[zapdragon555]

[This is more of a quick RP to establish a 'canon' storyline for Cyril and his family. I wrote this some time ago but I thought it'd be nice to bring it to Evelon and edit it a bit to flow a little nicer. These events happen only in 'canon' and have no grounds in other various AUs.]



Griffin needed to get away. From everything; it was all too much. The Pearcival household had lost two children in the course of a year, one the heir to the company and one their beloved little sister, and the unspeakable event was taking its toll on everyone. The past month had been a blur of financial terms, paperwork, tours of the office and everywhere Griffin was apparently to work, his father shouting in his ear ad infinitum... He was sick of it. Didn’t he get time to mourn? Didn’t anyone? Did his father even care about anything but this stupid company?

A moment of peace was all he needed. A long one. Let his father look for him, send all the servants after him, make a huge scene of everything. He didn’t care. As he walked briskly outside, the further he got from the house, the more calm he felt. Shaded by the countless trees that littered the edges of the property--truly, they had enough of varying types and sizes to be an arboretum--the scowl slowly melted off his face, and he stopped at the pond and let out a long, shaky sigh. Finally. Here was peace.

[zapdragon555]

He glanced to the side as a duck in the pond quacked indignantly at him. Apparently all his angry stomping around had frightened her ducklings away. “Sorry, miss,” he said softly, smiling at the duck. He squatted down by the edge of the pond and watched her regroup her little fluffy children. “I don’t have anything to pay for your troubles. Perhaps I’ll bring you some bread from the kitchen when I come back next time?” The duck ignored him, instead sloshing her bill around in the water. “And don’t worry, it won’t be stale.”

As he spoke to the duck, he didn’t notice the large, imposing black swan--he always did hate that thing of father’s, no matter how rare it was--floating up beside her. Before he could warn her (not that it would’ve done much good, he reminded himself), the black swan arched its neck and pecked the duck hard on her back. She squawked and tried to bite back, to no avail, and the ducklings were scattering every which way. Finally defeated the mother duck loosed herself from the black swan’s barrage of beak-stabbing, and she dashed to the other side of the pond and watched helplessly as the swan next went for her confused, frightened babies.

“Hey, quit it!” Griffin stood up and shouted at the swan, who, like the ducks, paid him no mind. It struck a duckling hard with its beak and the duckling peeped loudly. Panicked, Griffin picked up a stone from the bank and lobbed it at the swan. It hit it square on the head and with a pained honk, and the black swan turned and flew out of the pond, hopefully on its way to some other nearby body of water. The attacked duckling fluffed itself out, peering around, seemingly unharmed. Griffin breathed a sigh of relief, and smiled at the mother duck as she drifted back over to her ducklings. “Be careful around him, alright? That black swan is a dangerous bird,” he warned them. Coincidentally, the mother duck looked straight at him when he said this, as if truly listening, then went back to her children.

[zapdragon555]

The danger gone, Griffin stepped away from the bank and continued walking. There were various garden sheds around the huge property for the servants to use, but he’d managed to gain the favor of a few more understanding servants, and they’d allowed him to set up an easel in there. Though they argued that a closed, dusty little shed with only one window wasn’t the ideal place for painting, he didn’t care. It was quiet. It was out of the way. And no one would find him there. And besides, that window provided a nice view of the trees and garden.

As he creaked open the door to the shed, he was immediately greeted with the musty smell of old wood and topsoil. He ducked under the hanging lightbulb and pulled the little metal chain hanging from it, clicking it to life; it flickered for a moment before staying on, casting a warm glow throughout the shed. He carefully stepped over a rake, nudging it to the side with his foot, and went to his easel. The painting already on it was nowhere near finished; he hadn’t had the time. But he was determined to accomplish a lot today.

Once while he was painting a servant opened the door and he jumped in surprise, staring at her wide-eyed, but Mildred gave him a gentle, almost coy smile that said she wouldn’t tell his father, and grabbed the hedge clippers from the wall before going out the door and closing it behind her. He blushed slightly, raising a hand to his cheek as he watched her go from the window. Only a year older than him, she was one of the youngest servants in the house. And she was beautiful, he thought.

Shaking his head of that to clear it, Griffin set back to his painting. It was only when he realized the light was in his eyes that the sun was beginning to set. He’d been out there for a long time. And thankfully, there was no search party outside. Maybe his father was finally giving him a break. He smiled to himself and lost himself in his own concentration, so much that he didn’t look up when the door creaked open again.

