Starla dear. As soft as satin one moment and as hard as steel the next. Starla dear. Duncan searched for her, his mind twirling from one location to the next. He couldn't find her. Too much chaos. How the hell does Tristan always manage to find her? he wondered.
He manages by being ruthless and invasive, that's how. I can't... Duncan seemed to wither in defeat.
. . . . . . . . .
Starla dear. A soft as satin one moment and as hard as steel the next. Tristan watched her, absolutely enthralled. She giggled girlishly and pawed playfully at the shoulder of a handsome man-toy, enraptured, or pretending to be enraptured, with the conversation. For the briefest moment Tristan lost control and was not a devil at all, but just another addled admirer.
I must control myself... he thought. I created this monster and I must remain in control of it. In truth he had not created the monster. He had only given it the courage to reach out and take what had always been just beyond it's reach.
And Starla was greedy... She reached out and took that strength, curling her slender fingers around it with a steely grip. Tristan let out a little sigh as he saw her leave the room with her man-toy. The man, an evil-eyed, brown haired man, slipped his arm around her little shoulders as they climbed the stairs. This is going to be delicious... Tristan thought. He followed close behind, slipping quickly past the closing door and ducking behind a chair as the drunken figures collapsed onto a leather couch. Too perfect. No one to hear him scream...
They writhed around in pleasure, occasional moans escaping one or the other, before Starla inevitably cried out "No." He was too aggressive. It was making her nervous.
She shoved at his shoulder, but he only held her tighter. It was what she was waiting for. "Stop!" she cried, and this time her voice was firm. He paused, but couldn't seem to control his fingers, which slithered further under her shirt. Tristan watched her eyes grow cold and hard. Here it comes... he thought.
The handsome piece of flesh that she had chosen for her companion shoved her down and groped at her desperately. Roughly. Starla was obviously not pleased. Tristan could hardly contain himself. He could almost smell the blood already. The man was now tearing at her clothes, pressing her flat against the cushions. Starla was bound to snap at any moment.
So did the mans neck. Starla cried out. Tristan moaned, in spite of himself.
Starla shoved the limp body away from her and watched it fall loudly to the floor. Her fingers ached from the exertion. What have I done? She thought. She lept from the couch and was almost to the door when something caught her eye. She turned to face the dark figure that crouched by a desk, just behind a chair. He seemed to fade in and out for a second, as though unsure.
"Tristan!" She gasped.
He stood up slowly, the yellowish light from the window falling across his face. Always through some pale light I see you... She thought.
"Well, I'm not particularly fond of daylight, in case you haven't guessed." He said. "It's so bright and... Revealing."
Starla remained stark still as he came toward her. "Do you know what I've done to you? Do you know what you're now capable of?" He asked.
Starla didn't answer.
"You'll avenge her. You'll avenge her times ten." He said, and his eyes glittered and his full lips became a thin line.
"Who?" She asked, though she already knew the answer.
"Your beautiful sister. My first love. Justine..." He answered.
Starla nodded slowly. "I will."
. . . . . . . . .
Once she reached home, Starla closed the door behind her and locked it before she let herself fall to the floor. "What have I done?" she asked herself over and over in a wavering voice.
She couldn't get the image out of her head. The image of his handsome face twisting in confusion as her little hands snapped his neck. She couldn't stop picturing her fingers pressed against his throat as his eyes bulged and his body went rigid and then limp. A terrible accident! she thought, though she knew the ugly truth.
Slowly but surely, the ugly truth set in. I killed a man. He had deep brown eyes and I killed him. He had long, beautiful fingers and I killed him. He'll never smile that handsome smile again because I KILLED HIM!
And somewhere else inside her a fierce voice said, "And those cruel hands will never hold down a helpless woman again..."
She fought that fiercer part of herself. She argued with it. She pleaded with it. It was no use, though, not with that vibrant, angry voice crying out "He deserved what he got!"
She crawled toward her bed, shedding her clothes as she went. Her fingers found the tear in her pretty blouse and her mind cried out "See! See what that monster did to your pretty blouse! See what he meant to do to your pretty little body!" She tore the garment off of her and thrust it away with a sob. Her whole body was shaking.
She screamed, sobbing with the abandon of one who has no hope left. She cried out in terror and shame, terror of what she might become and shame for what she had done that night. She cried and cried until all energy left her and she lay still and whimpering on her bed.
"It wasn't me..." She said softly, before fading into a drunken sleep.