Bromley Mansion, Ground Floor, Kitchen

She sat there, slouched in her chair as though the world had decided to stretch itself out over her shoulders. Her head was bowed, her gaze glued to the marble countertop. Water ran down her spine in trickles as drops gathered in the tips of her hair and spilled over her back. Bruises littered the skin on her upper body, visible where her towel did not cover her. The legs she'd propped up on the opposite chair were less adorned with dark blotches than by inflamed scratches that marked her thighs.

Her hand tangled in her hair, bunching it together in her fist and watching as residue water from her shower soaked the skin and dripped onto the kitchen floor. She didn't care. She felt empty. Full as a black hole and empty as a vacuum. She lowered her gaze, fanned out from the growing puddle to the mess of glass that coated the hallway and part of the kitchen tiles. Dispassionately, she stared at the pieces.

Sober, compared to the earlier frenzy, she still didn't have any explanation for what had transpired. Her head was clear and now all she felt was numb pain that still seared through her wounds. Strangely enough, emotion seemed to be sidestepping her ever since the rush of lust and fighting instinct had left her. It didn't make sense. At this sort of action, she'd expected emotional highs or, more likely, lows to follow, but nothing of the sort had hit her so far. Barely an hour ago, she'd finally awoken from the craze that had started a chain of events she wasn't quite sure what to make of yet.

Not that it had been unpleasant finding herself on the sheepskin carpet of the mansion's living room. She'd let the last waves of satisfaction roll off her, listening to their combined heavy breathing as their bodies recovered. She couldn't recall how long it had been since he'd caused that wreckage in the hallway nor how and when they had taken the party to this room. It had been disconcerting to feel his naked body on the ground next to hers, no longer touching or attacking, because she found she couldn't read his intentions. They had lain still like two wary animals, monitoring another as they caught their breath. She'd wondered absently whether all his sexual experiences occurred in this way.

Blood stained that carpet now as their injuries pressed against the material. The silence had grown thicker the longer they lay side by side. She had turned her head after a good ten minutes and met his bright eyes in the dimness. She had felt nothing as they shared a long look that spoke of nothing and everything. He had been as blank to her as he had been before their heated encounter. Nobody had spoken and eventually, he raised himself onto his feet. She'd watched his backside vanish into the corridor, the muffled noises of him gathering his clothes.

She had waited for the regret to come and pin her to the floor with its crushing weight. Or shame to fill her. Her anger had already been used up so she couldn't expect any more of that. As for the joy, there sure was a certain satisfaction in what she had done. It was a small victory. After all, she had gained the freedom of her hands. Maybe not for long but that didn't matter. She'd actually succeeded in manipulating him far enough into removing those cuffs. He was becoming lenient and she knew it.

She'd lain on the ground for a while until she noticed the light subtly changing and a rumble of motors announcing the dawn of a new day. The shutters were closing down again. The invisible cage had been resurrected around her. There would be no crazy escape stunts for the next twelve hours at least. The sun was too high a risk. Not that she planned to get up to any mischief today because after this, she needed to recover.

She'd sat up and inspected the damage that had been caused to her body. With the attention she had focused on it, the blood seemed to come rushing back to the wounds and they'd bled onto the carpet as she moved. She'd held her breath as she eased off the ground to hold in the wince that accompanied the movement. Without seeing everything, she had known that she was a mess. This was the point in time when physical reflections would have been convenient. She had stood, stretched out her aching limbs and had followed the soldier's example by picking her clothing off the floor.

She didn't find herself affected by the chaos around. Strange as it was, she hadn't felt particularly different after the sex either. It had been quite a new experience for her, a mixture of rough, primitive desire and hesitant, foreign pleasure. Reflecting now though, it might as well have been the two of them having a little tea party. It wasn't important.

She had realized then that this episode, this encounter, it had just been an outlet for her anger. This empty state of mind had perturbed her the more she gave thought to it. That there was no meaning to anything she did anymore. Did not even the shared physical aspects of existence hold significance when you were undead?

She'd retreated under the shower, not knowing or particularly caring where her guard dog had gone. The blood staining the tiles was washing away but the soreness remained. She had not been able to tell yet whether she liked the blue bruises like ink spills over her skin or whether she hated them because of their origin. She had felt marked and ironically, more possessed and controlled than when she'd sported those handcuffs.

