“I am not resigned,” she says.

            The words hang in the silence; echo, twist, and coalesce into something more than just words. They are tangible things now, as real as the slight flush on her cheeks or the unfathomable expression in his eyes.

            His jaw snaps shut, perfect lips pressed together in a line that should have been formidable, but wasn’t. Maybe it was just because she knew what if felt like to have those lips pressed against hers, trailing kisses over her skin.

            “I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground,” she says.

            His eyes take on a knowing look. They travel the path of her blush, the heady flow of blood as it spreads from her cheeks, down her lithe neck, to pass out of sight beneath her neckline.

            (That obstacle could be gone in a moment, he thinks. All it would take is one finger, just one, and –)

            No. That is not a road his mind should be on.

            “You have all the love my heart can give,” she murmurs, coming just a little nearer, closing the already miniscule distance between them. “Why are you so set on seeing me shut away forever?”

            He shivers at that thought, the vision of her perfect face closed beneath the iron confines of a coffin, never to be seen again. It was not that long ago that he believed that vision to be reality.

            “Because I know I would join you after,” he says.

            Her eyes flash, lightning slashes over warm brown. Her favorite color, he reflects, has quickly become his as well.

            “We’ve already had this conversation,” she says, and he can detect the fear in her voice, that is so much more potent than her anger. “No one is pulling a Romeo here.”

            “But Juliet is excused?” he asks, a grin stretching his face.

            Her breath hitches, her heart starts beating faster, sending more of her potent blood rushing through her veins. He loves the effect he has on her, loves even more being able to detect it. It is times like these that he cannot imagine living as the rest of his family does, relying only on gestures and words as assurances of affection. It is bad enough not knowing what she is thinking.

            “Of course,” she says, a fraction of a second too late. “She was younger.”

            He presses his cold lips to hers and kisses her, reveling in the sensation. He can feel every pulse of blood beneath her skin; it’s unbearable and yet desired. Each moment he remains like this, the urge to bite, to tear, to cut through that flimsy covering of skin and quench his thirst with the elixir residing beneath it grows stronger.

            He draws his lips away from her, leaving her gasping for breath.

            “Yes,” he agrees. “I suppose that’s an excuse.”

             Then he leans down, places his mouth by her ear, and whispers.

            “You must admit that Romeo wasn’t all bad.”

            There is the tell-tale surge in her heartbeat again and then –

            Her voice is dry when she speaks. “You really need to stop dazzling me.”

            She turns and walks out of the bedroom. “Meet me in the car when you decide to quit being such a – such a – Romeo.”

            His laughter follows her all the way out of the house.