AN: Sorry you guys! I've not kept to my word about updating. I know it's been a while, but I'm trying to do the best I can. I hope you guys enjoy this chapter. It's really short, I know :(. Let me know what you guys think.

Disclaimer: All rights to Sailor Moon reserved to Naoko Takeuchi.

Darien was standing in front of his bedroom window watching the city lights in the distance. They had got to the mansion only a half hour ago, and still Serena was locked up in his bathroom. He sighed and leaned his head against the glass. Closing his eyes he thought about the wedding. Two days. That was all. Only two days left.

Faintly he heard a click from behind him and turned.

"Don't try anything funny."

She was creeping out of his bathroom like a nervous cat on the tips of her toes, ready to run.

He bit back a shout of laughter.

"This is not amusing," she admonished, scurrying to the side of his bed. She was wearing an oversized T-shirt—his T-shirt.

He disagreed.

With a lazy smile he watched as she pulled the covers back, and wedged herself between the mattress and sheets. Grasping the blankets in a deathly grip, she threw them over her head so that all he could see was the top of her golden curls.

He laughed.

"You're funny," he said, folding his arms across his chest, to contemplate her rigid form beneath the sheets.

She revealed her head for only the slightest second to stick her tongue out at him, and then her head was gone again. "Shut up," came her muffled reply from under the covers. "This isn't funny."

He laughed again. "I didn't say this was funny. I said you were funny."

"Well, ha ha ha—" she replied stiffly, "I'm glad you think I'm so funny. I'm glad you think I'm so helpless. I'm glad you think I'm so immature. I'm glad you think—"

"You're the coolest person I know."

The sensual warmth that came from his voice stopped her on a dime. The fizzling annoyance that sizzled within her bottled emotions imploded like he was the tap against the top of her can. Her breath caught in her throat. Did he know what he was doing to her? Driving her mad with his wicked words—words that made her wish of things, made her dream of things, made her yearn for things, impossible things that she knew could never be. Did he know?

No. He didn't. He didn't know. Of course not. He didn't care. This was about him. This marriage was about him. Her feelings? It came second. This was all a matter of convenience for him. Not her. It was never about her.

And so here she was. In his bed. Enduring the agony of wanting him near, of wanting his body, of wanting his heart. She was pathetic. She really was, and there was no other kind way to say it. She let herself fall for him, all the while knowing the impossible, knowing the odds, knowing how it was going to end—like how things always end: sad, meaningless—pathetic.

But it had happened. He was the captor, and she? She was the prisoner. And like every slave responding to the call its master, she proved no resistance to the sound of his voice.

Slowly she peeled back the covers away from her face—her hands quaking from the strain: the strain of holding on to her dignity and surrendering completely to him.

"Stop saying that," she grumbled, her eyes brooding as she observed his smiling face.

"It's true," he replied in such a nonchalant, casual way that she was thrown into a world of confusion. And with befuddled eyes she watched as he shrugged carelessly and shoved his hands into his pant pockets, looking like an honest school boy.

"If it wasn't," he countered, his dark eyes twinkling, "believe me: there'd be no way I'd ask you to marry me. I mean," he laughed in amusement, "contrary to what you might think, I don't go around asking people who I don't respect to be bonded to me for life."

He was trying to lighten her mood. She could tell by his playful tone. And that was when it occurred to her that somehow their roles had switched. It occurred to her that somehow she was the one who needed his comfort and not the other way around. When had that happened? When had she given up her independence, her strength of mind, her security? When? When? She scanned her memory for the exact moment, the exact time that she had relinquished control of her self-reliance. And when she identified it, she panicked. She had lost it, she realized, when she fell in love with him.

Darien did not miss the flash of fear that he saw in her eyes. An overwhelming urge to go to her, to hold her, to protect her, racked his body. He shook with its intensity.

"What's wrong?" His voice was gruff, his face reflected the worry of his tone.

"Nothing!" She replied all too quickly. Her smile all too practiced. Her laughter all too fake. "That would be rather disastrous, wouldn't it? I see your point."

He was not convinced. "Serena, what's wrong?"

It was game over. She knew it. She knew it as assuredly as she knew that look of determination in his eyes. Her heart rate rocketed.

"It's not important," she lied rather unsuccessfully.

"I want to know," he persisted. He took one step closer to the bed.

