Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji.

Warnings: Torture

"You are doing something to me," Celia accused him once while he was in the middle of pinning her hair before an important social gathering. Usually, it would have been a maidservant's job, but Celia was smart and knew better than to let Mey-Rin anywhere near the sharp pins so it became Sebastian's duty early on.

"Oh?" the demon's voice was light and unconcerned, but Celia noticed the slight faltering of his hands as he braided her hair. It was quick and almost undetectable, but she knew, she felt it. She shouldn't have been able to, but she felt it. Things of similar nature happened with increasing frequency for the past few months.

So…

"Do not play obtuse, Sebastian! You are doing something to me, are you not?" she snapped, at the end of her patience. She had began noticing strange things about her months and months ago, but she hadn't been sure. And then she debated if she should tell him something, if she should admit her uncertainty to a demon who would gleefully take advantage of it no matter how fond of her he may or may not be.

Sebastian pinned the last lock of dark hair with a silver pin and dropped his hand to rest on the pale skin of her bare shoulder, the black lace barely covering it. "And what does the Young Mistress think I am doing? And why, if I may ask?"

"I noticed a while ago that I'm getting stronger. Faster. My senses are sharper," she tried to meet his eyes in the antique mirror, both of hers uncovered, but he seemed to be transfixed by the back of her neck. "And I haven't had an asthma attack in a year, not even when you let those cats of yours in the Manor." Her eyes cautiously trailed down to the appendage gripping her shoulder. "So, what are you doing to me?"

The grip on her shoulder tightened and she stiffened. "I am making you better," Sebastian said, his deep voice gaining an enticing, velvet-like quality, the same tone she had witnessed him use time and time again to seduce women for anything he wanted, anything they were able to give. "Powerful." His fingers trailed around her upper back, teasing her other shoulder and creeping up her neck as he circled her, every move filled with predatory grace. And, although she knew intellectually that his skin was cold – he did not have circulation or heartbeat, after all – the hand left the searing trail in its wake. "Immortal." Long digits gripped her chin tightly, forcing her sapphire orbs to connect with his burning fuchsia eyes. "Beautiful," the last word was breathed out, their faces so close now that she could feel the warm breath and smell mint and ice and embers on it.

Celia suppressed a shiver.

"Immortal," she wondered aloud, and watched as the demon smirked in satisfaction when her eyes widened in realization. "You are making me like you. You are turning me into a demon."

He took a small step back and his power receded, seductive and intoxicating still – and since when could she even feel it?! - but not overwhelming any more. "Yes."

"But… why?" For all of her cleverness, all of her smarts and cunning and intelligence, she simply couldn't find an answer. Why would he care? He was a demon.

"You are interesting, my lady," he answered. "I find myself very entertained by your antics every day and you do not bore me. And I am of the opinion that you would make a magnificent demon."

"But you do not love me," she said, little desperately. Celia had always known that he did not really care for her, that his loyalty was only to the Contract and she took comfort in that fact for nine years now. People could betray other people, she knew, but they could not betray a magical contract. "Yet you say you want me for the eternity." Because that was what he was offering. An eternity as an immortal demon. With him.

He was practically proposing her, she thought almost, but not quite, hysterically.

"No, I do not," he confirmed with brutal honesty, but continued on before she could exhale in relief. "But I do care for you, I think. A little. Probably," he said and tilted his head in a purely feline motion. "It is hard to tell sometimes. I do not understand human emotions. But I do know that I will never love you, Young Mistress. I also know that you are as incapable of love as I am. We are the same in that aspect. And that is what makes it safe," the demon concluded. "No messy human feelings, no useless moral sensitivity or regret. Only amusement, enjoyment and the sheer pleasure of living. You will like it, I should think."

And the thought was tempting, Celia realized. The amount of power she could amass, the fortune she could collect, the games she could play. She did not think that she will ever get bored, not for a long time at least. But… "I do not want to spend the eternity with you," she said. It was true. She depended on him now that she was human, but if she were a demon… She supposed that she found his personality agreeable and she had always known that he was attractive, but the thought of chaining herself to one being for millennias went against everything she stood for.

"Nor I with you," he agreed. "But I find that it is easier for immortals to have companions that they can amuse themselves with every few decades or centuries. And you are currently my amusement." She frowned at him and he smirked. "Do not take offence, my lady. You are the best amusement I have had as long as I remember. Besides," Sebastian continued, his smirk widening. "You belong to me. I am reluctant to let you go just yet and human lives are so short and fragile."

