions are. I'm the leader of this group. I have to know what's in store for us."

Pretty words, but will those ideals persevere once he came face to face with the devil? It only took an impulse, a stray thought, and a second of weakness for the situation to unravel. In her law enforcement career, she'd witnessed too many.

"You sure you're up to this?" Tyreese asked, his doubts still dancing atop his shoulders.

"I don't have a choice."

Samara's teeth clenched. The rumble of the storm was creeping closer.


Her steps were silent. A memory floating across the empty, darkened hallways of the prison.

Sleep had not come to her tonight. Her limbs were sore and her back ached with phantom pain. Thoughts of today's happenings had been revolving inside her mind without respite, reducing her to pace across the prison's floors lost in thought.

It was insanity. Speaking with that bastard would welcome no result other than more violence. The Governor was not a man to back down and live quietly. He craved blood and death. Samara knew ever since she saw the fighting arena in Woodbury. It had been more for him than the residents. To feed his ego and lust for gore. Like Merle had said, the man was looking to size the sheriff up. The see the sort of damage he had inflicted and the length it spread. If Rick showed even a smidgen of weakness, a sign that the man had disturbed him to his very core, they would lose considerable ground in this war.

Samara just hoped that Rick would keep his head screwed on right for at least the duration of the 'peace talk'.

The arrows on her watch indicated past four in the morning. Just a few more hours and the arranged meeting would commence. Milton had come prepared with a time and place and himself as the hostage. A show that his side came peacefully and that nothing afoul would desecrate this summit. Everyone remaining calm and cool was his goal, no trigger fingers about.

—Samara thought otherwise. Governor was most likely to shoot him dead along with the rest if it meant gaining the advantage.

Her steps stilled.

She could see nothing but darkness inside. Milton had been locked into the adjunct area, both the gates to his cell and the block shut tight. Rick had taken no chances and separated the man from his pack. He would have posted a guard as well but Samara had discouraged him—Milton was neither dangerous nor treacherous. He was too straight of a man to lie, steal or kill.

"Milton?"

A rustle of sheets.

"I'm awake."

The man's pale face appeared before her, a wraith trapped behind rusting, iron bars. Even in the dim light Samara could see the anxieties wreak his body and temper. Like her, the man was nervous for what the morning sun would bring. He too knew the odds—it could easily go sideways, ending their peace talks in a mortal brawl.

How the tables have turned, Samara mused with dark humor. No longer was she the one held in captivity, awaiting tomorrow's light with heavy foreboding. Instead, she was the one looking inside the cells, holding the key to freedom. The only difference was, the man in the cell was not the one she wanted under her complete tyranny.

"Do you really believe that the Governor wants peace?" Her words hung thick in the air, painting a sense of dread. "Really?"

"I have to believe."

Samara scoffed. I have to…

In other words, he had no other choice but to resume to the power of trusting that everything will go well in the end. Pathetic…The ridiculous ramblings of a desperate man.

"You're taking a dangerous gamble. Not just on our lives, but yours as well."

"I know…" His forehead collided softly with the iron bar as if the burden on his mind was too heavy to bear alone anymore. "If it means my life then so be it, but the violence has to stop. No more bloodshed, no more needless deaths. I can't have those people that I've grown to care about march into a battle that could have been easily resolved without the use of force."

Easily, huh?

"Milton…Even if Rick talks to that monster there will be no peace." Can't he see that? It's so obvious. "We're still going to be at each other's throats. Maybe if events hadn't turned out the way they did, maybe a solution could have been found…but even then I doubt."

Milton frowned in dismay, her words further burdening his muddled mind. He could feel the beginnings of an aggressive migraine brewing deep within.

"There is a way, though…" His eyes shone back to her but he flinched. There was an evil about the woman that set him on edge. "You're the closest to him. You have the power to end it before it even starts."

At first he did not understood, but once the light filled the obscure corners of his mind the man balked.

"I-I can't do that." He refused adamantly, almost offended that she would suggest it. "You're asking for me to murder someone. A friend."

"Friend?" Samara scoffed, surprised that the word was even included in this conversation. "How can you still protect him? He doesn't give a shit about you."

