Red.
It's just a color.
The color of an apple plucked fresh from the tree to satiate hunger on a hot summer's day.
The color of a maiden's lips, plump and begging to be kissed.
The color of desire, that burning need for the sweet touch of your lover's skin pressed against your own.
The color of anger, rage so fierce that it swallows you whole and drags your very soul down to the hells.
The color of life's elixir flowing through every mortal's veins, that which spills so easily from the press of a blade.
Red.
It's the color of my eyes.
It's the color of his as well.
I once thought that these eyes were the only similarity between myself and Cazador Szarr.
These days, I'm starting to realize we have more in common than I thought.
The desire, the anger, the bloodlust.
He wants me dead. He wants my body hung by my toes from his chandelier, my blood drip, drip, dripping into glass chalices. He wants to savor my suffering, all of it to himself.
I want him dead. I want to tear his gods damned head from his shoulders and display it from my mantel. I want to see the fear of his final moments written across his rotten visage every morning and every evening for as long as I may live, all of it to myself.
Still, what it all boils down to…
Is red.