His lips are crimson with the blood spilled from the force of your blow. He's smiling, but he shouldn't be. It's more of a grimace, that smile, bitter and cruel. He smiles like he does everything, with cold efficient grace. You're bleeding somewhere, you know by the distant pain. You're hurt, possibly badly, but all you can do is watch him smile. He's frozen in place, a statue of misery.
In a second you're touching his lips, wiping away the colour from his skin. Your fingers come away wet, and he freezes beneath your touch. He looks almost scared, more scared by a quiet intimacy than by any blow. Being the enemy, you exploit his weakness.
Your lips press against his. You meant to kiss him softly, but you messed up somewhere, and you're kissing him hard, all teeth and anger. You hear a pained whimper, and that just spurs you on. You wonder if you're a sadist, and then you taste his blood and you don't wonder anymore.