She straightened immediately, displeased. "I do not belong to you, Sebastian."

"Of course you do. You have my mark," he said and reached with his hand to caress the skin around her eye. She flinched away from him. "And I belong to you." He removed the glove concealing his own mark, offering it for inspection.

She took a deep breath to calm down and consider her options. He waited patiently.

In the end it was an easy choice.

"How long until the transition is complete?"

Sebastian's smirk became an outright grin, showing a line of pearly white teeth. "Soon, my lady. You just need a little push."

…

Richard Lovelace let loose a breath he did not know he was holding.

She was beautiful and entrancing and anything he would ever want in a woman. And she was a woman now, he realized.

He remembered the last time he saw Celia Phantomhive, some four or five years ago. She was fourteen then and a very lovely girl with that striking colouring of hers and the dark intelligence in her gaze. But now, when she was fully grown…

She was breathtaking.

And it wasn't just her appearance – although she did look exquisite in the midnight gown of silk and lace – but her whole bearing. She carried herself with even more confidence than she had before, with her back straight, her head high and an oppressive aura that simply demanded obedience and compliance. The dress flared around her, looking like the darkest shadows dancing around her pale flesh and she drew eye and attention of every person, every haughty aristocrat and measly servant in the great ballroom with her mere presence.

He took a step towards her, but was quickly swept away by the crowd that huddled around her, unable to break free and approach her.

The whole night was a torture after that.

She mingled. She talked. She danced. She behaved like any young lady of her station was supposed to despite her rumoured distaste for all social functions, no matter what kind.

She did not look at him even once.

It stung his pride, he was willing to admit, if only to himself in his own head. Richard was aware that he was not the richest man in the room, that he was not the heir of his family or even the second son. He was the fourth child of a minor lord with more barren land than money and utterly worthless in the eyes of the most people in this ballroom. But, nevertheless, he was charming. He had good looks inherited from his mother, her pale hair and grey eyes, and he knew how to twist his words, how to subtly flatter someone until they were red in the face, how to aim his insults and disguise them between polite words and friendly greetings, smiling as he verbally poked and prodded and twisted until people did exactly what he wanted, unaware of the manipulation. And he was a good actor, charismatic enough to get away with it.

Her deliberate avoidance… offended him.

And it was deliberate, he could tell. She circled around the room, exchanging greeting and words and polite gestures, avoiding his little corner like one would the hornets' nest. She did not look in his direction, did not glance at him once, while she scanned the entirety of the room, for threats or friendly faces, he did not know. She avoided eye-contact, refused to acknowledge him, refused to return his attention, and she did it expertly, almost inconspicuously.

But he noticed.

And he snapped.

Richard straightened his spine, squared his shoulders and strode away from his shadowed corner. The crowd was thick, but not as impenetrable as before, and he was light on his feet. He danced around men and women dressed in colourful silks and velvets, wearing the glittering jewels worth more than his whole house, but did not spare them a single glance. His eyes were trained on the black-haired Countess chatting amiably with a younger son of a fairly affluent Duke, her ever-present butler hovering behind her right shoulder.

The nobleman was the first one to notice him. He paled.

"R-Richard," his words came as a frightened stutter, and Richard smiled, going through every little piece of dirt he knew about the little lord in his mind. "It is nice to see you." His pale face said otherwise.

Celia Phantomhive turned around as soon as she heard someone approach her from behind, and Richard had to fight to regulate his breathing as she trained her magnificent sapphire eye on him for the first time this night.

"Likewise, William," he nodded towards the other man. "You look much healthier than the last time I saw you. You are feeling better, I hope?" The question was seemingly innocent from outside perspective, but William looked like all the blood fled his face, and Richard knew that he would excuse himself from conversation soon enough.

After all, the last time they met, the other man was so high on opium that he had mistaken his horse for his mother. There was no chance that he would risk compromising information like that coming up in a casual conversation.

William practically ran off only a few seconds later.

Richard turned towards the woman at his side, ignoring her butler for the time being. She had been watching the proceedings with an amusement written clearly across her face, and he felt slight satisfaction curling in his chest at the thought of already pleasing her.

He bowed courteously. "It is a pleasure to see you after all this time, Lady Phantomhive. I do not know if you remember, but my name is Richard Lovelace. We met five years ago, I believe."

She inclined her head. "I do remember. We had a lovely conversation about politics that was hard to forget," she said and offered her hand in greeting. Richard took the pale appendage almost greedily, brushing a kiss across her knuckles, capturing her gaze with his grey eyes. She did not blush, like all the other women had done before, and it sent a thrill of exhilaration down his spine.

