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Chapter Five

Not Crazy, Haunted

Conclusively, it was debatable whether or not he was a horrible person. The only certainty lied in the fact that she was better. Even he could admit it; it was the least she deserved from him. He could admit that it was repulsive comparing her to himself. She deserved someone who considered himself man enough to give her what she needed. Certainly, that didn't mean he was giving her up. In addition to being the horrible person that he was, he had a most concentrated selfishness. His promise never to touch her remained preserved, in tact, an imaginary document signed with a trembling hand, but it definitely didn't mean anyone else was going to. If he couldn't have her, no one else could.

It served to act as another element to add to the list of his horrible traits.

Shifting his shoulder into a more comfortable position of leaning against their bedroom's doorframe, he tried to make the action as silent as possible, unwilling to chance her catching him in a weak moment. Such a damaging scenario would condemn him to a lifetime of mortification. The only consolation he could provide for his gashed pride was that watching her chased away all the haunting thoughts, the gory faces, the tormented cries, the crushed angels. He could actually sleep—not while standing—but he felt peaceful enough to be peaceful. Undoubtedly, there had to be a setback. Only watching her could prove to be a pacifying experience. Being near her extracted an existing ferocity--numb but appallingly cruel—from him. Touching her summoned the faces, the horrid screaming faces with their dead paleness, chattering teeth, bloodshot eyes, and wilting forms. They couldn't physically harm him, but they ate away at his soul, feeding on his heart bit by agonizing bit.

She looked small and fragile cocooned amidst the king-size bed in a cloud of white comforters and pillows. Her hair spread like woven gold, placid and beautifully curled. The occasional lightening cast a glow onto her, one that sought shelter. Loneliness wore her like an old robe, another tormenting aspect to dull a life that should have been throbbing with excitement. Long ago, he would have felt guilty for having robbed her of a vivacity she was born for, but it just came to show that he was a changed man. He felt nothing, or rather he felt good about it.

The forbidden fruit was rightfully his.

He had the most impulsive urge to cross the carpeted floor, wake her up, and tell her that he wanted to sleep—that he wanted her to hold him until he could sleep like the child she addressed. He craved a gentle kiss goodnight, one that matched the recurring caress she had made special for Matthew Laurence. The thought still managed to severely disturb him, and that was precisely what he'd blamed for acting upon an impulse and finding himself sitting at the edge of the huge bed. He stared at her through hooded eyes, her image made clearer, her beauty radiating with tangibility.

With great reluctance, he wrapped his fingers around her bare shoulder and shook her gently. The faces danced tauntingly, mockingly when her eyes jolted open, the irises a vivid blue that constantly managed to shock him. She didn't seem infuriated that he'd scared her awake, especially after their none-too-civil encounter earlier. He had expected a slap, a scream, or a forward speech demanding he leave her room instantly. It was unsettling that none of the options befell the setting. Sheridan merely looked at him curiously, a question living in her eyes, an infectious wonder.

"Do you think I'm crazy?" The stale features laughed openly, their reddened eyes encased by great dark shadows, their cheeks bony, smeared with dirt, eaten away with illness. His breath came short and threatened as his dark, tormented gaze clung to hers in a desperate need to reconnect to reality. The warmth her hand wrought onto his cheek was only a slight comfort against the furious maniacs.

"No," she whispered, caressing his face in a tender touch influenced by a buried, but existing bond and the sympathy she found hard to control. "You're not crazy." Her voice was entrancing, her touch comforting. "You just don't know how to feel."

As biting and insulting as the comment should have been, it slid by unnoticed. "They won't let me," he hissed, eyes darting around frantically before he grasped her hand and held it like one would hold a lifeline in a bottomless pit.

"Who are they?" The confusion in her voice was palpable.

"They're not worth mentioning."

