As we said before, this is a dark story and is rated M for a reason. You have been warned. Don't forget to review.

Mel and Chuck

Later that night…

I lie on the blood-soaked sheets, completely relaxed but still under his control. He was right. It does make me feel less guilty. He's next to me, unconcerned by the fact that my blood has stained his clothes. When you're practically omnipotent, you don't have to worry about not having anything to wear.

I'm getting sick of looking at the ceiling, I think. Like magic, I am able to turn onto my side and look at him.

"Your wish is my command," he comments lightly, "as always."

I snort at that, but let it go. He lets his fingers trail lightly along the curve of my hip, electricity not included. I rest my head on my arm and watch him watching me.

"Do you remember when we bought the place in Manhattan, and the Bolivian guy thought you were my uncle? And how his eyes bugged out when you kissed me?" I ask him.

He smiles. "Yes. And he asked me if it was customary for American women to marry so young." His hand moves from my hip to my shoulder to my neck, tracing a path from the hollow of my throat down between my breasts, circling my belly button, and back up. His fingers stop to play with the locket resting on my chest. We are quiet for some time.

"Do you ever think about lost opportunities?" He breaks the silence and opens the locket, looking at the pictures inside. His eyes move back to my face, his expression giving nothing away. He's truly curious if I think about it. Or rather he would be, if he couldn't hear my thoughts as easily as my voice. So maybe he just wants to hear me say it.

"All the time," I answer honestly, "Every single day."

"Me too. It's been a long time to think about it," he says.

"Do…do you ever regret…" I break off. I don't think I want to know.

"Finish it," he tells me, a core of steel in his voice.

"Do you ever regret anything?" I ask lamely, unwilling to be any more specific. What kind of answer is he supposed to give? He seriously considers my question, toying with my hair as he does.

"If I'm being honest with you, which I always try to be," he raised an eyebrow, "not most things. I don't generally regret my own actions, but there are some things that I wish had turned out differently."

I look at him, searching for a sign of duplicity, but I can't find one.

"What about you, do you regret any of your actions?" He smiles wryly.

"Nope," I lie, "not a one." He lets the falsehood go uncontested, willing to let me hide.

I am suddenly uncomfortable under his gaze and his fingers. "Let me up."

He cocks an eyebrow and releases me with a small motion. I roll over and grimace as I peel the drying sheets from my skin. I stand up and walk across the room, conscious of his eyes on me.

"I'm going to take a shower," I inform him as I step around the remainder of the guy from the bar. "Would you mind doing something with…um—"

"I'll clean it up, yes," he interrupts with a level look at me. "Have a nice shower."

I take my time scrubbing my blood off my skin and out of my hair. When I re-emerge wrapped in my bathrobe, he is nowhere to be seen.