AN: If you skipped chapter 8, go back and read it, its new content. Also, this might be a great time to point out two things: one, please take the mature rating seriously, and two, for this fic Sango is older (18) and Inuyasha is older than 16+50 years, since he is a hanyou and doesn't age like humans.

Chapter 9: Day 40

No one looked at each other at breakfast. No one. Except Shippou, who chomped his food happily and chattered to a sleepy Kirara, who only eyed Sango and yawned with a flash of white teeth.

The moment breakfast was over, Sango high-tailed it out of there.

Day 41

It took another day and several kilometers distance later before Sango admitted to herself she may have made a mistake.

She should not have followed him. What on earth had compelled her? A misguided sense of sympathy? A desire to understand? She still didn't know. And it didn't matter. In that room, even if she didn't know what any one of them exactly felt, she'd seen how complicated they all were together.

And then she'd decided to goad Inuyasha into fighting with her, driven both of them to a breaking point and—

—In that brief moment, feeling his breath on her neck and his hands in her hair as he told her to stop, she hadn't wanted to.

She wasn't unfamiliar with an adrenaline high. Battle lust, blood lust. She'd seen it enough in the other taijya when they escaped into town after a particularly challenging battle. But she'd been a woman and the headman's daughter and such a thing aimed at her or committed by her had simply been impossible.

What happened yesterday…what he did to her yesterday…

What would he have done? If his control had snapped? If she had said no? Would he have just—turned her over and—

Sango stopped in her tracks, blanched, and hid her face in a nearby tree. The very thought outraged her. And made her pulse race. There was something wrong with her.

When she finally pulled her face away from the tree, she found Kirara was looking at her dubiously. The large cat gave a tentative, curious growl.

She didn't have an answer. She didn't have any damn answers. Sango pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose, repressing the urge to shout. Or worse, to cry. Naraku was still out there. Her family's bones were still out there—her face twisted sharply. Clearly she was a raving lunatic, barely holding it together, and she was failing them, all of them…

When Kirara made a noise again, the moment passed. She took a deep breath. Suddenly, she was just tired.

She didn't need more complications. She didn't. None of them did. All that mattered was getting to Naraku, and some post-adrenaline flight of fancy was not going to derail her from her duty. She owed her family their vengeance.

If she couldn't do it, no one else would.

Slowly, Sango straightened. She patted down her skirts, adjusted her weapon, and when she felt that all her stray thoughts had been slipped tidily into a closed box deep inside her, only then did she turn to Kirara. The cat was waiting expectantly.

Now that she'd cooled off, they didn't have to walk anymore. She nodded.

The cat dropped and Sango grabbed thick fistfuls of fur to climb on. It took a moment for Kirara to leap into the air, and then they were cresting the tree tops and sailing towards the western horizon.

It didn't take long for them to find what they were looking for. The canyons were a red blaring beacon ahead of the slowly receding forest, and as they approached Sango urged Kirara to fly low. They skimmed the dusty cliffs a moment, before the cat lighted on a small outcropping a few kilometers in. From there, the two made their way up a donkey path that they had been instructed to follow, climbing the spire higher and higher until eventually they reached the summit. Here, the mountain divided two large crevices in the earth and it was the cliff on the other side that they approached with wary, silent foot falls.

At the last few meters, Sango dropped to her belly and she shimmied like a serpent to the edge to look over. It only took her a second to spot the shock of lavender hair against the barren yellow rock.

The demon was growing.

Sango watched as the creature adjusted something on its front. It had a rope tied around its back and it was securing whatever it was holding to its chest. Even though she couldn't make out its features, she knew that while the thing hadn't grown taller, its shoulders hadn't been so broad before. And when it reached out those impossibly long arms to grab the rock with its hands—Sango squinted, four or five fingers?—she felt a sense of dread at the way it swung with ease on to the ledge above, landing with an economy of motion she was sure it hadn't been capable of before.

The creature ate up the height of the opposing cliff with sure, steady arms and too soon it had hoisted itself on the far end and was disappearing over the precipice. Sango waited for another half an hour in case it would come back, but it didn't.

She'd need to make a choice about killing it soon. They were no closer to finding the source then they had been at the start and she had a feeling if she waited much longer, the choice would be out of her hands entirely.

It was Kirara's quite mewl behind her, more than anything, that announced that the demon was well and truly gone. Sango sighed and pushed to her feet, feebly attempting to wipe the thick coat of dust from her front to no avail. She had to spit a few mouthfuls of water to get the sand out of her teeth. After taking a long pull from the canteen, she stowed it away and shuffled over to the wall that Kirara was reclined against, turning and dropping beside the cat with a tired exhale. Kirara's tail flicked at her face and she laid a hand on it, flattening it beside her, until the cat pulled it away and shifted on to her back, paws in the air and blinking red eyes at her.

