Noctisardor Bypass laksen

For all the intimacy they'd shared in body, neither could meet each other's gaze. Heda could not look upon the man who'd thoughtlessly lanced every one of her wounds -- and Anselm could not look upon HIeda and see all the hurt he'd inspired within her.

The small measure of relief he felt to know he would not be replaced as a father was dwarfed in comparison to the rising insurgence of loathing cresting his chest.

In that moment, Anselm hated Amadeo -- but he hated himself more.

He hated himself because he was starting to taste a glimpse of the biting truth. And it prompted a question in him he could not will himself to answer.

Had he wanted Heda for who she was as a person?

Or had he wanted her to prove to himself that he was sexually attracted to women?

Even now, thinking of their coupling sent a burning sensation rippling within him. It was powerful, and raw, and profound -- but Anselm knew at its core it was simply hunger. Desperate, clueless, indifferent hunger.

He knew Heda deserved better. And he wanted so badly to give her what she deserved -- but he could not. He was the stone she needed blood from; the oak in which she needed fire. But knowing this, and accepting this were two very different things -- and Anselm was terrified to think he stood a chance of losing her.

The fist he mentally raised to the image of Amadeo in his mind fell -- and the fury that suddenly tensed his muscles fell with it, replaced now by a flood of bitter jealousy that drowned out any good-will he had for the man.

The most unwilling, unpliable sigh loosened itself from Anselm's singed chest. He brought his tear-studded gaze to her own eyes, feeling about eight thousand crippling emotions simmer within him.

In a quiet, defeated voice he asked the question he'd no right to ask.

Is he good to you, Heda?