Love is nothing like the stories I read. Or even...the love I thought I experienced. The things I have read, love for a woman is consumption.

She becomes his meal, and he consumes her, her life , her goals, her name, her future, her freedom, body and womb.

Stripped is the woman in the name of love. She moves to his house takes his name, he is man and she is wife, and that is all.

Her designation for the rest of her days. He is human and she is his.

Alastair holds a different love. A novel love that perhaps I have overlooked. His authority is absolute, only because I have given it to him.

He accepts part of it, the part of it that is my love. Returns some of it, the part of it that is me. He wants me whole.

I find it ironic that a creature with the urge to devour, keeps me in tact.

He does not strip me of Eleanor. He simply adds La Rue, offers it, and when he sees I want it, but do not think I deserve it, he orders me to take it.

And I am set at ease.

"Eat," he demands softly, laying a packet of blood at my bedside.

Although Alastair tried to convince me. Teach me in the way of his pure love, am still conditioned to offer the brokenness I have inherited.

I watch his face when I move. I remember what he smiles at, so I can do it more often. It is sickening. I can't stop it.

And the more he indulges me in his soft love, the more I feel obligated to offer my harsh one.

Yes, I know you don't want me to change, but you say I should and I will.

And I hate that. I hate that. The weakness. How disgusting am I, that I can't keep who I am? Why cannot I find...a better way to love? Why is it ingrained in me to drain all that I am, all my free will?

Why do I care if he likes what dress I wear?

But did he frown? Was that frown? Should I change?

I hate it. There's no words to describe how debased I feel to confront my pitiful self in the mirror. I have always prided myself in being strong. Independent.

Love saps all of that from me.

I hate the way I love, but I adore the way he does. His carefree smiles, the light kisses, soft touches. The soft way he addresses me.

My dearest Eleanor.

My heart could flutter out of it's still cage. He cups my face.

"Are you unwell?" He asks softly, looking over my face with concern. His blonde hair falls into his face. He pushed it back, kissing my cheek idly.

"Perhaps you're in need of fresh blood," he frowns.

I shake my head, holding his hand as it cups my cheek. For a moment I'm brought back to yesterday.

His thrusts, filling me perfectly, stretching me just right, hitting every spot, driving me to madness—

Alastair'a lips turn up. "I see." His finger brushed my now hard nipples through my nightgown. "Someone's preoccupied."

He presses his lips against mine, fervent kisses. He offers me control. I deny it. I want him to take from me, softly has he does. Gently.

Because he already owns me. I wonder if he knows. He treats me so gently. I wonder if he still would, if he knew that this love he's burdened me with...this love would allow to tolerate any treatment.

Such is the issue with love. Why I preferred to avoid it. I am slave to it. Perhaps everyone is.

He's leaned me against the wall now, lifted my leg, wrapped it against his waist, pressing into me. He holds back. I can see it.

He kisses the corner of my lips. I turn, invite him deeper. He always accepts an invitation, his tongue plunging into my mouth, devouring me.

And then he's pulling back. He gives me a small smile. Brushes my cheek with the back of his knuckle.

"You bring out the animal in me," he murmurs, kissing my head. He lifts my chin, forcing my gaze to meet his.

He looks between my eyes. What does he look for in them? Maybe it's how he knows me so well.

"What is your surname?"

I don't hesitate this time. "La Rue."

He smiles, kisses me. "Good girl. Let's attend a show."

I raise a brow. "Broadway?"

"If you'd like." He smirks, pulling my waist. He commands me so softly. He doesn't need threats, violence, harsh words, he doesn't even raise his voice.

He knows I will follow him.

"No...Opera." I suggest.

He gives me another kiss.

"The Opera it is, dear. But we should go shopping first. We keep getting side tracked," he tweaks my nipple, "Don't we?"

I nod softly.