Now, here she was, half-dried off and with no solutions to a situation she was still wrapped up in. So, she'd been detained, tied and repressed for more than a week. She'd just practiced extreme violence followed by extreme sexual activity with a man whom she not only disliked on principle but also because he generally contradicted most of what she said. To top it all off, she didn't even have a great escape plan now that she had a tad more freedom than a couple of hours ago.

She almost flinched when the sound of somebody else's footfalls reached her ears but denied her body the permission to show any change. She didn't speak as Frankie passed her, moved to the fridge and poured out their daily doses. They were running quite low on their stocks, she observed as the blood licked down the side of its container into her glass. That meant her father or some form of a henchman would soon make an appearance to restock their supply. At least she assumed so.

He set down the drink in front of her and she caught his eyes as he did. Time, not that there was much significance to it nowadays anymore, stopped in the space their gazes dominated. She raised an eyebrow, not cheekily or questioning, but expectant. She'd be damned if there wasn't anything to say about this episode. She knew it was a very human thing to speak about these things, to establish some sort of association with these events but she didn't care if he saw it like that. She'd bottled up enough of her opinions before, she needed clarity and she wanted it now.

"So what's happening in there right now?" she asked as casually as possible, gesturing towards his head, "Tell me. I can't read minds and its bad enough having to interpret whatever you decide to say."

His face didn't so much as twitch and regarded her with complete blankness. She inwardly groaned. So he was going to do this the hard way. I-will-just-pretend-it-didn't-happen-and-play-dumb-to-make-you-regret-ever-bringing-this-up. She shook her head indignantly and turned away from him, slumping back into her chair.

"Unbelievable" she murmured.

Silence ensued after her statement in which Alison was deliciously tempted to hit him again or just walk out. Somehow, he succeeded in making her angry with herself without even opening his mouth. Or, in this case, because he didn't open his mouth. Apparently, it was all nicely and simply laid out. Whatever happened would remain under lockdown until he saw fit to bring it up. She ground her teeth in frustration. So here was another prime example of him, once more, pulling the strings and making decisions even though she was technically no longer the puppet in chains.

"You know, bizarrely enough, I was under the illusion that you'd actually be a fraction more bearable to be around after we fight it out," she stated aloud, fingers tapping against the side of her chair, "And again you've proved me wrong"

She stood up with her glass, manoeuvring her body around his immobile figure to walk past. She sucked in her lip between her teeth for a second still feeling the residue taste of their blood on it even though she'd thoroughly removed those marks in the shower. She paused next to the pile of debris that had once been a table. Then she tilted her head around to toss him an almost sincere apologetic smile. "It was my mistake. I mistook you for something else but you're still an asshole"

There was no reaction from behind her but she didn't care to check whether he was affected. It didn't occur to her that she may be overreacting or interpreting completely unrelated things into his silence. Maybe she was being judgemental and failing to be optimistic about what she'd gained. A new measure of freedom, a good couple of hours of entertainment, an outlet for her suppressed fury and an experience that measured up to none she'd had in the past.

She slammed her bedroom door and leaned against it, hungrily letting the drink flow down her throat as she emptied her glass. She refused to show it in front of him but this replenishment had been necessary. She could literally feel herself rejuvenate.

Her sore throat immediately mellowed out and the ribs stopped aching after a couple of minutes. With newfound energy, she wrapped herself in a comfortable jumper and track pants and settled on the bed. She let her hands tangle in the iron wrought bars of the headboard and relaxed against it, stretching out the muscles in her shoulders. Alone again, she grew pensive as one only could when there was literally no distraction available but the company of a man she couldn't even define her sentiments towards.

In all seriousness, she knew he wasn't that much of an asshole. He'd proven he was able to care, or at least put on a marginally convincing act of caring. He had not treated her with explicit brutality up until today and even that had been quite a fair give-and-take battle that was also her fault. She just wouldn't bring herself to admit that she was acting up solely due to the fact that he didn't seem at all affected. Even worse, there was a margin of gratitude there too. She was thankful for the removal of those shackles and the bonds of trust that replaced them.

She wanted to hate him as equally badly as she wanted to relive the sensation he'd stirred inside her. She wanted his words again, no matter how insulting, how comforting or plain meaningless. Just to hear the remainder of his humanity seep through so she could assure herself he was real and not a figment of this cruel reality she kept falling back into.

That honest side of him, the one that kind of loved his brother and experienced its own kinds of pain and joy that he pocketed away with care, that was the one she wanted to see now. The one that felt deeply enough to empathize with her. The one that had prompted him to remove her handcuffs and take a risk with her.

