Author's Note: This chapter was inspired by "Willow's Song" the infamous, erotic ballad composed by Paul Giovanni for The Wicker Man. Some of the dialogue in this scene has been taken directly from the lyrics.

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Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Stephanie Meyer's work.

Chapter Three

He stands outside her door, waiting.

For what? reason asks him, frank as always.

Aro does not know. Perhaps he is hoping for an invitation, which seems less and less likely as the minutes pass.

Sulpicia has certainly heard him coming. She always does and he never ceases to marvel at her ability to tell one person from another just by the rhythm of their footsteps.

She is a valuable member of the guard. And he cannot lose her.

Or so he tells himself, when his mind to inclined to excuse his obsession.

He has been in a state of unyielding worry since Jane spoke with him two days ago. His darling witch-child informed him that Sulpicia intended to leave.

"Where will she go?" Aro had asked.

Jane did not know. Reasonably speaking, she had nowhere to go. No family. No mate.

Aro remembers what Marcus told him.

It is too late.

Yes, he thinks resolutely. Yes, it is.

He raises his hand and knocks. There is clear hesitation on the other side of the door. Aro listens for her bated breath, but hears instead the music of her voice. It is a charm, a living thing and the words seep through his alabaster flesh.

"Who is there?"

He swallows against the growing knot in his throat. "No one but me, my dear."

A moment drags by. He hears the rustling of fabric. Could she be dressing herself?

The thought is enough to push his desire towards a physical reaction. Aro feels himself hardening, waves of welcome heat lapping at his practiced control.

He cannot help but wonder…why her? Why Sulpicia?

Because he cannot understand her. And it will drive him mad.

With no little difficulty, he restrains himself.

The door opens and all of a sudden, she is standing there, a figure in pewter gray with her hair piled too neatly atop her head.

Aro is lost in the moment. His hand strays to her brow and he presses his forefinger against the smooth space between her eyes. Thoughts rush at him. The music is chaotic. Discordant. He hears the blasts of horns compete with wailing choir.

Jane told. She told. Why. Thought…trust. Demetri went hunting with me. He's going to hurt me. Hurt me. Hurt me.

The notes slice into him. One by one by one. And yet he presses farther.

Memories and wishes flood the chasm between them.

I can feel him. Close. He's almost inside me. I can feel him. Inside me.

Aro breaks the contact, his hand dropping back to his side.

Sulpicia looks away from him. "Please, come."

He enters her chamber. The room is Spartan in its furnishings. A chair. A table with wax weeping candles. Didyme's old lute is resting on the bed. How very kind of his sister to gift it to Sulpicia.

They say nothing for a long time. Aro watches her standing by the window, her back to the night sky. Her eyes are echoes of ebony. She hungers.

The stillness between them acquires its own beat. The tenor of their breathing thickens, until it becomes overpowering. Aro smells summer wheat upon her, along with a deliciously feminine odor.

He becomes mindful of an ache inside of him. It persists. Moment to moment. Breath by breath.

There is music between them. That he realizes now. And they are called to dance.

Aro tries to reign in his fancy, to address the issue at hand. He starts by saying, "You are not happy here, Sulpicia."

She replies with an anxious shrug.

He fears the return of her indifference and plows recklessly ahead. "Jane tells me you wish to leave Volterra. Is this true?"

Absently, her hand moves to her lips. "Will you let me go?"

A question for a question.

Aro expects to be enraged, but the fury never comes. It has been replaced by that steady ache, that steady beat which is now pulsing between them.

He moves closer to her, crossing a boundary marked by a contest of wills and resistance.

Sulpicia holds her ground against him.

"I see now," she whispers. "You will not let me go."

Never, he thinks.

But perhaps…perhaps he should.

He cradles her jaw in his palms, fingers grazing the lobes of her ears. Their lips touch. She draws back.

A wild light of indignation makes her eyes suddenly fierce.

"You must let me go," Sulpicia says. And in the distance, Aro thinks he hears a hint of desperation in her tone. Desperation and fear.

But what is that to him?

"Never, never," he tells her.