[zapdragon555]

“Am I still safe, Mildred?” Griffin asked jokingly, looking up at--his brother. His dead brother was standing in the doorway. Missing, presumed dead, gone--he blinked a few times and took a step forward. “...Cyril?” he whispered, then gasped, his face lighting up. “You’re--you’re back! Oh, oh this is brilliant; we have to tell father. He’ll be so pleased!
Where did you go? How did you get back? How did...”

Cyril didn’t budge, his eyes two glittering chips of ice in the half-light. “That’s not important,” he said slowly, closing the door behind him with an odd clicking sound. He wore a calm smile on his face. “But I’m afraid I cannot come out of hiding.”

“Hiding?” Griffin echoed him, blinking. His eyes flicked to his painting, then back to Cyril. “I, um...” Cyril raised a hand to gently wave away whatever explanation Griffin was about to give. Griffin had never told his older brother about his wish to become an artist,
but Cyril didn’t seem to mind much. Good.

[zapdragon555]

“I’m afraid I can’t rejoin the family, Griffin. I cannot take the position of heir back. It would cause too much of a stir, for I’ve already been announced dead, mm?” Cyril said, his smile growing as he circled around the back of Griffin, glancing at the painting.

“Y-yes, we... we all heard the gunshot, o-over the phone... we heard you scream. And your kidnapper said you were...” Griffin’s eyes widened for a moment, remembering, then shook his head. “But--but I don’t care about any of that. It must have been a trick. All that matters is you’re alive, right?” He had to admit he was disappointed that he still had to become the next CEO, if Cyril apparently couldn’t.

Cyril watched him for a moment, then smiled gently at him. “I can see you’re still a bit downcast. What troubles you, brother?” he asked, laying a hand on Griffin’s shoulder. Griffin shivered slightly at the sudden touch, for some reason struck with an ill-boding feeling. After a moment he leaned into the familiarity of it, sighing softly through his nose.

“I... it’s a bit selfish, I suppose, but I don’t want to be the head of the company. I’d much rather give it to someone else. And I was... well, sort of hoping you had come back to reclaim it.” Griffin blinked, gasping. “N-not that that’s the only reason I was happy to see you! Of course I’m relieved you’re still alive. We should tell father, and explain you can’t be the heir, right?”

[zapdragon555]

“No.” Griffin winced as Cyril suddenly dug his nails into his shoulder, then loosened his grip again. “You won’t,” Cyril said, smile gone. Griffin glanced up at him, tempted to ask why, but decided that may not be the best idea. Something seemed... wrong. Very wrong. There was a long period of silence, before Cyril’s soft, low voice met Griffin’s ears again. “I came here to speak with you about something.”

Griffin stared at his painting, about halfway done, then nodded. “Yes?” he murmured, really wishing Cyril would let go of his shoulder. It was becoming somewhat uncomfortable.

“I suppose... really... it’s a suggestion,” the older brother said, smiling again. “You see, you don’t want to become the next heir. If it’s not too much for me to say... you’d be a bloody awful one, too.” Griffin tensed somewhat at that. Who was he to judge that? Even if he was probably right, he felt a twinge of indignation inside him. Finally the hand on his shoulder lifted and Cyril strolled over to the window, opening it and looking out.
“There’s a very easy way out of all this, you know.”

Griffin blinked at that, turning to look at Cyril. “What--really?
There is?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Mm... yes. That’s why I came here, after all. To save you from all this,” Cyril murmured, looking down at his nails. “I suppose you’d like to hear it, then. The solution to all your problems.” He left the window and again did that odd circling around Griffin, like a hungry shark. Griffin listened to his footsteps echo around the shed, then stiffened when he heard the cock of a pistol behind him. Not a second later the cold metal of the barrel of a gun was pressed to the back of his head. “You’ve got to kill yourself, Griffin.”

[zapdragon555]

Griffin stared ahead, his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. “C-cyril, what... y-you’re mad, please put the gun away, oh, god...” he whispered, trembling, his brain finally assessing the situation. This couldn’t be his brother. It was someone else, this couldn’t be Cyril...!

