You just know where it all began, the start of your downfall, but you never had the power to stop it. Not after that night. Killer? Indeed. Lover? Truly. Your mind is a chaos of pictures, noises, sensations. Your body buzzes, your head spins. Wine or blood? It tastes rusty, the tang of it lingering on your tongue. Your eyelashes flutter and there’s a soft pat, then another one, on your cheeks. Your eyes open to see Charles looking down at you, his blond hair messy but his shirt clean. It’s still almost a fever dream. Faces blur together: Henry’s hands around your neck, Camilla crying, Charles tugging. Blood on his hands. You almost smile from the overwhelming sensations.

Charles leans back, a bottle of wine in his hand, and takes a sip. You still dream about that night. You sit up in the bed; it creaks under you. Wrong decision. You lean back, white sheets around your bare form as you sigh into the pillow. Charles moves again, kneeling in front of you, patting your cheeks once more. He takes another sip from the wine bottle, drops flowing down his neck. You were drunk. He was... is drunk. And tangled in the sheets.

You look up, pissed. He leans in, kissing you, wine spilling into your mouth. Shallow. He leans back, his hand moving through your hair. Oh... it feels good to be bad, miserable, mad, sad, and beautiful. Just like him. Because genuine beauty is always alarming. And by the gods of the Greeks, he adored you, mel...

"This has to stop," you murmur, your voice hoarse.

He smiles, a languid, lazy grin. "Why would we stop, honey? It's perfect this way."

"Perfectly destructive," you retort, but your resistance is weak.

"Destruction is an art," he whispers.

You sigh, sinking into the chaos. "An art we're too good at."

"Then let's make a masterpiece."