He did so love a challenge.

"I clearly recall being impressed by your opinions on our relations with colonies," he admitted truthfully. "I would love to continue our discussion." He offered her a hand.

"You flatter me," Celia refused the compliment, but accepted his hand as he led her toward the garden and solitude. The butler trailed after them.

The next half an hour were… informative. Lady Phantomhive was nothing like a woman was supposed to be. She was intelligent and opinionated and he did not for a moment believe that 'meek' even existed in her dictionary. She skilfully countered his every argument, and Richard could feel his admiration for her rise with every moment he spent in her presence. He did not notice the other people in the gardens, hoping for fresh air. He did not notice the butler's cold stares, nor the satisfied edge in Celia's smile.

He was… well, smitten would be the right word, he supposed.

He glared at the butler when he dared to interrupt. "My lady, it's getting quite late. I believe it is time for you to retire."

Lady Phantomhive glanced at her butler with unreadable look in her eyes, but still full of meaning. "Of course, Sebastian. We wouldn't want the servants to worry." She turned towards Richard once again and inclined her head. "It was a pleasure talking to you. I hope we will do it again soon."

He had to force down the urge to grab her arm and force her to stay. It was harder than it was supposed to be. "May I join you tomorrow at the teatime, my lady?"

She seemed reluctant for some reason, faltering in her steps towards the door. Richard noticed the butler shooting him a look filled with barely hidden hostility as he leaned down towards the woman and whispered, "He would be a very good push, my lady."

The words were vague, but they obviously had some secret meaning to the two of them, because the Countess suddenly focused her whole attention on him, observing him from head to toe in a scandalously indecent manner. There was something dark in her eyes now, something cold and dangerous and he didn't dare to look more closely. He felt the thrill from that gaze trailing down his spine and fought not to shudder.

Eventually, she nodded. "I would be pleased to see you tomorrow, then," she offered abruptly, before leaving.

Richard smiled.

…

He was let into the Manor by the tall butler, who bowed politely as he took his coat. Richard was just taking a step forwards, turning his back to the other man, when he felt a sharp pain on the back of his head.

And then only blackness.

…

When he came to consciousness, his vision was blurred, white spots dancing in front of his eyes, while his head was aching something fierce. He allowed himself a second to close his eyes and concentrate on stifling the sudden dizziness that came with every movement of his head, before he blinked and focused on his surroundings.

He was shackled to a heavy, metal chair in some kind of basement, judging by the walls of rough stone and signs of moisture in the corners. He tried out his bonds, but the metal was seemingly new, without any signs of weak spots or rust. Even his legs were safely secured, and Richard may have felt flattered, if his position wasn't so precarious.

He had been kidnapped.

How could this happen?! The Phantomhive Manor was one of the most secure building in the Isles; it had to be with the suspicious activities of its owner in the London Underworld. He had heard about few attacks and attempts at assassination, but they had clearly been completely unsuccessful considering he had seen Lady Phantomhive just yesterday, so obviously the defences were up to a par. More then likely, it was an inside job, but…

An inside job…

That god-damned butler!

He was standing right behind him! Richard would have heard if he were taken out first and he was hit at the back of his head, meaning…

That god-damned butler!

And Celia, what happened to Celia? All the rumours talked about the butler's loyalty to the lady, about their uncommonly close relationship, but what if he deceived her too?! What if she was locked somewhere down here, alone and cold and frightened? He could not even imagine how mentally scarring the experience like this would be for a young woman, no matter how stoic and unusual she may be.

He stiffened when he heard the footsteps outside his door.

He needed a plan for escape. Maybe if he distracted them enough. If he started talking right at the beginning, maybe they will became sloppy. He needed to find Celia, he needed to rescue her, fast.

He heard the click of the lock and faint creaking of the hinges as the doors opened.

"Who are you? What do you want? Do you even know who I am? I warn you, there are people who..." he started, but hastily cut himself off when the faint rustle of the skirts drew his attention towards the smaller figure trailing after the tall butler. He felt something cold and heavy settle in his chest.

So that was what the betrayal feels like…

Celia Phantomhive looked down at him, face impassive, dressed in a much simpler gown than last night, but still stunning as always.

She nodded at him cordially. "Hello, Richard. I hope you are comfortable."

He forced himself not to gape like an idiot, no matter his already undignified position. "Why?" he breathed out eventually.