“Oh, no. Don’t fret, brother, this isn’t for you,” he said, removing the barrel from Griffin’s head. Griffin felt an intense relief wash over him. A joke. Yes, it had to be a joke. That was it. He turned around to face Cyril, about to ask why he had a gun, then, when he saw Cyril was pointing the pistol out the window now. “Now...” Cyril began, calm as ever, a smile barely quirking up the corners of his mouth at Griffin’s bemused expression. “First, I just want to make sure you know your position here, brother.” He gestured for Griffin to look out the window with a tilt of his head, and Griffin blinked, turning his face back to the window.

The gun was aimed at another garden shed across the pond. Griffin squinted against the setting sun, and saw an all-too-familiar motionless figure in the window, her hands tied and her mouth gagged, and eyes covered by a blindfold. “Mildred,” he whispered, knees weak, his voice flat with disbelief that any of this could possibly be real. “Y-you... why...”

“If you don’t do exactly as I say,” Cyril began, as nonchalant as if he’d been talking about the weather, “I’ll shoot her dead, right here. And then I’ll kill you myself.” He moved his thumb on the gun and clicked something, taking the safety off of it.
“But first, there’s something I need you to do.”

“What? What is it?” Griffin asked, unable to tear his eyes away from the other shed’s window, unable to think of anything but pure terror, all manners of fight-or-flight effectively squashed under Cyril's piercing gaze. “I’ll do anything.” Anything to delay the inevitable, anything to buy Mildred and himself a bit more time.

Cyril smiled, pleased with Griffin's cooperation. “We must make this look like a true suicide. Pull out all the stops, as it were. And that means...” A knowing gleam flashed in his eyes.
“We will need a note.”

[zapdragon555]

“I can’t. I don’t have anything to write on,” Griffin said, as calmly as he could, even going so far as to sneer at his brother. “I’ll have to go up to the house to get something.” Cyril simply looked at him with an almost affectionate smile and shook his head. He looked at the canvas, then at Griffin. “Oh... no, you couldn’t possibly mean...” Griffin stammered, finally drawing his eyes away to look where Cyril was looking.

Cyril shrugged. “It’s a bit neater than the wall, or floor. The death of an artist,” he added, teasing. Griffin stared at him, disbelieving, but slowly reached for the red paint-- it would show up best, he figured-- and picked up a thin paintbrush.

“What am I to write?” he mumbled, face shadowed. Cyril caught the break in his voice and giggled, relishing the dark atmosphere. Griffin tensed at his laughter. He was mocking him, he knew it. He waited a full minute for Cyril to answer, and when no response came, he sighed and began covering up his painting in shaky, red letters. At first he wasn’t sure who to address it to. But then, he decided he had an idea.

Dearest Mildred,

It is with great sadness that I write this note, but I’m afraid I must say goodbye, to you and to the world. Please, do not stop reading now. I ask that you read this to the end, and uphold my wishes, as my last order to you. It was never my wish to be the head of the Pearcival company, as I’m sure you may have already guessed. I would rather die than follow in father’s footsteps. So that is what I must do. Erastus will take my place; I’m sure he is more qualified than I. Firstly I ask that you tell him I said that. I have never been a good brother to him, never kind, never sociable. I want him to know that I’m sorry. Do not speak of this with my father. He mustn’t know you were involved at all, or he may suspect you.

You are probably wondering why I addressed this to you. However, I ask that you do not worry about such a thought. Do not dwell on it, for I feel it will only bring you pain. Please, live for me, Mildred. And forget this whole ordeal with time. Forgive me.

Your master and friend,
Griffin

“Mm... so I was correct. You do have feelings for her,” Cyril purred, a grin creeping over his face. Griffin’s shoulders shook with quiet sobs, gripping the paintbrush tightly in his hand. “There is a slight flaw, however. Won’t father see this? See your request not to speak to him?”

“She’ll hide it. Or burn it. She’ll... she won’t let him see it,” Griffin whispered, laying the paint brush on the easel, then stiffened in realization. “You’re... you’re going to kill her anyway, aren’t you, you bastard.”

