EDITED: 08/17/2015

Chapter Seventeen

When Olive pulled away, a look of pain on her face, Scabior wasn't having it.

"Stop," she urged, turning her head away from him. Fingers, rough and calloused, brushed along her jaw, forcing her face back toward him and Scabior took her lips with his again.

"Scabior, stop," she said, pulling away once more. The heat of his lips was unbearable, the way his tongue had slid along hers raising new levels of guilt in her chest. When he pulled her face toward him again, more forced this time, she spat out, "I didn't mean it. Stop."

Scabior was too far gone to stop, pushing her head to the side and burying his face in the crook of her neck. "You're not allowed to take it back," he muttered, drawing in a deep breath, the honeysuckle floating within him. "I won't let you."

Then Olive really panicked, the weight of her actions suffocating her as much as the way his lips danced across her throat.

"I don't want to do this," she protested, fear laced in every word, regret in every syllable. "Scabior, stop, I mean it, stop. I can't."

But, he wouldn't stop, refused to. Scabior was going to make her belong to him. The way Olive's lips had chased his, the fervor in which she kissed him, it all only made his need to own her grow.

"Get off me!" she screamed, panic fueling her hands between them, pushing at his chest, his face, anything to get him away from her. Scabior's hand was at her throat in an instant, a grunt slipping from him as he held her down, Olive protesting every move.

"Get the fuck off me!" she struggled to say, trying to pry his hand from her neck. Tears were burning her eyes, more in anger with herself than him. Olive couldn't hit him, couldn't assault him in any form without breaking her Vow, but she still struggled to get out of his grasp.

"No," he growled in her ear, fist tightening around her throat. "You did this. It's your fault," he said, lowering his body on her to better anchor her wriggling. Olive could feel his erection rubbing against her and she shrieked at what she'd done, fighting against him with all her might. The dead weight on top of her proved too much, her movements useless. She hated how her face screwed up, the feelings of uncertainty and self-hatred winning over, angry tears spilling down her face.

"Say you did it," he said, restricting her throat further. When she tried to push him away, he pinned one of her wrists down with his elbow, his free hand snatching her other arm and pressing it into the mattress. "Admit it's your fault, Olive."

Dread flooded her stomach, knowing he was right, his sick logic making a sob choke up her throat. This was her fault. If she hadn't chased his lips, hadn't let him split her mouth wide with the warmth of his tongue, then this wouldn't be happening.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, voice blocked by the pressure on her throat.

"No fuckin' apologies, Olive," he muttered into her ear, lips flitting over her lobe with each word. "Just admit it, admit what you did."

"It's my fault," she agreed, thinking maybe if she let him win this one that he would sober and stop. "It's my fault, Scabior, please, just stop, I'm sorry."

His fist clenched around her throat, shutting off the little air that had been flowing through.

"I said no apologies," he growled, voice angrier, louder. The honeysuckle was overwhelming, taking him over when he dug his face into the warm space beneath her ear. Olive was fighting against his grasp, but her wrists never left the sheets. Scabior was lost, her scent taking his thoughts to her mouth, to the way she gasped when he first kissed her, to the way her lips had trembled. The fear in her voice, in her eyes, carried him deeper into his loss of judgment, the real Olive forgotten. The tremors in her body weren't felt by him, nor the way her hands gradually tried less and less to pry his fist away. Scabior wasn't aware of how red her face was growing, how bloodshot her eyes. He missed the way her fingers slid down his wrist, then off onto the sheets, forgotten by their owner. All he knew was the honeysuckle.

It wasn't until he went to whisper threats in her ear that he came to his senses and snapped his eyes to her face. Olive had gone limp, eyes closed, tear tracks running down her cheeks, which were purple even beyond the bruises. When he realized there was no pulse under his fingers, he released her, fear flooding his stomach.

Olive gasped for air, opening her unfocused eyes, heart pounding so hard and fast that he could feel it through her whole body.

"Don't apologize," he muttered, watching as she tried to blink away her confusion. Scabior was trying to shake the dark feeling from his chest, the terrible ache when he thought he'd killed her. Instead, he focused on Olive, her sleepy demeanor reminding him of the morning he woke her with his touch. Not wanting her to see the pained expression on his face, the small display of weakness, he continued his assault before she snapped from her senses. Scabior's hands slid under Olive's loose shirt, tugging it up to her chin, a fleeting memory passing him of how easily she'd given in when she'd been waking. The scent of him on her skin attacked his senses when he bent to take her nipple in his mouth, the smell stronger than ever now that she'd been wearing his clothes. Scabior had always been possessive of her, but now that traces of him clung to her skin, it grew tenfold. Olive would never wear her own clothes again - no, she would always wear his from this day on. Everyone would know who she belonged to.