Sango narrowed her eyes. "No, you don't," she said sternly, though with a hint of fondness. "We've got more traveling to do today. We're just resting awhile."

The cat huffed and turned back to her other side. They lapsed into comfortable silence, Kirara dozing and Sango mentally plotting their next steps.

There were at least two nearby villages that Sango wanted to check out, perhaps a half a day's ride from here and several hours between. She wasn't expected to meet up with the others for at least a week, so she could take her time nosing out and sifting through the latest whispers. She'd found people were more willing to talk to her if she stuck around for a while and so she was determined to come to a decision regarding the lavender demon as soon as possible.

She'd also take that time to sort out her priorities. It wouldn't do to get anymore distracted than she already had.

Satisfied with her plan, Sango leaned her head back against the wall. She closed her eyes, letting Kirara's soft rumbles lull her into a light doze.

Day 43

Sango burst into the room like a thunder storm, nearly cracking the shoji screen with her slam and startling Shippou out of whatever silly transformation he had been playing in. "What have you found?" she demanded.

Kagome had dropped her ramen cup at her entrance and spilled its contents down her front and on to the tatami mat. She was in the process of picking up the noodles, a red flush on her neck. Miroku had stalled somewhere between the half crouch she had startled him into and shifting to help Kagome with her clean up. He'd ended up doing neither, just staring at her blankly, and if she hadn't wanted to shake him by his robes she might have felt satisfaction at startling him out of his normal poise.

Only Inuyasha seemed unaffected, still shoveling noodles into his mouth. Sango's eyes flicked to him, but then dismissed him almost as soon as she saw him, returning a demanding gaze to her other two companions.

Well?

"Sango?" the monk asked warily.

That was not an answer! She wanted to fling her weapon at the wall but restrained herself barely, teeth gnashing. "My apologies for startling you," she said woodenly. "Have you found anything? Anything at all?"

Kagome and Miroku exchanged worried looks, before he answered slowly, "No. Not since we spoke two days ago."

Two days. It was more than two days. It was nearly sixty hours since they had last spoke, surely they had found something in that time.

Sango hissed between her teeth, closing her eyes. Clearly they weren't taking this seriously. They would ask the wrong questions if she left it in their hands, they hadn't even bothered to ask about the lord in weeks. She'd start with the village here, go to the chieftain's house. He'd have to know something, she'd beat it out of him if she must—

"Sango."

Sango looked up. Unconsciously, she stopped clenching her fists and felt a sharp wave of stinging spread through her hands and fingers. Kagome was staring at Sango and there was enough fear in her eyes that Sango turned abruptly to the wall, trying to control her sudden shortness of breath.

She heard Kagome set the spoiled ramen cup carefully on the table, but the girl didn't move closer. Maybe because she sensed that if she did, the taijya would bolt.

Sango flicked her eyes up to distract herself and found them locking with Inuyasha's instead. He'd stopped eating, chopsticks resting lightly on the rim of his cup, and was looking at her calmly. Like there was nothing in the fucking world that needed to be killed right now.

Sango's eyes narrowed. "What?"

Inuyasha's eyebrows furrowed, lips twisting in a sneer, but he said nothing.

She took a step toward him. "I said what."

Kagome tried to interrupt, but then Inuyasha shot her a look and she stopped. He stood up, tossing his half empty cup carelessly on the table. That it rattled but didn't spill made her clench her fists.

"What happened?"

Her heart skipped. She sneered at him to cover it. "Nothing that concerns you."

His eyebrows furrowed. "Then what's your fucking problem?"

"What's my problem?" She barked a laugh, then turned her back on him, moving to the door. "I don't have time to deal with this."

A hand closed on her wrist, vice-like. Inuyasha was growling, "Well fucking make time—"

Fear squeezed her throat.

He straightened, eyebrow raised, all dark and imposing. "Oh?" And then he was stalking towards her, a hand reaching out to grab her wrist.

Sango reacted on blind instinct. She grabbed the nearest thing—an empty plate on the table—and swung it at his face.

Time slowed right before impact. She watched Inuyasha's eyes widen slightly. There was a shout. A scream. Then she watched as the porcelain hit his jaw, splintered, then exploded into white shards.

The sound shattered the trance. His face jerked to the left, skin shearing, cut deep. Sango froze.

Silence. Then, on his jaw, rising to the surface like the tide, blossoms of brilliant dripping red.

Sango came back to her senses with a dizzying stumble, jerking her arm, but Inuyasha's grip still pinned her in place. He hadn't let go. She watched with rising horror, as he slowly turned to her, blood dripping down his chin, his neck. His expression was the same. Unmoved.