Here she was, getting sentimental and having inner monologues again. Why had nobody distributed a manual on how to survive life as a vampire?

She wasn't a teenager any more, she'd passed puberty a decent while back and now this horrible tendency to become self-conscious and doubtful about her actions was returning. Enough was really enough. This must be the, what, fifth time she'd fallen into one of these phases. She didn't know if that was the norm for recently changed vampires in their first weeks but it wasn't pleasant.

Her body shrunk into a ball as she burrowed into the bedcovers and dug her hands into the her jumper. She wanted to keep curling into herself, twisted so tightly that she wouldn't come undone anymore and the world wouldn't be able to penetrate that invisible dome around her. No company, just her floating. It was with that thought that she shut out the world and eventually drifted into slumber.

The sound of a door opening downstairs broke the trance that Frankie had been caught in for the last two hours, sitting on the ground opposite a certain someone's room, twisting the handcuffs around and around in his hands.

He didn't even know why he had been guarding the closed door. He'd heard her falling asleep long ago and her faint breathing on the other side was enough to inform him that she wasn't doing anything stupid. He'd imagined her lying under the covers, thinking of him, dreaming of him and cursing him a million times over, for whatever reason she saw fit this time. Most likely plotting to murder him for his lack of appreciation for their heated interaction downstairs.

It wasn't that he didn't, it had definitely been the most pleasurable experience he'd had in the last couple of months. Being a soldier was a full-time occupation and sex was a rarity nowadays with everything going on. But that was exactly the issue here. If he had let this get to his head, feelings would soon follow. He couldn't allow that. There was already compassion for her and he was bending to his whims too frequently now whenever it concerned Alison. Emotional attachment was right around the corner and he didn't want it. He couldn't want it because it would cost him everything.

Just the fact that he was working himself into frenzy over this proved that his usually perfect detachment was fraying and tearing at the seams. The narrow line that separated stupidity and risky thrill was wavering in front of his eyes. He'd probably already crossed it.

So he was, in a sense, glad that the noise of reality brought him back to attention. Sometimes inner contemplations were actually more lethal and any physical torture. He was being a nuisance to himself and impeding his ability to make precise decisions about the job at hand.

He rose, stood at the staircase in an instant, ears sharpened and scanning for any sounds. There was a shuffling, the noise of glass fragments being compressed underneath the weight of a foot and the disapproving click of a tongue. Frankie relaxed, calming the initial instincts to attack the intruder. It was the housekeeper who had been scheduled to come days ago.

She had picked up his presence too. Her voice called up, "Mr. Bromley?"

"No," he replied as he quickly descended the steps, "Frankie Dalton"

He extended his hand to the woman who was standing in the entrance hall, hands on hips, in a perfectly boring grey suit that was ironed into exact folds, which however did nothing to give the pudgy woman a more professional appearance.

She accepted the hand, blinking her heavily made-up eyes at him a few times in which she took in his entire physique, the soldier's uniform and the light bruising still marking his face and neck. Whatever opinion she formed in that split second, she kept it under supremely tight control and opted to accept his handshake in response.

"Therese Fletcher," she introduced herself briskly.

He was absolutely not in the mood for any chitchat at this point in time so he simply mirrored her actions, pulled his hand from her grip and cut straight to the chase. "You are the one Mr. Bromley hired to take care of the house every now and again?"

She nodded assertively.

"Usually twice a week. Though recently I have taken up a second job so I've started coming by less often. He does not stay home much, Sir, and assured me that would be fine," those hands of hers went onto the hips again as she leaned forward, as though assessing his legitimacy as an authority figure, "Though he failed to mention he had a guest coming."

"Two. His daughter is staying here as well," he explained shortly. The woman gave a nod of acknowledgement and although she chose not to comment her eyes briefly flitted to the remnants of the glass table on the ground. It didn't escape Frankie's notice and he made a point of emphasizing his next words, "Perhaps I should let you get to work then. Since you are limited on time"

"Yes, it's quite awful having to work during the light hours. Getting up this early really doesn't work that well anymore, now that blood rations are falling, the coffee just doesn't taste the same anymore. Doesn't do much to keep this body awake and running for 18-hour-days," she grumbled, hands patting against her jacket as she gestured her displeasure. Frankie was already past paying attention to her. This was exactly what he hadn't wanted to engage in.

"I've got my own work to complete Mrs. Fletcher," he stated coolly.

