A flash back. TW for violence.

He eyed his date nervously as they entered the ballroom. She was beyond lovely. Catching the attention of most in the room. He had needed a plus one and he admittedly owed her a favor. There had been an indiscretion in the papers about him and she had stolen the photos before they could go to print. The whole damn camera actually. She probably assumed a sordid affair but in truth they conflicted with an alibi that he desperately needed now that he had noticed the authorities sniffing around the station. He wasn't quite sure what had sparked their interest but with three murders in a week they were desperate for leads to quell the public.

He watched her as she introduced herself confidently to his coworkers, captivating them with her eyes, brushing a hand to their arm or chest, not noticing the missing tie clips or watches as they moved to the next. He felt skittish at her exploits, unhappy with being her accomplice, but he supposed it could be worse. And it was nice, he had to admit, to have a partner.

During the prohibition she had been a bootlegger and their paths had crossed the few times Alastor had accompanied Husk to a speakeasy. He had been intimidated by her, but she was always kind to him, filling him in on who cheated at cards and who to watch his wallet around. The dame had known her business. But now that she had a dishonest reputation she had been left to her own by the so-called friends she'd worked for. Now she was a con to beat them all. When he had gotten back in touch with her he had been put off by her new career path. And more so by her appearance. He'd found her in an old poker room with a pair of horribly worn shoes and a black eye barely detectable under thick makeup. He'd paid her well for the camera incident but still felt obliged to help her. He'd never insult her by saying it, but he wanted to allow her the dignity of getting herself back on her feet, and hoped that she'd go straight once she was able.

A last hoorah, he had called it when he invited her. She had seemed excited even. Grateful. He bought her a new dress, a wig to help disguise herself. The story was she had been passing through and he had charmed her for a night with him. She'd be on her way to a new town the next day and he hoped desperately that she would be. With his inner madness looming he desperately needed to feel like a white knight. Remind himself that he was a good person. Even if it was just for a night.

She pulled him into a dance and he instinctively reached to his pocket, ensuring it was still full. He saw her face fall and his heart hurt but she gave him a knowing smile. "I wouldn't do it to you, you know," she whispered softly, leaning up to his ear on her tip toes. He felt himself shiver as her breath tickled his neck and blushed as her eyes danced. She noticed. "You're one of the good ones," she giggled. He didn't answer, feeling the weight of his crimes.

They spent the evening working the room. He was charming, she was positively radiant. He laughed nervously as a few men elbowed him, giving him "atta boys" and knowing looks. He played the part knowing full well that's not how this night would end.

As the gala grew to a close, he took her by the hand and stiffened as she leaned against his shoulder on the walk home to his apartment. It felt foreign. Made him uncomfortable. But it also felt...nice. He told her she could stay the night, sleep in his bed. He'd take the couch. A gentleman.

She had been on him the minute he closed the door. Her lips on his neck, her delicate curves thrown against his body. He could still remember the heat that ran through his body, the too forceful way he had shoved her. The look of hurt on her face.

He had stammered apology after apology. Tried to explain that it wasn't her, he just didn't feel right. He tried to disguise it as fear there heads weren't there from drinking. But he could tell she felt rejected. She had cried, but she didn't leave. She held his hand and apologized. Said again, "he was one of the good ones." He believed her. Her big brown eyes begged him to stay with her. He should have asked her to leave. But it seemed harmless. She led him to his bedroom. He helped her undress. They laid in the bed and she snuggled against his chest. She was so warm. He had to admit...it felt nice not being alone. It felt nice being the prince. He drifted to sleep, a fantasy in his head of this being normal. A normal life with a normal woman. A warm body pressed against his every night. Someone to talk to. Someone to take care of. What would it be like?

He woke up alone to the sound of shattering glass. She had gone for a glass of water and had tripped in the dark. He had sat up, groggy, still partially asleep. Until he heard the cabinet door open. And the gasp that followed.

He was on his feet and rounding the counter, trying to stop her, but it was too late. In looking for something to clean the mess she had found his secret under the sink. A red-stained scarf, the photos he should have burned, gloves, a knife, and the worst of all...a mason jar of blood. She kneeled frozen, a deer in the head lights. He stood stock still, unsure of what to do.

"I was just looking for a rag…" she said weakly.

He didn't respond.

"It's...it's you...isn't it?"

He didn't respond.

And then she tried to run.

She screamed as he dove on top of her, covering her mouth. She struggled and he hushed at her. "You have to stop. You have to stop. You have to listen to me," he had hissed. She managed to wriggle out from under him, kicking him in the face and shattering his glasses in the process. He cried out, his nose broken.

"You're a monster," she had screamed.

He grabbed the knife, easily leaped over the counter with his long limbs to head her off at the door. He brandished the knife and saw her freeze through his spiderweb frames and tears. "I'm not going to hurt you," he had whispered, desperately hoping it was true. "Please just listen. Please."

She had nodded slowly, he had felt relief for only a moment, before they both heard the breeze through the open window gently swish at the curtains. She looked at the window like a wild animal and then back at him. And then she was running again. He dove at her again, catching her ankle. She fell to the floor, her head hitting against the edge of the table on the way down. There was so much blood, and her body was so still. He had sat with her body until morning, sobbing. Unable to bring himself to touch her, even to move her.