"Don't," she ordered—he didn't miss the panic in her voice. "Don't come any closer."

"Tell me," he challenged, taking one more assertive step.

Her walls crumbled. She could feel the tears threatening to spill. It was over. It had been over a long time ago, yet she had still fought. She fought tooth and nail to be victor at a losing game.

This was it, she told herself. It was time to get it over with. Her throat constricted, her palms sweated, her heart raced. It was stage fright to the umpteenth degree. How could she tell him? How?

She sat up. Fiddled with the bed sheets in her hand. She was a nervous wreck. Mustering up the courage with a deep solemn breath, she turned towards him.

"Darien, I—" her voiced quavered and so did her eyes, and so she shifted her gaze back down into her lap.

"Yeah?" He impelled her to continue.

"I love you."

The words came out in a rushed blur. This was not the way she had imagined it would be. She had, in fact, never imagined it at all. But she at least expected it would be better than this. It would've been better than this strange expression he was giving her right now. It would've been better than this awkward silence that suddenly filled the room.

"What did you say?" He finally spoke.

She was mortified. Did he not hear her? Did he not hear her just admit to the one most agonizing truth she had kept to herself for so long? She didn't think she could find the courage to say it again.

"I said—"

"I know what you said," he interrupted her. His face softened suddenly, and for a split second she thought she saw something flicker in his eyes—something so deep, so deeply profound—she was stunned by his change of tone.

"Do you mean it?" He asked soberly. And she couldn't help but wonder if the raw ache she detected in his question was just in her imagination or for real.

She opened her mouth to answer, but he stopped her.

"I mean, are you just saying that for the sake of our future as husband and wife, or—do you really mean it? Do you love me? Do you love me as a friend? A brother? A—"

She burst out laughing. Was he serious? Was he seriously asking her those ridiculous questions? This was her first time telling a person of the opposite sex aside from her father that she loved him, and he questioned whether her love was true or not? Just her luck!

"I'm serious," he growled, glaring at her laughing face.

"Darien," she gasped in between muffled laughter, "If I kissed my brother the way I kissed you, I'd be going straight to hell."

Her answer startled him. At first he frowned, and then his lips twitched, and then he was laughing right alongside her.

"We'd both be going straight to hell," he qualified, shoulders shaking with mirth.

Laying on the bed, he scooped her up into his arms and held her tightly against his chest, waiting out the chortles of amusement that twitched her body.

"Just…don't say what you don't mean, okay?" He whispered softly into her hair when she finally stopped shaking.

She pushed against his chest and tilted her face towards him, and with ardent reverence she confessed, "I love you, Darien Chiba. I do."

And as though some divine entity had flicked on a light bulb in Darien's head, he smiled a joyous, triumphant grin that beamed with warmth in his eyes. With a muffled groan he pressed his lips to hers for a stirring tenderly kiss that opened a door of desire so strong he was powerless but to fuel it with another long, drugging kiss.

He could hardly believe he had the strength to leave her warm body when he finally pulled away. She groaned in protest when he let her go and rolled off the bed.

"We can't be doing this now," he said with haggard breaths, but unable to conceal the grin of satisfaction on his face. "Not when the wedding is only a few days away."

Serena blushed. She sat up and realized the shirt she had borrowed from Darien was hiked up high along the tops of her thigh. She was mortified.

"You take the bed," he said, walking towards his bedroom door.

In alarm, Serena called after him, "Where are you going to sleep?"

"In the guest room across the hall," he replied with a rascal's look in his eyes.

"What? Why?" She asked, untangling herself from his bed sheets.

He laughed, "As glad as I am to see you're disappointed that I can't be with you tonight, there is no way in hell I can sleep on that couch over there knowing that you're lying there in my bed. And by that look on your face, I think you get my meaning. You look cute when you get all embarrassed, by the way." Taking her chin in his hand, Darien tilted her head to receive a gentle good-night kiss.

"That will have to do," he teased as he let her go.

As soon as he crossed the hall and closed the guestroom door, Darien leaned against it, feeling all his strength drain from him.

"I love you too," he said the words to the empty room. Words he had been unable to say to her.

End Note: So it gets closer to the end...Haha, I hope you guys enjoyed that. And I hope I really didn't ruin the big "moment" (Serena confessing) by rushing this too much. If you've got complaints, take it up with me :).