Author's Note: Think of this as a teaser for the next chapter. It's short, but sweet. And you know what? You guys are right. Riddick is coming off like a jerk, isn't he? Well, it's not necessarily because it's his intention to be a jerk. He tries to do what's best, but it all ends up biting him in the rear.

Chapter Eleven

They were two people who couldn't see the forest for the trees. They couldn't see what the other was feeling because of their own emotional self involvement.

As soon as she was out of Riddick's line of sight, she ran again. She had no direction, no goal, but she had to run. She needed to put him as far behind as possible. Emotion drove her, emotion she had tried to suppress for so many years. Her joints periodically cracked, sending jolts of pain though her body that made her stumble. Her face was contorted with determination. She had to keep going. She needed to get far, far away.

She couldn't believe this was all happening to her. If you took away the dead time in cryo sleep, her whole life had turned up side down in less than 46 hours. She had been sent into a tail spin by a specter from her past.

Her thoughts wandered to Lupus Five. It had been raining then, too. The irony.

Eventually, she couldn't run any more. Her knees gave out from under her and she was plummeted to the gowned. She couldn't remember a time when she felt this weak or this vulnerable. That wasn't true. T2. In the end, everything came back to Riddick.

She cursed out loud. Water streamed down her face and into her mouth. She spit it out harshly.

A choking desperation filled her chest cavity, coercing tears into their ducts. She forcefully drug the back of her hand over each eye, preventing any salty discharge from falling. She would not cry. Kyra was stronger than that. Kyra never cried.

"Excuse me, Miss?" An open palm was gently lowered in front of her. "Do you need help?"

She looked up, blinking through the inexorable onslaught. There was a man standing in front of her. He wore a long, flint gray turncoat. His form looked strangely familiar, but she couldn't place it.

She waved his hand aside, and pushed herself up right. "No," she gasped, "I'm fine, really. Thank you. I don't need any help."

The man smiled softly. He pulled out what looked like a pager, checked it, then pressed a button. "Maybe not now-" he said good naturedly. She cocked an eyebrow at him. What was that supposed to mean? "-But you will in a moment."

At that instant, a black bag was thrown over her head from behind. Draw strings brought it's mouth closed, tight around her neck. She let out a half startled scream, half ragefull snarl. The sound was sufficiently muted by the thick bag.

She struggled against her attacker, but soon he was joined by a second that came from the same direction. He twisted her arms behind her back, chafing her skin as he did so. She was all ready exhausted from her sprint. She didn't know how much longer she could keep up the fight. She didn't have to worry about it for very much longer. The man who had offered her a hand up took a buzz baton from his belt. It had been concealed by his over sized coat. He hit her across the torso with it twice, sending volts upon volts of nerve frying electricity into her.

Just before she blacked out she remembered where she recognized his shape from. He was the man who had stood in the side street, watching as Riddick dominated her.

Riddick himself felt like he had just been smacked by a buzz baton dead in the groin. He was an idiot, and he didn't need any one else to point it out to him. For all of your many intuitions... He rubbed his callused palms over his face. He knew. He'd always known. But it had been in the best interest of both if he never consciously acknowledged it. His leaving had damaged her in ways he couldn't have predicted.

The truth was, he didn't have a clue. He did indeed believe he had her figured out, and he was close, but just missed the mark.

With a loud, tempered sigh, he jogged after her. After only a few steps, his brain kicked in. No, let her go. You've fucked her up enough. Good job.

He returned to the hotel. The clerk was surprised to see him back so soon, and so alone. "Where's Mrs. Smith?" he asked, as Riddick passed.

He tried to remain outwardly stoic, but it was difficult, "I don't know," he said frankly. The man left it at that.

Riddick unlocked the door and slumped inside. He laid down on his bed, staring at the ceiling through the darkness. He had been planning on stranding her here any way, so why did he feel like he'd just been run over by a Mack Truck?

He got up and moved around the room, picking up her things. He stuffed them sloppily into her bags. He put the handcuffs on the counter in the bath room.

The night was still young, but he opted for bed any way. Some decent sleep, that's what he needed to clear his head.

Some times dreams can be hurtfully mocking.

There was someone beneath him, rolling her hips against his. Blinding white light assaulted him from all angels, forcing his dream eyes to remain closed. He could hear her. She was moaning softly, occasionally throwing out an airy, lust filled statement. He put his hands out, running them across her clean, naked form. He was bringing her higher, tugging all sorts of pleasure from her limbs. He could feel her heart beet quickening, fluttering wildly against her ribs. She was so close.

Suddenly, the lights went out. They were both plunged into darkness, and he could safely open his eyes. Her head hung backwards over the lip of an invisible platform. He continued his ministrations until every muscle in her body contracted, convulsing as she reached her peek. And just as he was about to reach the summit himself, she lifter her head...

"Riddick," she gasped.

He jerked awake. His chest, arms, and cheeks were slicked with sweat, and his loins burned almost painfully.

He struggled with his sheets, untangling himself from them before he jumped to his feet. His shoulder blades bumped against the wall, and he slowly slid down it until he was sitting.

He rubbed his eyes franticly, trying to wipe the vivid images from his mind. He couldn't afford dreams like that.

He felt sticky, and a little sick. The best remedy for both was a shower... cold. He undressed and hurried into the bathroom. He reached for the shower knobs and found himself spinning on the hot water. Steam swelled up around him. He wiped the mirror clean and peered at himself.

This wasn't like him. He'd had a great sex dream, so what? It was nothing to feel guilty about. Yes, it was her, but... but nothing.

He jumped in, letting the water roll soothingly down his back. He grabbed the soap, lathering himself up generously. Then he began scrubbing, working at the top and moving meticulously down. Down. His hands massaged the top of his masculine, well defined V. He was still aroused, but he wouldn't let himself... He couldn't.

He turned around, using the spray to wash away the soap from his front.

No...No...

He ground his teeth. It ached. He just needed to make it go away.

No... No...

He slammed his fist into the tiles. Why the hell did he care so much? There was no reason not to jerk himself off.

No. It was Kyra. I can't.

Wanton reflections from the dream flashed in front of his eyes. He shook his head, attempting to dislodge them from his memory.

In the end, the body's wants nulled the protests of the conscience.

Ah, Hell... What the fuck?

Author's Note: I don't know why, but it's kind of embarrassing writing stuff like this. Poor little wannabe innocent me. And I don't know... is this crossing the line? Should this have a more mature rating now?