Olive was sucking in deep breaths, the ringing in her ears growing, the spinning in her sight still keeping her deep in disorientation. It took a few moments to remember where she was, to see the telly in the corner, the generic motel curtains pulled shut. Scabior was on top of her still and the realization made a jerk run through her body.

"Should 'ave just killed me," she said, grimacing at the way her voice broke, making her sound like him.

"I didn't want to kill you," he answered, lips moving against her nipple, his hot breath perking it up. Disgust rolled in her stomach, but though her hands were now free, she made no move against him.

"You're disgusting," she spat, unclear to both whether she meant Scabior or herself.

His head shot up in an instant, hand finding her mouth, clamping down over it.

"Stop talking," he ordered, giving her a dark look before returning his lips to her nipple. When he took it between his teeth, a muffled sound of protest vibrated against the palm of his hand. "This wouldn't be so hard if you didn't fuckin' hate yourself so much," he growled. Scabior continued his assault on her breasts, moving from left to right, back and forth, relishing in the growing heat between their bodies.

Olive kept telling herself it was the pregnancy that made it feel good, her nipples more sensitive now. She wasn't even sure if that was a real thing, but she urged herself to believe it, to quell the sick feeling of betrayal rolling through her. But no matter how hard her mind fought her body, that warm feeling kept growing inside her, creeping down to the space between her thighs. In a second wind attempt to break free, fueled by the panic of her body betraying her, she let out a muffled scream into his hand and turned her head wild from side to side, pressing her legs together to try and smother the heat. Scabior kept up with her every move without even taking his hand from her mouth. When she started shaking her head in violent motions, trying to get free of his hand, he bit down on her nipple so hard that she gave a muffled scream, but he released her from his teeth and tore his mouth away to look up at her. The look on her face gave him a satisfied, triumphant feeling. Olive's eyes were wide, frightened - pain and confusion were looking back at him. He almost had her - she was right there, so close to the edge of giving in. All he had to do was give a little push.

"Why do you keep blamin' me?" he said, realizing he'd sobered and so letting his free hand take over where his mouth left off, tugging and tweaking her nipple. "I didn't kill 'im. I done a lot of things, but I didn't kill 'im, Olive."

Even though he was looking at her, he was so lost in the helplessness in her eyes that he forgot his hand was still clamped over her mouth. It wasn't until she moved her lips to speak that he realized and drew back enough to allow her speech, his palm finding her cheek, fingers brushing against her lips.

"You gave the order," she said, a terrible feeling clenching her stomach when a shudder ran down her. Olive knew it wasn't her normal shudder of stress. It was the way his fingers were twisting her sensitive flesh that made the horrible feeling spread down her spine. "Stop, Scabior," she pleaded, again pressing her thighs together to make the feeling stop, but it only made it worse.

"I didn't tell them to kill 'im," he said, fingers pinching so rough that she let out a quick whine. Beyond the bruises, her cheeks grew red, embarrassed and angry with herself for the noise she'd made.

"You told them to take care of it," she protested, sucking in a quick breath when his lips found her throat. "Scabior, stop, I mean it, stop."

"Why?" he said into the crook of her neck, careful of the honeysuckle this time. "Because you like it?"

"Scabior, stop," she repeated, unwilling to answer the question. Her voice was rough and quiet, a pained expression growing across her face.

"Say I didn't kill 'im," he demanded. "Say you like it, Olive."

"It is your fault," she whispered. "You told them to do it." Again, she refused to acknowledge his second statement, instead trying to stick to her guns. Olive held still now, though emotions were crashing over her features. She watched Scabior as he watched her.

"I told them to take care of it!" he screamed, Olive flinching away when he struck the headboard in his anger, knowing it could have easily been aimed at her face. "They could have Obliviated 'im, they could have tied 'im up and made 'im watch while they carried you away, they could have knocked 'im out, but they killed him, Olive. They did it, not me."

Her eyes were glistening, a slight tremble running across her lips.

"You did other things," she said, voice quiet, fear in her eyes from his sudden outburst and the truth of his words. Scabior bent his head to the crook of her neck again, hiding his smirk there. She was as good as his.