[zapdragon555]

Cyril suddenly cackled, covering his mouth as he laughed. “It would be a lie to say the thought didn’t cross my mind. Excuse me--” He fought to keep his laughter under control, then finally sighed and shook his head, grinning madly. “Oh, I’m sorry, you just sounded so serious. It’s adorable, really.” He leaned against the windowsill, smirking. “But no. After all, can’t leave any trace of myself. I’m dead, remember? Killing someone on property would not go unnoticed.” He raised a hand to stop Griffin as he opened his mouth to speak, tears streaming down the younger boy’s face. “Your wound, however, will be... entirely self-inflicted.”

The full gravity of the situation seemed to finally hit Griffin full force. He no longer tried to hold back the tears as he crumpled to his knees, clutching himself. “Please, Cyril, I don’t want to die! Surely there’s another way, s-surely I could just run away like you did, or--” He stopped, opening his eyes, breath hitching in his throat. “Th-that reminds me... why did you run away?”

“Mm... wouldn’t you rather it remain a mystery? You may not like the answer. Though... by the time the sun sets, you’ll be dead. So perhaps you deserve to know,” Cyril said, a flicker of pity flashing over his face before it was replaced again with the cold smile. “I’m sure you don’t remember, but... there was a time, when Erastus was still very little, you found... a dead robin in your drawer. Father scolded you for it.”

Griffin blinked, vaguely remembering the event. The poor thing had had its wings nearly ripped off. “I had... said a cat probably brought it in, though that didn’t explain how it got in the drawer.” He wondered how on earth this could relate to his brother’s disappearance. Surely not all of this was over a robin.

“I suppose it’s rather obvious now. I killed it. And hid it in your drawer before father could catch me. And what I found interesting... what both frightened and enthralled me... was I enjoyed it.” Griffin shivered at the wild, murderous glint in Cyril’s eyes. He shrank back, nearly knocking into his easel, and Cyril followed him, Mildred seemingly forgotten. Griffin was stopped by the back wall of the shed, gasping as Cyril squatted down to his level, his face only inches from the other boy’s. “So I kept on killing. I started small, of course; birds, rats, the like. Then I moved to cats, dogs-- I believe you remember many neighbors talking about their missing cats, yes?” Griffin nodded, his face pale. He felt sick. “Until... eventually, I grew dreadfully bored of that.”

“You didn’t...” Griffin gasped, wishing desperately he could disappear or phase through the wall or just get away from him somehow. That gun in his hand didn’t make it any better.

“Kill people? No, not yet. That came later,” Cyril chuckled, as if Griffin was stupid for not being able to see the correct pattern. “Sheep were particularly interesting. It only shows how naive people can be, to see such clean incisions and deem it a wolf’s doing.”

Griffin’s head was spinning. “They... sent a search party out for the wolf, yes,” he mumbled, letting the back of his head rest against the wall. “Never... found it.”

[zapdragon555]

“Horses were too difficult. There really was no fun in it. So... yes. I killed someone. The first time was risky; I was inexperienced, I’d forgotten people had lives, had people who knew them and would wonder where they’d suddenly disappeared to,” Cyril commented, finally rising from his position so close to Griffin’s face and standing, tapping the light bulb, which had started to flicker. “Once I’d taken care of my first mistake--silencing the man’s family and friends was time consuming but by no means a chore--I was much more careful. I would follow people, learn about them, learn their habits, learn what made them quake with fear and what made them panic. Oh, yes, I was quite the researcher,” he laughed, a low, raspy laugh.

“So... if I’m understanding you correctly,” Griffin finally said, forcing his fear down, “You get off on murdering people, so in order to hide that obsession of yours, you had to leave.”

“Don’t bring what I do down to such a low level,” Cyril snapped, scowling, which quickly turned to a wide, wicked grin. “It’s an art, what I do. You’re an artist. You understand,” he said, voice light and teasing. “Though, I won’t deny it’s a passion of mine. Obsession is such an ugly word.”

There was a long period of silence between the two brothers, Cyril’s eyes trained on Griffin and the latter’s gaze turned towards the ground. “Take as much time as you’d like,” Cyril said gently, smiling. “You’ll starve out eventually. And Mildred will with you. But it is your choice alone.”

[zapdragon555]

“How is this a choice?” Griffin whispered, clenching his fists. He raised his head and met Cyril’s gaze, blue eyes blazing with rage. “We’re family. Why are you doing this?!” he cried, leaping to his feet and shoving Cyril backwards with all his strength. Cyril shouted in surprise and fell backwards over the rake Griffin had moved before, landing hard on his back. The second of breathless silence that followed seemed to drag on for an eternity, before Cyril leapt up with frightening speed and grabbed Griffin by the throat, then threw him roughly to the ground, placing a boot on his neck before he could get to his feet.