Surprisingly, the butler was the one to answer him. "Young Mistress needs one more push, just one little thing to achieve something very important." The look he was graced with was that of a predator observing its prey and it did not belong to a human face, "You are that push."

He glanced desperately at the only woman in the small room, hoping with all his heart that this was all some kind of game she played for her own sick amusement. She was famous for that, after all.

A sole sapphire orb gazed at him from composed face, and there was something cold and cutting glittering in there, like the shards of ice. Richard started sweating.

Celia held out her hand imperiously, palm up. "Sebastian, the knife."

"Yes, my lady," the butler said, and Richard watched with unconcealed horror as he retrieved a long, thin and undeniably sharp knife from seemingly nowhere. He placed it on her palm, brushing his long finger against her pale flesh. The gesture, usually sweet and quick, somehow managed to appear incredibly possessive and coupled with the unreadable, but heavy look directed at the black-haired woman, it got Richard thinking.

He remembered the brief rumours about illicit affair between those two, but surely it cannot be true! Celia was lady of high station and the man was just a butler! She wouldn't –

Well, he never thought she would kidnap him either.

Something clenched in his gut.

"How long will it take?" she asked, observing him in a way that reminded him eerily of a cat looking at its next meal.

The butler hummed thoughtfully. "Half an hour should do, I believe."

Richard finally found his voice again. "Half an hour of what?" he asked, although he suspected that he knew already. Lady Phantomhive stalked towards him, almost gliding in a way that she wasn't able just a few years ago. It was incredibly sensual even in the situation like this and he forced down a gulp.

She smiled down at him, but only a fool would think that it was a thing of joy. "This," she said and swiped her knife in a flash of silver.

It turned out that Lady Celia Phantomhive was very, very good with that knife of hers.

She cut precisely, efficiently, only deep enough to hurt, but not enough to kill. She alternated the lengths of the cuts, the depth, even the timing between the swipes. He did not have any time to steel himself, to prepare, he did not know when to. She was compositely unpredictable and it was what hurt him most.

But what horrified him the to the highest degree was not the pain or the anticipation of it. What horrified him, truly and utterly scared him was that she enjoyed it all.

He could see it between screams and pleas and shudders that wrecked his body, her pupils were blown wide, her breath quick and heavy and her eye was drawn to the flowing, crimson blood, her pink tongue coming out to lick her lips.

The butler was not any better. He was pressed firmly at the woman's back, his long arm snaked possessively around her waist as he looked from across her shoulder. His gaze had not left Richard's broken form, not once in the last half an hour, and his eyes glowed bright fuchsia.

He was not human. Richard was sure of it.

He whimpered again as the cold steel pressed against the wound on his chest.

"It is time, my lady," Sebastian said, the first words he had spoken since this nightmare had started.

Celia straightened from her crouched position above Richard and offered the knife to the butler, slick with red blood. "Very well. Do what you must."

"Yes, my lady," the butler answered, and, to Richard's astonishment, cut himself deeply across his wrist. "You should remove your eye-patch, my lady."

She did. Richard expected empty socket or maybe some ugly, disfiguring scar, but what he saw was perfectly healthy eye, as beautiful in colour as the other one, but…

There was a pentagram in her eye.

Richard's mind, muddled by pain and terror and blood, worked slowly, but he glanced at the butler and then at the lady and something clicked, all the puzzle pieces falling into their place. A fear like no other gripped his heart.

Not human, the butler was not human. He was a demon.

Richard wanted to laugh hysterically, but the ache in every part of his body convinced him that it would be a very bad, very painful idea.

The demon offered his wrist to the woman and the prisoner watched in horror as her lips latched on the bloody wound and she started to suck while the butler gently cradled her head in his other hand. It was utterly repulsing sight, so undeniably, intrinsically wrong, that he could feel nausea well up inside him, but he was simply unable to look away.

After what felt like minutes, hours, but has most likely been only seconds, they stopped, Celia lifting her head, her tongue darting out to lick the crimson liquid from the corner of her mouth, while the butler offered her the knife again. "Finish it."

She accepted it, striding closer towards Richard's chair and placing the sharp edge against his vulnerable throat. Richard almost cried in relief. It is over, finally!

The last thing Richard Lovelace saw before his throat was slit mercilessly was a beautiful young woman with dark hair and sapphire eyes bleeding into gem-like ruby red, and her butler, a demon, pressed against her, his lips attached firmly to her long, pale neck.

The death was relief to him.