He should be angry. Why wasn't he angry?

His hand slowly loosened, then let her hand slide between his fingers.

"I…" she whispered, jerking her wrist tightly to her chest, then fell silent when he reached up to touch his jaw. He brushed at the blood and a chill washed over her as more blood filled to replace it. There was a sudden buzz in her ears. She shook her head. "I didn't mean—"

"Don't avoid the question," Inuyasha interrupted calmly, and she flinched. He was idly flicking the blood from his fingers. When his eyes met hers, there was no anger, no resentment. Just a simple question that cornered her, struck to the heart of it. "What happened?"

She stared at him, trembling, then walked right out the door.

She just couldn't. Couldn't. Couldn't—

His violet eyes bored through her from across the room. "You've been avoiding me."

She didn't look up from the futon she was carefully folding. She hoped that her hair properly obscured the thin line of her mouth, or the way she blinked one too many times at the fabric in her hands.

"I don't know what you mean," she said evenly, and was proud that her voice didn't even tremble at the lie.

"Sango, don't pretend to be foolish," he said, and she shot a sharp look at him, only to hesitate at the clearly unhappy expression on his face. They stared at each other for several long seconds, but it was her who looked away first.

She spread a hand over the futon and sat back on her heels. When she spoke, it was that same cool, detached tone. "I've been wasting far too much of your time, my lord. Your advisors—"

"I don't give a damn about my advisors," he cut in, crossing the room to stand near her, looking down at her beneath the waves of his dark hair. She refused—refused—to look up at him. "You know that."

"They are your advisors," she tried. "They are trying to help you—"

"Will you even give me the satisfaction of looking at me while you lie?" he said quietly.

Damn him.

She pushed to her feet abruptly, feeling the sting of her back at the sharp movement. She ignored his hiss, and when he reached out a hand to her she took a careful step back, out of his reach. Despite all that, it took her far longer than she liked to work up the courage to look him in the face.

She wished she hadn't. He looked lost, one hand outstretched, eyes darting between hers. What he found there made him stiffen, face pained, before the mask she had grown to hate shuttered down like a slammed gate, leaving only the passive, untouchable face of the lord. She watched his hand drop slowly to his side with a pang of loss that she swiftly buried.

"You are leaving." His voice was flat.

Sango lifted her chin. "My wounds are not healed."

"But you will," he continued. "You will leave as soon as you can, and you'll never come back."

She averted her eyes.

"Is this because I kissed you?" he said quickly before she could find a suitable reply that didn't sound so damning. "I don't understand. Did you not want it?"

Her eyes snapped to his, her mouth falling open slightly. Did she not want it? Did she—

"You are a lord," she said woodenly, and she watched him stiffen at her words, at the words she had said to him before. Then, he hadn't taken her seriously. He would now.

He ran a hand through his hair. "It doesn't matter—"

"It does matter!" she snapped, then bit her lip. Damn it, she would not lose it here in front of him. She clenched her fist, before forcibly lowering her voice, turning away from him. She needed distance. "My apologies, my lord, I don't know what came over me…"

"Sango, stop." He grabbed her shoulders, but she resisted when he tried to turn. He blew a breath out in frustration. "Why are you doing this? I thought—"

Enough. Better to burn them both then to play this silly game.

"I don't want this," she interrupted him coldly, making him freeze. "Whatever this is, this—dalliance, it might mean nothing to you. But I am not a toy."

He stared at her. Slowly his hands dropped from her shoulders.

"Then what are you?" he said quietly. "Then what are you to me?"

She shot him a furious look. "Nothing!"

"Nothing?" he broke into a laugh, and she'd never heard that sound in his voice. The dark look he gave her was purely patronizing. "If you were nothing, I'd have bedded you by now and been done with it."

Her face flamed scarlet. "Like I'd let you even try."

He straightened, eyebrow raised, all dark and imposing. "Oh?" And then he was stalking towards her, a hand reaching out to grab her wrist.

She flinched back.

He froze. They stared at each other across a few steps distance that might as well have been a chasm, his eyes filling with a growing distress and hers with tears.

He was a lord. And she was a wounded, flightless bird nurtured in the cage of her master.

She pulled herself together and made a bow. "If you would excuse me, my lord." And then, with all the feeling of a coward, she hastened to the door.

She was almost there when she felt hands on her shoulders, spinning her to press her back against the wall. Panic flashed through her, freezing her heart. Her hand groped wildly at her side, at the table leaned against the wall, and closed on a small washing bowl.

"Sango." He was too close, but his voice was pained. Pleading. "Please. I—"

Without thinking, she slammed the bowl against his face. On contact, it shattered into a hundred, biting shards.

