A/N: Come second act, Sarah tells Alfred that she "is already a grown-up". This is one interpretation what she might mean by that, although I do not claim it is the only way Sarah's words can be understood. Personally, I don't think this is very romantic piece (more on that in the next chapter), but I suppose it can be read as such if one wants. Rated: M.

Also, see the first chapter for update on this piece.

For as long as Sarah can remember, he has been there. A shadow at the edge of her mind, the voice in the dark, the calling of the freedom that has been getting stronger for some years now. She doesn't know whether she should be scared or not as she wanders the long halls and dark corridors of his castle. She clutches the red shawl tight, wondering whether the coolness and dark ever bother him. Yet she can still see the richness of the shadowy castle, even if it is dark and foreboding: the pillars, the curtains, the painted glass, the gargoyles that seem so real they could step down any moment... It's everything and nothing she has imagined.

The castle is quiet as she drifts, and she wonders if he lives here all alone. Still, every now and then she hears whispers and she looks back. There's no one there.

Sarah clutches her shawl and shivers.

When he appears, he is all grace and mystery, pale as the moon and dark as the night. There is something dangerous about him, but it doesn't bother her - it is the other way around. Sarah is that kind of a girl, after all. She feels as if he's a kindred spirit who understands her wish for freedom and her untold passions, answering them with intensity that equals or perhaps even surpasses her own.

He finds her easily in this labyrinth of a castle, as if he knew always where she was. Maybe he does. After all, they do say he reads your thoughts and knows your heart just by looking. His voice is rich as he calls her and she answers, unable to hold back anymore. Then again, it's not like she ever wanted to hold back. It was the obligations forced on her that held her there. He leads her through the hallways and corridors, and she follows; suddenly, it's not so dark. Somehow, his presence seems to illuminate the darkness, although not in a way you can see.

Sarah doesn't know how they come to the bedroom: all of a sudden, she is aware of the small, beautifully decorated room. The colours there are stronger and richer. The curtains adorn the windows and wallpapers are deepest of red. There is a bed, wider than that of her parents, with the dark golden covers pulled back, and only the flames from the fireplace illuminate the room. It's pleasantly warm, contrasting the chilly corridors.

His nails are long and sharp, and she realizes he could even inflict damage on her if he wanted. Yet when he works on the buttons and lacings of her dress, he never hurts her. Rather, the slight scraping of his nails is pleasant upon her skin.

She never expected his gifts and promises to come free. Despite seeing so little of world, she knows how it works. And she knows he's a nobleman - men of his status sometimes have mistresses like her. Sarah is not reluctant: he's not unpleasant to look at, and if this is the price of her freedom, so be it. She'd rather be his mistress than end up like her mother. Better to have the master of a wealthy castle as her lover than a simple inn-keeper, she muses. Still, she shivers when he finally pulls her dress down. She has never felt quite so exposed and she tries to cover herself, but he pulls her arms away. There is something very careless about the way he pushes her over to the bed and suddenly she is just a little bit scared.

The sheets are creamy white and feel cool against her back. There's a slight musty smell, as if no one has slept here in a long time. She watches him quietly, nervous and excited at the same time. She knows what is about to happen, yet she has no idea of what to expect or feel.

The rest of his body is just as pale as his face and his hands. He is lean, and his movements are graceful beyond imagination. She forgets about his gauntness when he moves, and the the way flames colour his pale skin is oddly beautiful. His hair falls down all the way to the small of his back, finer and more smooth than hers will ever be. In this light, his eyes seem almost black. His eyes, intense and sharp, never leave her. His is ethereal yet somehow tortured beauty.

His nails make the first contact, scratching gently at her skin. Then Sarah feels his fingertips, cool and precise as they glide over. She had expected him to just take what he wants, but now there is unawaited gentleness about him. His hands wander over her, always so peculiarly cool, feeling the mounds of her breasts and exploring the length of her limbs. His nail lingers in that small hollow on her neck. His teeth are there too, nibbling at her earlobe and the tender flesh of the crook of her elbow, making her tremble with pleasure. The tip of his nose brushes the valley between her breasts, he breathes in her scent deeply and she gasps. His hands are sure and controlled as he touches her, and the things he makes her feel nearly drive her over. His hair falls down over his shoulder like a curtain of the finest dark silk and she touches it with trembling fingers – she has never quite felt anything so soft.

His movements turn harsh as he grabs her wrists, locking them inside an iron grip. His nails almost pierce the skin on her hands as he holds her down. Sarah is too scared and nervous to free her hands, so she just lets him has his way. Maybe he likes it rough. Some men do, she has heard. Sarah is not quite as ignorant and innocent as her father would have liked her to be.

He never kisses her, not even when he finally takes her. He's not rough, but not exactly gentle either, and Sarah bites back tears. She can't cry now, not here. Maybe this is just how it is and her place is to bear it. She feels his cool, quick breath on her neck and on her ear, and the low groans deep from his throat distract her from the discomfort. And then she begins to feel something more, until the ache deep inside turns red-hot, pain becomes pleasure and she can see the stars.

He is gone when she wakes up.

The embers in the fireplace are dying, but Sarah is not cold. She feels sleepy and warm, and she's safely curled inside the sheets and covers. He is gone, but she can see he has been there beside her. She thinks she can still see the slight hollow his head has made on the pillow. It is more than that: she can still smell him on the sheets, on her skin. She can still feel him.

And there, on her right breast, she finds two tiny wounds.