"Like what? What have I done?" he asked, not hiding the grin in his voice. Goose bumps grew over her arms in a mixture of his breath on her throat and his playful tone.

"You raped me," she said, a new edge of anger in her voice.

"An' why did I do it?" he asked, lips moving against the soft skin of her throat.

"Because you're sick," she spat, disgust welling up on her face, though she made no move to escape his mouth.

"I think you're sick for liking this, sweet'art," he said, grinning into her neck. "Why did I really do it?" Scabior gave her the chance to reply by pressing his lips into the hollow of her throat. He felt her swallow against his mouth, widening his smirk. She was afraid. And fear meant control. Olive never dared answer and so he added, "I was punishin' you, wasn't I?"

Still she said nothing and so he lost himself in the scent of her skin for a moment. "What else did I do?" he finally asked, pulling away from her throat and rising up to look her eye to eye, their noses almost touching. Scabior relished how her eyes flooded with relief as he released her nipple. And again how quick her face went tense when his fingers slid under the waist of her baggy bottoms.

"You hit me," she whispered, confusion in her eyes, his words making more sense than they should.

"Why?" he said, fingers sliding along the warmth they found, satisfaction welling up inside his chest knowing some part of her liked this.

"Because you were punishing me," she whispered, soft as air. Olive's voice sounded hollow, her eyes far away.

"Right," he breathed, leaning down, their noses running along each other as his lips traced along hers. "Because you didn't listen, sweet'art. Am I hurtin' you now?"

The hotness of his breath on her mouth made the goose bumps rise again down her arms.

"No," she said, voice as quiet as before, though it gave a slight hitch when he rubbed his fingers into her below.

"Don't you realize I don't have to be cruel to you?"

The closeness of their faces was no matter - neither would look away or so much as blink.

"Stop twisting everything," she said, though he heard it in her voice, a slight trace of resignation in her words. Scabior had her. He knew he had her now. There was a defeated look behind her eyes that only made his feeling of victory grow.

"Just stop, Olive. Stop hatin' yourself so much, stop hatin' me for things I never did. Things I had to do to keep you in line."

Much to his dismay, she clenched her thighs together tighter, leaving his hand trapped in the warmth but unable to probe further.

"Don't take my hate from me," she said, tremors in her voice and face. The fear in her tone, the edge of begging, it was all making his excitement grow, the evidence pressing harder into her thigh. "I don't know who I'll be without it."

"I don't want to take your hatred away, sweet'art," he said, concern etched on his face when his free hand moved to cup her cheek. "Just aim it where it belongs. Hate the Ministry for doin' this to mudbloods, Olive. Hate Greyback for makin' you like me, hate your dad for not making you run."

"He tried," she interrupted. "Don't talk about him like that, he was a good man."

Scabior closed the distance between them and placed the gentlest kiss on her mouth, even gentler than Draco had kissed her.

"I'm sure he was," he said, voice as gentle as his lips. "I know without a doubt you were too stubborn to run, but he should'a been sterner with you, love."

Things were jumbled in her head, everything altering, adjusting to this new perspective forced on her. Olive was so lost to his manipulations, his sick logic that had distorted her view for the past few months, that she was blind to how he was twisting her now, cementing her further under his thumb. Fear was rooted in her chest, rewriting every memory, every feeling, and casting herself in a darker light, placing the blame on herself. Olive didn't realize what a dangerous trap she was leading herself into.

"And you're too stern," she said, brow tucked in defiance. Scabior laughed against her mouth, a genuine laugh, the first she'd ever heard leave him. It was rich and remarkably lacking in cruelty. Something about it made her heart beat funny, two quick thumps so hard it took her breath away.

"I try an' be stern with you, but you never listen," he said, pausing to lay another small kiss on her mouth, lingering longer this time. But when he pulled away, there was darkness over his face, a look of greed. "You'll never leave again, do you understand? You're going to stay right here with me. An' I don't care if you hate it, I don't care if you hate me, but we both know this will be a lot easier on you if you'd just realize I'm only the bad guy when you make me be the bad guy. I could have killed you at any point and I never did, Olive."

Olive was processing what he'd said, things clicking into place where they shouldn't, but she was blind to that, too. She was thinking of how right he was, how she'd been making him do these things to her. When he first invaded her home, he wouldn't have beaten her if she hadn't struggled and fought. When he raped her that first time, it was what she deserved for hiding as Xavier and plotting to kill him. And when he Imperio'd her, it was just a precaution - she'd already stolen his wand and escaped him twice.