He hissed, hands dropping away from her and to his face as he spun away. She could only stare at his back, mouth open, half the bowl in her hand. In the back of her mind, something was shrieking. What had she done? She would be killed for what she'd done. She watched numbly as he took a shuddering breath, then turned to face her again.

There was blood on his face. But it was his eyes, filled with something like regret and compassion and that other thing she would not name that made her throat close up.

"An accident," he whispered gently, then winced. When he touched his jaw lightly, something like surprise on his face when his fingers came away red, it jolted her awake. The remains of the bowl fell lifelessly from her fingers.

Her mouth wrenched with shame. "I'm so sorry." And before she had realized it, she was moving to him, arms out stretched.

She reached for his face and with only the barest flicker in his eye, he let her. She prodded the cut gently, noticing that even as she did so he made no reaction, his eyes heavy on her.

"That will scar," she told him quietly.

"Let it," he said, hands reaching up to envelope hers. "Something of you to keep."

Her eyes met his, startled, only to find that his eyes were that dark violet that made her want to run away and stay at the same time. She froze, unsure, when his hands smoothed down her wrists, cupping her elbows a moment. Then one hand continued to her shoulders, thumb brushing the skin of her throat. She swallowed at the touch and his mouth turned up at the corner as he settled his fingers in her hair, cupping her jaw in mimicry of what she was doing.

"I cannot stay," she said, her voice cracking slightly as her hands dropped to his shoulders. Because if she said it, he wouldn't ask her to. And she didn't know what she would do if he asked her to.

"I know," he said, voice gentle, like he was reassuring her rather than the other way around. And it hurt. She dropped her eyes over his shoulder, clutching the fabric of his kimono, feeling something loosen and break inside her, spinning fast out of her control. She couldn't do this. She couldn't.

He made a sound of protest, his hand lifting her jaw up and without her consent, she looked at him. Her throat went dry.

"Sango," he said, blood on his jaw, his voice making her name sound beautiful. "You've taken so much from me. Don't take this from me too."

And she broke, fractured right along the length of his hands, because she had never wanted to take anything. There was nothing inside her to hold anything anymore. She was a wasteland, only destruction, only destructive, and he knew that and she knew that—and really, what was holding her back? This was only another thing that could go no where, that she would lose, but in the landscape of her losses this felt right and bright and good and how could she regret this?

What would it take to make her regret this?

When he leaned down to kiss her, she closed her eyes, mouth opening under his, and knew in that moment she would give him anything. And when he suddenly went still, she could tell he knew it too.

She felt his sharp intake of his breath, the tightening of his hand in her hair, and when she opened her eyes, mouths still touching, his were fire and starlight, filled with something like awe and disbelief and deeper still, a yawning blackness that would consume her entirely if she let him.

And she would.

When he backed her into the wall, she sighed into his mouth. When his hand fell hot on the opening of her kimono, she clutched him tighter. With her every little surrender, she felt his breath quicken, his touch grow more bold, more erratic, her name like a prayer on his lips and the light in his eyes spinning and coalescing, greed and hunger and awe. She felt beautiful, like fine china in his hands, and she never wanted it to end.

She was already so broken. What was one more thing to give?

Kagome found her in the darkest corner of the inn, curled into a ball and staring blankly at nothing.

"I will kill him," she told her. "I will kill him for what he did to me."

That was all any of them would get. Sango just couldn't give anymore. There was a precipice inside her she didn't dare near. She'd thought what loomed beyond had been empty before, but what filled it now could swallow the whole world.

Kagome didn't say anything, just wrapped her arms around her. Sango resisted only a second before going pliant, and when she let go even a little she just couldn't stop.

Sango cried. But even in her tears she was silent.

They'd been standing in the garden, laughing when she'd looked up and found him so close she could count his eyelashes. There had been no disguising the look in his eyes and everything—him, her them—had struck her like a thunderbolt. How had she been so stupid?

"You are a lord," she had stuttered, drawing away, only for him to follow her, his eyes crinkling in warmth.

"Astute. I knew you'd catch on someday."

He was joking. He was making jokes! Gods. Her hands had started to tremble as she lifted them, to ward him off? To push him away?

"I'm a fool," she had whispered, shaking her head.

He'd only smiled. "My little fool."

And he'd reached out, hands cupping her jaw and drawing her to him, and she'd done nothing to stop him. He'd kissed her. His mouth had been warm and sweet, everything that she'd ever dreamed of for her first kiss as a little girl, and it terrified her down to the marrow.

When he'd pulled away, she'd looked at him, wide eyed, the deer in the face of a predator, and had fled.