“Dear brother, that was very mean of you. We’re family, remember?” Cyril hissed in his ear, pressing down with his foot. Griffin choked and gagged, fighting for breath, and did so for several seconds before Cyril let up the weight on Griffin’s neck and he sucked in air, breathing hard. Cyril smiled a cold smile and stepped away from Griffin, who, after a few seconds getting over the initial shock, scrambled to his feet and ran for the door. Cyril watched as he gripped the doorknob and tried to turn it frantically, to no avail. It was locked. Griffin didn’t even know there was a key. “Got it from Mildred,” Cyril said, taking out the small brass key and holding it up. “I’m afraid you aren’t going anywhere, brother.”

Griffin stood there, hands still tightly gripping the doorknob, his back to Cyril. “Mildred. She’ll--she’ll know you were here. You tied her up, and she’ll tell everyone it was you who... killed me.”

“Please. I am no novice at this. She’s fully unconscious; I made sure of that first, then I locked her in there,” Cyril said, rolling his eyes. “And if you hurry, I’ll untie her before she wakes up, and she won’t remember a hair on my head.”

[zapdragon555]

Griffin, however, was staring at him, expression one of cold outrage. “You... hit her?” he whispered, his knuckles white from gripping the doorknob so hard. “You actually. You knocked her unconscious.” Cyril gave him a smug look and shrugged. There was a tense silence. “I’ll scream. Someone will notice.”

“You won’t,” Cyril sighed, almost bored-sounding.

“Yes, I will,” Griffin, said, going to the window.

“I’ll shoot you.”

“Do it, then!” Griffin hissed, narrowing his eyes.

Cyril simply watched him, shaking his head, a knowing smile creeping over his face as he did. “No... no, little brother, you’re just so... beautifully naive. This gun has more than one bullet. Let’s just say I shoot you, hm? Then, I’d shoot her--” He nodded his head towards the window. “And then, maybe, I’d pay Erastus a visit. And shoot him dead as well. Father would die alone and the company would dissolve, and hundreds of people would be out on the streets.”

Griffin gripped the windowsill, staring down at his feet, then laughed in disbelief as more tears came. He always was quick to cry, and he hated it; he was sure Cyril was enjoying it. “So that’s it, then. That’s bloody it. You’ve won, and all that’s left is for me to... to die.” Met with Cyril’s silence, he drew in a deep, shuddering breath and turned around to face him. Their eyes locked for several seconds. “I... am not afraid of you,” Griffin whispered, smiling through his tears. “I’m not. I’m really, really not.”

[zapdragon555]

At his words, Cyril’s smile fell. He scowled as Griffin crossed the floor to the opposite wall of the shed and picked up a rolled-up length of rope, looping it over his arm. “Shall I tie it, brother?” Cyril crooned, finding another reason to sneer.

The soft, mocking voice grated on Griffin’s eardrums, and he shook his head. “No,” Griffin said sternly. Cyril frowned again, folding his arms indignantly. “I’ll tie my own noose,” he murmured, setting to work on it. He looped the end of the rope into the hook holding up the light bulb. By now his tears had stopped, and he dried his eyes with the back of his hand as he used a pair of hedge clippers to cut the rope to the proper length, and tied a somewhat ramshackle noose into the end of it.

There was, however, the lack of something to stand on. Cyril smiled as Griffin looked around for one, to no avail. “Mm... it was a nice try, little brother, but perhaps it’s not in your stars to die such a quick death. Though, if you’re looking for something more romantic, I’d go for the knife,” he said, absently running a finger along the barrel of his pistol.

Griffin said nothing, but looked to the ruined canvas on his easel, and smiled. “You’re wrong, Cyril,” he said softly, voice steady as he took the canvas off the easel and gently laid it on the floor, then hoisted the easel up and set it below the noose. Cyril raised an eyebrow, his expression almost impressed.

“Well, I’ll admit. This is quite fitting,” Cyril chuckled. “Full of irony and almost macabre humor. Bravo, Griffin, bravo,” he said, clapping softly. Griffin, face unreadable, carefully stepped up onto the easel, which wobbled beneath his feet, obviously not fit to hold a sixteen year old boy. Biting his lip, he reached out for the rope and fitted it over his head.