Scabior didn't kill her father. The Booke brothers did. And even then, it was her father's fault. Why didn't he make her run? He was her parent, in charge of her safety, and he let them sit there all summer like waiting ducks.

'She's mine,' Scabior thought, watching the changing emotions on her face, the far off look in her eye, the way her brow tucked and face jerked every few seconds. He had to kiss her again to hide his triumphant smirk.

"Do you understand what I've been tryin' to beat into you the past few months?"

Scabior pulled back, knowing he had her in the palm of his hand like never before. When she nodded, eyes meeting his, he studied her for a moment, relishing in his victory.

"Good," he said, darkness permeating his face and words. "Now spread your legs."

Olive didn't disappoint. She never looked away, that resigned look clear in her eyes, and with a defeated shudder spread her thighs apart.

The next morning when Scabior woke, the smell of sex perfumed the air and he recalled the night before with a smirk. It was short lived, though. He felt the small shakes under his arm where Olive laid. Then he heard the shuddering breaths, smelled the salt. The small noises tugged something in his chest he'd never felt before. Sure, he loved it when she cried - when he made her cry - but this was different. It made a bad feeling take over him. Sweet and gentle was not Scabior's favorite approach, but somehow it didn't seem like it would be that bad to treat Olive well for the day. That way, when he got awful again, she would hold onto that sweetness, remember that day when he wasn't so bad. Scabior thought of Lysia, thought of how many times he'd lost his temper on her and how every single time she came crawling back, fueled by her good memories of him, clinging to them, hoping for more. He would do the same to Olive, he would make sure she would never leave again. And if she did, she would always come back, as Lysia had. This was not a game Scabior was unfamiliar with.

"Olive, sweet'art, roll over here. What's wrong?"

She only gave a minuscule shake to her head, tilting her face down into the pillow. Scabior's nostrils flared, irritated that she didn't listen to him.

"C'mere, love," he tried, "Let me see you before I get cross with you."

Olive froze, but it did the trick. She rolled over, their naked flesh rubbing against each other in every movement, to face him. The sight made the corners of his mouth tug down. Her eyes were swollen, skin red and blotchy. Olive wouldn't even look at him, instead keeping her sight lowered to his chest.

"Just tell me what's wrong," he said, running the hand on her waist up her back to the base of her neck.

"I -," Olive started, then shook her head, new tears falling.

"Go on," he urged, bending down to lay his lips on her forehead. It wasn't as hard to be gentle with Olive as the others. Scabior assured himself it was some hidden guilt. He'd been far harder on her than he ever had anyone else. The others, they would have folded long ago. Olive was stronger than them, more resilient. For that he would offer kindness, if only for the day.

"I'm," she said, voice wavering. "I'm just so confused. I-," she paused, taking two quick breaths, "I need to go home."

Fuck being kind. Scabior turned to stone around her, his entire body growing tense.

"You can't go home," he said and she could tell he was fighting to keep his voice even. "I told you last night you weren't ever leaving again."

"Scabior, I-," she said, pausing again and looking up at him with such an expression of self-loathing that it nearly took his breath away. "You've got to let me cope with this."

"I don't have to let you do anything," he corrected, edge of danger in his voice.

"Go with me," she said, so soft that normal hearing wouldn't have picked it up. "I know this is just a game to you," she added, face withdrawn. "You win, alright? Just let me say goodbye and I'll do what you say."

It was so quiet that they heard a door slam down the hall, chatty voices heading down for free breakfast in the lobby. Scabior was dissecting every inch of her face, then, with a tucked brow, gave an irritated huff.

"Let's get dressed," he said.

Olive had taken her time in each room, Scabior watching as she stared at pictures and touched a gentle hand to this or that. Neither of them were good at magically mending clothes and so the garments of his that she wore - the deep green shirt, the striped trousers - were still ill-fitting despite their attempts to make them her size. His secondary boots, a little older than the pair he wore now, fit well at least. They'd tried hardest to make those the correct size, both knowing a good pair of boots was the most important thing a Snatcher owned. Scabior liked seeing her wander through her old home in his clothes - it sealed the feeling of ownership, of how he'd taken her from that life and changed her, put his stamp on her. He was glad she didn't ask to grab more of her things because he didn't want to look bad when he told her no.

"I was being serious," she said, in the kitchen now. A little cardboard box sat in her hand. "I meant it when I said to burn it down."

