A Four-Letter Word

Love is not pretty, nor kind. It smolders under his skin, flaring bright and harsh. Someday, it will consume him.

How easy it was to forget that with her curled against his chest, legs entangled in pale sheets. A gold dawn broke through the windows, casting her in light. He thought love was beautiful then, when it wore her face.

Now, Vicious knows differently: love is a wound, gaping and raw.

Perhaps he should have known, when he planted that bug in her bedroom and heard her soft singing, as melancholy and hopeful as a caged bird. To Julia, love was simply smothering, leaving her gasping and unable to breathe.

He changed for her; gave her distance and air. He watched her from across the street, her shadow dark against diaphanous drapes. Vicious never expected his best friend to fill that space in her arms, her heart. Part of him hates Spike, because he trusted him. But oh, Julia. The love that simmers under his skin feels very much like hate.

Love may destroy him someday, but she will not go unscathed. Even at the cost of his best friend, he will see her wracked with the pain love brings.