She fell silent, nodded and moved towards the kitchen. Frankie sighed inwardly. This was really not the distraction he was searching for. She'd just reminded him that the situation he had escaped from temporarily out there, the increasing starvation around the cities, the tough life if you weren't a permanent, salary-receiving employee at Bromley Marks.

On his way back to the staircase, his gaze grazed over the phone hovering harmlessly on a stand beside the main door. He halted, contemplated for a long moment, then went over and dialled. It was an impulsive call but he felt he should try. The number had long been etched into his brain as the first one he'd memorized after the change. It had been his secret refuge for a while, a place where he felt more at home every time he visited although nothing really connected him to it. Nothing but a single person that still held some meaning to Frankie.

It rang. Once. Twice. Five times. Ten times. Then the voice followed. "You've reached Edward Dalton's home. Unfortunately, I am not here at the moment. You can leave behind a message and I will make sure I get back to you".

Beep. Silence. No response.

Frankie tried once more with the same result. He hung up. The still humanly cheerful voice of his brother reminded him that there was more to worry about than simply his feelings towards his boss' daughter. Though quite a stubborn, beautiful, courageous, damn talented daughter…

Edward was his concern, right here right now. He should be focusing on him. Frankie settled on an armchair next to the phone, running his hands across his face. He still hadn't found an answer as to why Ed would leave. The only logical explanation was a kidnap. To think that if he had gone voluntarily…if he did turn out a human supporter he'd be killed by any vampire out there.

Frankie would never admit it to anybody, even if he was tortured or maimed, but above all he feared for his brother's life. He couldn't explain why precisely, since Ed was a reminder of his previous life, his previous failures and his previous neglect but he was also his brother, his support, and a person who cared about him. That already was too uncommon in his life. Family had lost significance as he had grown up and even more so as he had changed and become immortal but he couldn't let go of that connection with his brother. He even remembered Ed's human birthday and that was something barely anyone celebrated anymore.

He was concerned for his brother's well being but behind that was the selfish, irrational fear of losing Ed. Who would he have left in his life? His fellow soldiers? Not like they gave a shit about another anyway. The guy living across from his apartment whose ex occasionally came to Frankie's door? He doubted that he even knew of his existance. Friends? Any of them he'd had as a human were long gone. Now there was only Alison. When weighing out the pros and cons that he presented to her, she'd have greater benefit of him dead so her chances of escape rose.

The vacuum cleaner roared into action in the living room and Frankie let the noise drown out his thoughts. They were really troublesome to deal with when they were laced with concern. Worse even, they stemmed from the knowledge that Edward was already soft heartened enough and under no circumstances adequately prepared to fight for his life.

Frankie looked at the phone, blaming it for resting in such a spot of plain sight. The call had made his situation worse. So what if he had blocked it out during the night with his flying rage and Alison providing a distraction, it had come back around to haunt him now. That itch was in his fingers again, the itch to take action. He suddenly felt useless here, his talents wasted on babysitting a young vampire.

The itch spread, running into his arms and filling his body until he was pacing around the entrance hall in agitation. The cleaning process had reached his peripheral vision and the grinding noises that erupted as Mrs. Fletcher let it suck up the powdered glass sent his ears cringing. He returned upstairs, which slightly dampened the annoying sounds and hovered in front of Alison's door once more. The handcuffs had not moved from the ground and the door was still firmly closed but the soft, levelled breathing had changed. She wasn't asleep any more.

He retrieved the binding tool from the floor, fingering the cold metal with his equally cold hands. Should he? Just to be on the safe side? It had been naive to remove them in first place. It wasn't like she deserved any trust from him.

She opened up at that moment, fixed him with her gaze. Her eyes rested on the object in his hands but she didn't flinch back or bestow him with those glares she was so adept with. She was wary but not caught off guard. She just leaned on the doorframe, arms crossing in front of her chest. She was going to bring up the previous events in a minute, he could see it in the way her posture had shifted into defensive.

She indicated the floor below and with a gesture silently asking, "Who is that?"

The answer was halfway out of his mouth when a new pair of footsteps was heard along with the distant buzzing of the garage door closing. Then the housekeeper's voice rang out loud and clear as the vacuum cleaner was shut off. "Mr. Bromley, welcome home Sir"

This was a seriously twisted joke. That his boss would come today of all days, in the middle of daytime, just after this fiasco.

Frankie actually wanted to sink into the floor and die for real. Post-death really hated him sometimes.