live steel
They know I share his bed. They do not know what he does to me. Rather, I pray that they do not, though they must have seen me emerge from his presence bloodied and worn many a time. What manner of twisted pride, I wonder, would rather have my brothers in faith and arms believe me a helpless victim of his anger, as opposed to knowing that I willingly submit myself? Gods, that I even request it of him?
And what manner of twisted fascination would cause a man to consider bloodshed an acceptable - nay, even a desirable gift from one's...
I cannot call him by ordinary words, for there is nothing ordinary about the bond we share, nor the way it is expressed, nor Sydney himself. I do not look upon him as I would a suitor; I ask for no softness, warmth, or mercy, but instead seek out the cold sting of his claws. His beauty is not tranquil, but violent. He is most lovely when his eye holds a frightening glint, like that of live steel striking in moonlight, and his hands follow suit.
Knowing my heart as he does, perhaps he could tell me why his violence so enthralls me, but I dare not ask.