Scabior thought of the night she'd returned, how she'd laughed in the tub and told him to burn the house down. He hadn't been sure what she meant. Olive pulled a little wooden stick from the box and gave a sharp swipe across the wall, igniting the end. She held it out toward him, eyes void of all emotion. It made him think of those days after he'd tortured her, those days when she was broken.

"Together?" she asked, which only made him further wonder if she wasn't still broken inside. But he understood what she was doing now.

"You want to forget," he said, not a question, but a knowing statement. He knew she was destroying everything so she could forget, so she wouldn't be chased by so much guilt. "You're makin' it easier on yourself."

"Because you told me to," she said and in that moment he would have fucked her right there on the kitchen sink if she hadn't of been holding a match in her hand. Instead, he crossed the distance and wrapped his hand around hers, tipping a sharp nod of his head. Together. The two turned and stuck out their joined hands to the curtain, watching it catch the flame.

For a few minutes, they just stood and watched the fire grow, Scabior's hand resting on the back of her neck. The curtains were all roaring fire now, the flames eating into the walls, curling away the wallpaper.

"Let's go," he said, the heat in the room unbearable for much longer. When he looked to Olive, her eyes were glued to the flames, a sad look tucking down her brow, but she heard him and nodded. When they landed back in the motel room, the heat still lingered on their skin.

Scabior wasted no time, having been itching to get her back since she declared she did it because he told her to. He pushed her back into the wall, his hands resting on either side of her head, blocking her in. Olive looked up at him, eyes boring into his, the slightest tremble crossing her mouth. Fucking hell, he loved the way her lips trembled.

"I'm all yours," she said in defeat and that was all it took to send him over the edge. His mouth captured hers in an instant, his hands crawling up her shirt.

"Say it again," he demanded after pulling his lips away, moving to suck the soft flesh at the curve of her neck.

"I'm yours," she repeated, not caring anymore how that small part of her enjoyed saying it. Her hands snaked up through his hair, finding the back of his neck. It was the first time she'd touched him like that outside the kiss and it made him give a triumphant growl into her jaw, leaning up to take her lips once more.

"Again, say it again," he went on, "Who do you belong to?" Scabior pulled her away from the wall in his haste and excitement, backing her into the bed and crawling over her.

"You," she said as he unbuttoned her trousers and began tugging them down. "Only you."

Scabior was unbuttoning his trousers and pulled himself free. Without warning, he spread her thighs apart and pushed himself into her. Olive's body wasn't ready yet and the intrusion was painful, a small cry escaping her throat.

"You'll get used to it," he muttered into her ear as he pulled back and thrust into her again, Olive giving another muffled grunt of pain. She wasn't sure if he meant her body would get used to him being inside her or if she would get used to this new life with him.

"It's for the baby,' she thought, trying to convince herself that this was all to keep him happy so he wouldn't beat her and kill it without knowing she was pregnant, but Olive sensed her own deception. This was for her. This was her giving in, no matter how she tried to lie to herself.

The more he entered and pulled out, entered and pulled out, the less it pinched and stung. By the time he pulled her shirt up and took her nipple in his mouth, as he had the night before, that warm feeling was building inside and her hands found his hair again, holding him to her breast to urge him on.

"See how much better it is when you do as I say," he muttered into her skin, fighting against her hands to raise his head and look at her. Olive's eyes were glossed over, her lips parted and swollen from the earlier assault of his mouth. Scabior tore his eyes from her face and again busied himself with sucking the same spot on her neck, marking her as his. He reached around his neck and stole one of her hands, leading it to her breast, urging her to continue what he'd started. Olive didn't fight him once, not one display of resistance, and he thrust into her harder as her fingers began to knead her nipple in his place.

Some of Scabior's hair had fallen into her face and her other hand pulled away from him to brush it away, but Scabior left her neck to look up and catch her wrist in his grip. He pinned her arm to the sheets and busied himself with her mouth, biting her lower lip and grinning into the kiss when her tongue flitted out to meet his. With each thrust, she would gasp against his lips, Scabior's hand becoming more and more lax around her wrist, eventually sliding up and meeting her palm to palm, their fingers lacing.

There was a pressure building inside Olive, a heat she hadn't yet known. It flooded every inch of her, every cell in her body, blood coursing and pinkening her skin. Each time he slid further inside her, the pressure built, a wave growing and threatening to crash over her. Over and over she thought it couldn't possibly get more intense and with each thrust he stretched her around him and proved her wrong. All lingering guilt was gone, all hatred lost when she dug her feet into the sheets and began raising her hips to meet his. They were in time, in rhythm, each crashing into each other and pulling away while Olive whined into his mouth.