After searching his face for a lengthy moment, she freed her hand of his and slid her arms around his neck, drawing him towards her. He gave into the soothing embrace and rested his lips against her naked shoulder, allowing her to hold him. Her scent was engraved in the bed, a sweet beautiful smell that was all Sheridan. Her skin was soft and warm, devastatingly inviting… completely his. All his. He didn't wrap his arms around her, just surrendered to her comfort and closed his eyes. Slumber danced beyond an impermeable glass wall, summoning him and assuring him that he'd never get it. He opened them once again, stared aimlessly, and felt every touch of her hand over his hair, his neck, his shoulders… a passive caress meant to ease away all that disturbed him.

"Did you cry when your family died?" She spoke softly, her voice vibrating in her chest and against his.

He froze, his once willing body rigid above her. The faces stopped laughing and began wailing instead, salty water mingling with blood. Their chipped teeth fell away with the forces of the deafening sobs and cries of pain and accusation. It wasn't his fault.

"It's not my fault," he said loudly, suddenly pulling completely away from her and looking around angrily. "It's not." His voice grew softer when he looked back at her, baring his soul, uncovering his wounds. The warrior, the soldier, the fighter… all now naked before the once weak enemy. The scars were deep and covered him from head to toe, the pain was real, the suffering visible… and the agony tore at her insides like a chainsaw rooted deep into her stomach.

"What's wrong, Luis?" The tranquility in her voice was a reversed mirror to the tremor growing inside of him.

He looked at her, hard, ignoring the white faces and focusing on just her. The hideous sounds faded slowly and the pattering of the rain grew louder in his ears, like a base drum echoing, in sync with his heartbeat, alongside Sheridan's quiet breathing. Her azure gaze remained with his, held tight, digging the grave of their bond and calling upon it. It was dying, choking, holding onto its last breath, but there was a strength to it. A deep unforeseen strength that they both seemed to recognize at the same instant. It made her bolder, forcing him to snap his gaze away from hers no matter how difficult that proved to be. With the action came the realization that the shadows were gone, and his icy sheath returned to swathe his body like another layer to his skin.

It was sudden. From the look in his eyes, she could tell that the digging would stop. The bond would cry, but it would have to wait until another… another moment. The glint in his eyes told her that his cynicism was back, riding his body like an illness and the great walls surrounding him forfeited his heart against any emotions. No key could open a nonexistent gate.

A tiny smirk curved his lips, as though he had forgotten the posture he had adopted a few moments ago. She wasn't even sure it'd all happened anymore, not when he was approaching her so confidently, and she was suddenly aware of how sexy he looked in the white tank top and loose black sweatpants. When he reached her side, she literally stopped breathing and grudgingly closed her eyes at the touch of his hand against her neck. She shivered, feeling the effect of his touch to the very core of her body and wanting so desperately to resist him. But she knew she wasn't going to. He knew.

His fingers ran along her neck skillfully as he watched her face so utterly content under the ministration. He was smugly feeling like his old self again, to his immense relief. Closing the distance between them, he leaned his forehead against her temple, parted his lips against her cheek, and slid his hand over her shoulder. He could feel the fight brewing inside of her, knew that there should be an explosion and that there wasn't going to be. He nipped at the lobe of her ear, involving his other hand in the crime he was committing. The second explorer brushed against her breast, pleased when she sucked in an unexpected breath. Smiling a secretive smile, he gently tilted her head to the side to cover her lips with his. Their tongues danced in a lovers' game, not fighting, not lashing, but loving. That moment was the perfect one he had chosen to gently ease her into a reclined position, and she went with it not noticing the sudden change with his mouth moving against hers and his tongue sliding past her lips.

Obviously, she became alertly aware when his weight fell atop her and his hand somehow found its way under the top of her summery, cotton pajamas. Her eyes shot open when his lips meshed against hers, but this time, she turned her face away breathing raggedly, and gulping for shallow breaths. She let him continue the torturous assault for a few more moments, then returned to face him once again. He took it as a cue to descend towards her mouth, but she covered his with her hand and took a deep, calming breath.

"No," she whispered. "We can't do this. We're not going to." The protest wasn't nearly as convincing as she would've wanted it to sound, but it was an adequate one that showed him where she stood, at least for now.

