He found her in an inn. She was in her room washing blood off her hands in a washbasin. She was a horrible picture of beauty. She must have heard him enter. She must have presumed it was to be like the times they had met before. They had tried to get along, even sit through meals together when they were in the same area. They always wound up in a fight. But this time, he desired her.
He was through her window, across the room and kissing her before she could antagonize him about anything. She punched him in the gut and stomped on his foot and he kept kissing her. He had never thought he could want any elf, let alone Malse, the way he wanted her now. The picture of her washing blood off her hands was in his blood and boiling it.
She bit his lip and he groaned. Then her body language changed, she stopped fighting him and kissed him back. She began untying his tunic. The feeling of her hands searching his back in need made him try to lift her up; she would not let him, she pushed him back. Satr feared he had ruined the moment but then realized she was pushing him towards her bed.
All the anger, the disappointment, the frustration that they had both felt about their union melted away. It was not gone but it was changed. It held a desire now that was as passionate as their anger and their hate. They forged a love that was twisted, hateful, burning and the only kind they were capable of.
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