The Story of Blood and Roses

As he held me right there, in his arms, as tight as he could, I could feel my eyes prickle. In an attempt to move away and keep my tears at bay, I pushed at him with all I had. I didn't seem to succeed in doing so. He held on firmly, His hands gripping me to his chest like there was no escaping. And I didn't think that I could escape. It was a lost cause. How could I escape him?

My whole life was intricately woven around the man. He was my source of life. The reason for my being. He had been my sole target throughout my life. I had ruthlessly stomped on everyone that came in my way. I had waited years to be near him, to wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze the life out of him, and I was squeezing him, as hard as I could, I admit. But I had no intention of killing him... not anymore. I didn't feel like he had killed anyone... no one of consequence, and what was I to do if he had indeed killed my mother? Was I not attracted to the cold-blooded man who sliced through his enemies and conquered everything he set his eyes on? I had. My hopeless attraction had somehow transformed my hatred of him into something much stronger. The hatred was there, more prominent than ever, but it was so strong that I could no longer recognize it. It had grown wings and taken flight. It had let itself be known and then cocooned up to navigate me to a different path altogether.

My mission was long forgotten, and my loyalties had changed.

Now that I thought about it, my loyalties had always been with my own person, and Michael was part of me.

His name—only his name, could send me into a state of awareness like no other. If I had thought that my senses were strong in the past, it was nothing compared to the savage, inhuman intellect that I had seemed to gain as I worked under Anthony.

Yes, Anthony. His identity was split in half. First, the man who butchered and plotted to eradicate every obstacle, and the second was benevolent and intelligent—he cared about people who were in need. Together, they formed this transient being, a man who was inescapable. The lethal killer mirrored the potential of a benevolent man. No, he didn't have a heart of gold. His soul was wrought in darkness, yet the lure seemed to heighten with every passing day as his passion grew. Our fights were our way of escape, our flirting—a way to communicate.

Somewhere down the line, I had been irrevocably altered by the man, and I didn't think I would be able to get out of it. There was no hope left for me or my heart. I was slowly falling in love with the purpose of my being.

The man who killed my mother.

"Michael, let me go," I whispered against his chest. It was a weird thing—life. How it threw you into the arms of a person who would have sworn you hated.

"Not yet," he whispered back. "I need to know that you're safe." And he gripped me closer.

"There are other ways," I tell him begrudgingly.

"I can't think right now," he chuckled. "And I happen to like this better than the other ways," he confessed. I might have joined him in his erratic laughter, but I felt too self-conscious for my own taste.

Well, well, well... What do we have here? Mia Vincent, shy?

I thought I would never see the day!

"Please," I pleaded. "Not here. Not now," I reasoned. I don't think I believed myself. "We are surrounded by dead bodies," I told him. He laughed louder.

"I think that makes this little rendezvous much more interesting, don't you think?"

"I'd rather not let the corpses watch me get a taste of romance," I grumbled. "And we need to dispose of the bodies."

"Corpses are better audience than most people, Mia. I think they do not interrupt."

"Necrophilia... that's what it feels like." He laughed impossibly loudly.

"Neither you nor I am dead. I'm glad of that status, though." His voice lowered as his head bowed. He turned his head and into my hair and mumbled incoherently into it.

"What are you saying?" I sighed.

"I think Ethan thinks that we are dead. He's screaming for us from downstairs," he sighed.

"Let's go downstairs, then. We have a lot of work to do," I told him in a stern voice. "Anthony, move." He jolted away from me, petulantly glancing at me every now and then. I chuckled as I followed him down the stairs and saw the havoc we had created. It was a beautiful sight, really. We dodged the bleeding bodies and checked the place. There was no indication of life throughout the rooms. Ethan was downstairs, doing a thorough check. He turned to look at us as we entered. He gave us a glare as he went back to work.

"A little warning would have helped," he growled.

"Of what, may I ask?" Michael asked, his sullen mood still seemed to linger.

"That you were alive," Ethan huffed.

"I'm reassured to know that you want me dead, Ethan," Michael joked.

"Boss, I don't think anyone wants to see you alive when you are being an asshole," he played along.

"And Anthony is always acting like an asshole," I conceded. Ethan snickered, while Michael glared at me openly.

The weird thing was, I could see a pattern forming. I thought of him as Michael, but called him by his real name when we were around people. Once, I thought about it, it made sense in a perfectly twisted way. I wanted him all to myself. And I didn't even know why I called him by the name I did. Why did Edward call him by that name?

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