"I know you want it." His reply was soft, his lips brushing against her fingertips.

She squeezed her eyes firmly shut against the invitation in his. There was no point in denying it, not when her body was betraying her so unfaithfully and reacting feverishly to his every touch. "I know… I mean I do."

"Then why not just… do it?"

She got an insane vision of the devil incarnate portrayed in the gleams of his handsome face. "It's not right… you promised you wouldn't…"

"Screw my promise," he said forcefully, seemingly trying to forget it himself. If the faces weren't there then the document wouldn't exist. It didn't exist.

Regarding him in the whole silence of a minute with his hands tucked beneath her shirt and holding her waist was a moment when she had to conjure up the strength of her soul and hold onto it. There was no other way she could refuse him. "Luis, I mean it that you should stop now."

He did then, with subtle anger and frustration, and lifted his weight off of her, settling it on the bed beside her, pressing against her side with his leg still straddling both hers. His palm cradled her jaw, and he grazed her lips with his lightly. "I'll stop." The murmur was let out in between the sensual caresses. "Only because I know that I can have you right now… and you'd be willing."

"Hell, yes, physically." A lazy smile conquered his lips at that. "But emotionally, I'm not ready to take that leap with you." He kissed the underside of her jaw and the exposed skin of her neck.

"There are no emotional leaps," he clarified. "Hearts are off limits. Mine is and I'm not searching for yours."

"That's a charming thing to say to your wife," Sheridan uttered quietly, relaxing beneath his drugging touch with the safe knowledge that the encounter wouldn't escalate into something she wasn't prepared for.

"You can love me if you want to." He rested his hand against her abdomen, nuzzling her face with his nose. "Actually," Luis drawled softly. "I want you to love me, Sheridan. I think you can."

"It's quite difficult given the circumstances, don't you think?" Sarcasm oozed from her voice like poison seeping through his blood, pumping to his heart, but he was unaffected—unfazed by the effects.

"It wouldn't change a thing." Realization masked the cockiness in his voice as he pulled up onto his elbow and gazed at her through watchful eyes. "I wouldn't know how to feel it… Matthew would."

"What?" The comment was more of a slap on the face than two complete, pronounced words.

"You know it's rather appalling to think that he's slept with you more than I have when we've been together for around six months now."

From the tone of his voice, she could tell that the thought disturbed and haunted him much more than he was letting on. "That's an odd thing to think about."

"Not really, I hate to think that he's touched you." He touched a hand to her cheek, as if trying to erase the images of Matthew touching her and replacing them with memories of him doing so.

Of course, Matthew had done much more than merely touch her. "I'd really rather not discuss my past lovers right now," Sheridan voiced a protest and inwardly suppressed the consuming inclination she possessed to reach out for him and make love until…

"Did you love him?"

Glancing at him briefly and doing it out of the corners of her eyes, she had to wonder if he was serious but decided replying would be the safest resort. "If I did, I wouldn't have married you."

Luis actually smiled, not a full-fledged, beaming smile, but one that lacked the scorn he preferred to assume. When it wasn't so dark, his smile creased his face into a particularly handsome form, speaking of a spirit he beheld but scarcely used. The idea that he'd liked her answer was pleasing and made her flutter on the inside. He didn't let the connection she'd established last any longer as he placed his feet on the ground and stood, his great shadow towering above her. The loss of warmth chilled her to the bone, but she didn't show it and had a hard time doing so while watching his large frame traverse the room in a number of long strides until he stood at the door.

Hand resting against the doorjamb—perfectly showcasing the muscular arm it belonged to—he half-turned back towards her. "When you first met me," he paused, allowing her to relate to the setting. "You liked me, right?"

She sunk into the bed and stared at the ceiling, the lights from the estate shining faintly through the window and playing against the richly painted walls. Seeing the raindrops in animated sizes, seemingly embossed in the walls, was another form of beauty that materialized. "I did." She wanted him to hear the whisper and so made it faint but clear.

Luis nodded, clutched the golden handle, and gently pulled the door shut after exiting the room.