"It's better when you fuck me back," he muttered against her lips, breaking away only long enough to say that before returning to her tongue. Then he thrust into her and hit just the right place, all reason leaving Olive when she cried into his kiss. Scabior was growing near his finish and that nearly pushed him over the edge. He began pounding himself into her, determined to hear the cry again. After months of fighting, months of forcing her, Olive was writhing beneath him, crying out, fucking him. Months and months of hard work had paid off, the puppet strings he'd once dreamed of were now secure in place, tying and knotting her under his control. She would stay with him now, no tricks, no running off - she would stay, he could tell it in the way her fingers clenched at his, how her tongue danced in his mouth, how her fingers pulled her nipple taut like he'd told her. But the most telling thing was the way her hips rose to meet his, her eagerness giving him the most triumphant feeling of all.

Scabior wanted more control now and so he stole her free hand away from her breast, pinning it on the other side of her head like the other - palms together, fingers laced. Each of Olive's breaths were now a whine, one continuous noise that Scabior loved and swore to hear over and over again. "Fuck," she gasped, the feeling in her body growing to such a height that she thought she'd pass out. Olive fought against his grip, though it was less trying to get loose and more trying to exert some of the energy brimming inside her. His hands held tight, though, and her arms never even left the sheets an inch.

"That's a good girl, Olive," he said when she whined again. Olive had stopped meeting his hips, her legs trembling too bad to support her weight any longer. Scabior never slowed, though - he just kept thrusting into her, growing out of breath, lips pressing on any stretch of her skin he could find. A new wave shot through Olive, a wave that carried her to the top, nearing the crash of the wave. Her back arched when she moaned, her bare breasts rising to meet his chest as she let out a great shudder

"We could've been doin' this all along if you'd of let me," he said into her neck, though he knew had she not fought him in the beginning, he'd of killed her like the others. That's what drew him in to Olive, that she fought back so fiercely, but he wouldn't trade her fucking for her violence if his life depended on it. "You're close," he noted with a grunt, feeling the small clenches around him each time he entered her. When he pulled away from her neck, he saw her face was pained, though he knew it was more pleasure than anything.

"Y-es," she choked out, clenching her eyes shut at the heat bubbling inside, ready to spill over. Scabior began pounding into her even harder, enjoying the look on her face, the way her brow tucked and lips trembled with each small whine. But now he was fucking her so hard that she yelped each time he crashed into her. Olive was on fire, every inch of her burning, nails digging into the back of his hands. In perfect time, they both sucked in a deep breath, the lightbulb on the bedside table shattering. Scabior laughed into her neck, another genuine chuckle that somehow became the best noise she'd ever heard. Olive began to laugh, too, but the wave inside her mounted with his next thrust and the laugh quickly turned to a long cry as he spilled inside of her. Everything was crashing in her body, the wave coursing through her and, for a brief moment, the room spun before her eyes.

They laid intertwined with one another for a few minutes longer, Scabior still on top of her, still inside her. Every now and then he would pull back and press himself back in, enjoying the small contractions of her around him.

"We need to get some sleep," he mumbled into her hair, voice tired. Olive hardly stirred, even when he pulled himself out of her. She seemed in a daze, half-asleep already. Scabior made his way to her mouth one last time, pressing the smallest kiss on the corners of her mouth. "Tomorrow's a full moon," he said and she gave a slow nod, leaving him to wonder if she even heard what he'd said. Too exhausted to carry on a conversation, they both drifted into sleep, naked and still on top of the blankets.

Scabior didn't realize until the next day how deep his manipulations of Olive ran. What he witnessed was not simply excess anger and irritation from Greyback's scratch. Each time he'd struck her, raped her, been cruel to her over the past few months, it had all resulted in unintentional conditioning. It wasn't that there were several Olives, but only one that changed and hid, morphed like her face, her brutality growing with the bruises and scars that marred her. Scabior could see that now, could see that she'd been hiding the real Olive inside all along, the dark Olive that was like him. And as in awe of her that he was after that next night, no matter how much his attraction grew after her sick display of cruelty to those poor men, there was a small part of him that feared her after the things she did. And Scabior never feared anyone - it was new, it was exhilarating.

But, that was later in the night. Their next morning began with the usual full moon headaches and grumbled conversations. It was later, after they'd returned to the forest and set up camp, that they perked up, hearing the group of men in the distance.

That was when the real Olive came out to play.