The quarters. Marran dreamed. Moving, allowing herself to imagine being prepubescent. Mattan's warm hands and not these clammy cold ones, far too smooth of skin and completely hairless. Mattan's teeth, and the blood on his tongue. Sharing. The delightful surprise of new venom, savoring and not realizing its production heralded the end of togetherness, of adolescence.

    Tvaren shared the little viraran unknowingly. Her dream too real, Marran recoiled, discovering the identity of her lover.

    Mattan trailed his fingers down Kylla's back, below the hairline. She had stopped sobbing, and only the hitch in her breathing betrayed her continued unhappiness.

    "Don't be sad," he begged, her anger and heartache almost physical to him. "Tell me, send me." He disliked the heavy sounds of speech. Like bricks falling into mud.

    Kylla had clamped down on her mind, only blurry after-images reached his inner eye. Hiding her thoughts, refusing his projections of comfort. She confused him; the more she enjoyed sex with him, the more withdrawn she became afterwards.

    He nuzzled her neck, and ran his tongue along the prominent artery pulsing beneath the tender hairless skin. He projected hunger, and asked her approval silently.

    With a crack, her voice snapped out, "No." She drew away, leaving him alone on the bed.

    Matt projected again, 'come back'.

    She whirled around, eyes hard as stone. "No. I will not send, and I will not listen."

    "Please tell me what I did wrong," he whispered. Kylla often denied him, only relenting when his hunger disrupted his ability to project.

    "Wrong? No, you are - perfect," she replied. "So perfect, you know just when and how and where."

    Mattan moved toward her, sensing a quiver in her determination.

    She held her hand up, and he stopped. "But you don't know why," she continued. "Do you?"

    Kylla watched her virar, his face so transparent in its emotions. Confusion, pain, and, as always, his blood lust showed. Not a trace of what she constantly hoped to find.

    "Because you wish it, and I need to please you."

    "A designed trait, not something you chose."

    He averted his gaze, feeling her mind gradually opening. "Perhaps not, but you chose me. Knowing..."

    "?" she sent.

    "What I am, and what I am not."

    "Are you capable of violence?" she asked, sending an image of him holding her still, forcibly sating his hunger.

    His projection of appalled denial struck her as funny.

    "Then you will starve."

    "Please, you're killing me," Mattan beseeched.

    "Go away."

    Kylla watched him leave, strangely dignified in his banishment. Alone physically, she could feel him hovering mentally. 'No!' she projected, and the sticky feeling on her skin vanished. Picking up her hairbrush, she untangled her thick curls. Damp with his sweat, she should bathe but his scent clung to the unruly tresses and she liked the lingering reminder. Resolutely refusing to think, Kylla slipped onto the hard mattress with a sigh. If he couldn't give her what she wanted, she wouldn't give him what he needed.

    Thoughts of Matt chased in her sleep, his hands and lips, his kisses and eyes. She awoke chilled and shivering. No feeling of her virar nearby, which jolted her.

    "I will not send," she reminded herself. It felt too much like begging forgiveness.

    She found him on the balcony overlooking the still busy street. The lights sparkled from the damp dark surface in blurry skewed patterns of white, red and gold. He heard her approach; she felt the soft fingers of his send slither down her spine.

    "Contemplating suicide?" she asked, unwilling to be gentle or compassionate toward him, the source of her greatest disappointments. "Go ahead, it is but one small step."

    His lips curled in a self-deprecating sneer. "Not an option for a viraran. Your arvir reins deny us this escape as well." His voice sounded hoarse. "From birth until you find us no longer beautiful we have no choices. You forsake us, and command us, and finally scorn us. You wonder why we don't love you. Love is for equals. Fearful worship is a slave's deepest emotion."

    Taken aback by so many bitter words from the usually taciturn virar, Kylla's biting retort died before he finished. She leaned her face into his chest, relishing his body's enhanced warmth, and his evident anguish.

    Unable to maintain any distance or shred of proud restraint, Matt shielded her from the night wind, melting into her embrace, and encasing her in his arms.

    Sighing, hating this part of the ritual, she held her wrist to his mouth, and sent her reluctant permission. The sting reminded her of the chasm of privilege and position between them. But Matt's kisses were so warm after he fed, and his lips so soft. She could feel his arms supporting her, and his tenderness as her carried her back to her bed. Nearly somnolent in the thrall of his venom, distracted by his kisses, overwhelmed by his scent, taste and the soothing talent of his hands, she never felt his teeth as he fed again.