There was a period of almost serene silence as the two brothers gazed at each other, the wood beneath Griffin’s feet creaking under his weight. The lightbulb swung back and forth gently, casting shadows on each of their faces. “Brother,” Griffin murmured, voice small, almost frightened. “You can do the honors.”

[zapdragon555]

For a moment, just for a tiny, immeasurable moment, there was a flicker of sadness in Cyril’s eyes. “Are you sure?” he asked, for once his voice neither mocking nor angry. In his surprise at the offer, he’d been caught off-guard and forgot this was more than just business. This was a game, and he was winning. So... why didn’t it feel like it?

“You want to,” Griffin said, giving a small shrug. He felt his heart beating fast in his chest, as if silently asking him to jump off the easel and... do something crazy. Tackle Cyril to the ground, maybe. He even went so far as to smile at Cyril, almost genuinely. “I can tell. Go on.”

For the first time, Cyril felt conflicted. He had been hoping for more... resistance. More of a struggle. But this... it wasn’t even a surrender. It was an acceptance. He knew it was showing on his face, by the surprised look Griffin was giving him. No. No, he couldn’t let this happen. He’d won. And that was final. With a shout of anger Cyril kicked the easel over, hard, so it hit the back wall with a clatter. Griffin dropped, and after a few seconds of gasping for air, he was gone.

Cyril stood there for some time. Staring at his hands. He was scared. He was actually frightened, because for the first time in awhile, he’d felt something. Something other than that rush he always came to expect. It was pity. He pitied his brother. He felt remorse. All at once an intense rage rose in his chest, and with a shout of anger he drew a knife from his pocket with lighting speed and drove it deep into Griffin’s chest. No, the feeling was still there. He wrenched the weapon out and stabbed over and over, as if doing so would kill the human feelings inside of him, until finally he stepped back and stared at his work, blood on his hands and completely coating the knife, as well as the entire front of his brother.

He whispered a curse under his breath and dropped the knife, stepping backwards. He’d done it now. He’d really done it. They’d know, now. These wounds were much too forceful, too passionate to be self-inflicted. Trembling, his eyes darted around the room, searching for some way to fix it. Panicked, Cyril snatched up the bloody knife, but found gripping it difficult with the amount of blood on it, and pocketed it. He did notice his sleeves had gotten soaked as well. He had to fix this. He had to fix this. He had to... he had to run.

[zapdragon555]

Snapping the safety back on on the pistol, he pocketed it and whirled around, dashing for the door. However, he didn’t notice the rake laying across the floor, and he stumbled over it, catching himself on the door. This seemed to snap him out of his panic, as he looked back at the gardening tool, an idea lighting up his eyes. Taking out his knife again, Cyril went up to the corpse and raised his hands to the rope, moving his knife back and forth on it to fray it. The rope was old anyway, and broke quite easily. Before Griffin could hit the ground Cyril quickly caught him, careful not to let the knife touch him any further, then laid him down on the rake’s sharp metal part, lining up the stab wounds with the prongs as best he could. He stepped back and observed his work. It seemed natural enough. Natural enough for someone to believe while avoiding the other, more gruesome alternative.

Night had fallen by now, and the flickering light bulb cast a ghostly glow on Griffin’s overturned figure, as well as the emotionless features on Cyril’s face. He gazed at the body for some time, watching the blood pooling under it, then finally managed to recreate his same wicked smile from before. Composure found, he leaned down to the corpse and whispered an affectionate, “So long, dearest little brother,” and slipped out the now-unlocked door.

There was, of course, one order of business that still needed taking care of. Cyril now turned his attention to the darkened shed across the water. Yes, unfinished business, he thought as he spotted his father’s black swan drifting across the water. He smirked as it glanced at him, and went towards the other shed on silent feet. It opened with a soft, nearly inaudible creak, and Mildred was still slumped in the chair where he’d left her, a nasty bruise forming on her temple. He smiled to himself; everything was going well, given the roadblock he’d hit moments ago with that little... outburst he’d had.

Frowning as he remembered it, he grabbed the servant girl roughly by the shoulders and dragged her backwards, out of the shed, careful not to let the blood on his suit touch her. He was in full control now. And nothing would ever happen like that again.