"I knew Philip before he became the Governor. That man still exists underneath."

"I don't believe that. He's a monster."

Milton sighed exasperated. "Okay, so I kill the Governor. Then Martinez takes over. What then? Killing the Governor doesn't save you or your friends."

True. They might just swap one mad man for another, but in Samara's book anyone else was better than the Governor. For starters, Martinez's mind was nowhere near that perverted or broken. He was only an attack dog.

"Then we go to war."

"I don't believe that you want this. You have no qualms killing someone to defend yourself, but even you wouldn't cross the line into straight murder, I know that much at least. Because that's what this situation will escalate into. Men and women of all ages, who are scared and have no idea who your group even is, will be forced to take up arms and kill. And up to someone like you or Merle, they will be like striking flies away. My friends will die. My family." His knuckles paled as the grip on the bars left his fingers bloodless. "I can't allow that."

"Well…that's your prerogative." Samara shrugged nonchalantly, not at all perturbed by the notion of their impending death. "All I know is that your leader left me with no choice but what you just described. And yes, they will fall like flies. I have no mercy for your people."

His frustration was rising to dangerous points. A cornered animal. Samara knew he was trying to reel her to his side, but it was a lost cause. She worshiped the altar of bloody vengeance.

"Is there nothing I can say that will change your mind?"

Is he seriously asking? "After he beat me? After he dislocated my shoulder and cut off my finger? After he raped Michonne? Stabbed Rick? Killed his wife and a friend here?" Samara chuckled but her stony expression did not once change from its nihilistic disposition. "No, Milton…There will only be blood between us."

"He did that because your friend killed his daughter!"

Samara huffed, crossing her arms. "Yes, I heard about the little undead child. And it seems you're also very aware of her. Didn't that tip you off, Milton? That your leader is not quite right in the head?"

"He was grieving!" The man exploded, at the end of her rather cool disposition when everything was down-spiraling so sour. "Everyone deals with the death in their own way. Philip's way had been twisted to others, but I can't even begin to imagine the death of your own child. What horror he must have gone through. He didn't want to part from her or put her down in the event that a cure was found, so he kept her hidden in his apartment. Why do you think I'm so fascinated with the undead? I'm trying to find a cure. For him! That is my repayment for taking me along and keeping me alive."

"That's no excuse." Anger flashed, cracking her still mask. "Anyone who does something like that is from the start insane. The violence, the rape, the heads in fish tanks…What part of that screams grieving and not madness?"

Was Milton that afraid with the happenings around him that he chose disillusionment for survival? Did he blind himself to the Governor's wrongdoings just so he could live to see the next day?

"He made people fight until they bled, Milton. He corrupted Woodbury, infecting it with his own poison. Your people are scared of him, that's why they don't go against him. I heard what he did to Stevens, Alice and Martinez when they tried to regain control of Woodbury. Why do you think Alice and Stevens ran away with us? Are you sure that what you're following so willingly isn't the devil himself?"

Milton was at a loss, she could see it. Her words had destabilized him. The foggy sheen over his eyes told her that what he was seeing was not the present but the past. What had he witnessed that made him doubt his own words?

"That man might have been normal once, but he's been broken beyond redemption. Maybe it's time you put your blinders away and see Philip for what he has become instead of doting on what he used to be. The only way to deal with a rabid dog is to put it down."

Isn't that right, Shane?

"You have to do this. For everyone's sake. I don't believe that Martinez will pursue this war once he takes charge."

Milton scoffed, almost in disgust. "You don't know him as I do." He took off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. The pounding in his skull was intolerable. "I think…I'm going to rest now. I'm tired."

Samara waited until he receded in the darkness before departing. She hoped that she gave him enough fodder to ruminate over. The man had to wake up from this spell the Governor had cast over him and see the truth of the world. Black and white had never been as obvious as today, the grey line in between a faded memory.

Evil had a shape and it was so close to home.


Author's Note: While writing the Daryl and Samara kink I was listening to Marylin Manson's 'Third Day of a Seven Day Binge'. The sensual beat in that song made the scene infinitely better in my book. Also the lyrics matched our star duo. Give it a try if you want.