Everything was going so well. How could I slip up so soon? I’ll have to be more careful from now on.

Movie night is my favourite night of the week. But this one is especially important because it will be my apology for startling them earlier.

I’ve bought meine engel’s (my angel’s) favourite takeaway. The crinkle of the plastic bag and the smell of sizzling fat has my mouth watering. The clack of the tupperware accompanies every rising wave of the scents of spices and meat. The hunger rears its head. I stamp it back down. We are going to eat soon.

The steady pulse of the heartbeat inside draws me through the threshold and towards the living room.

“Love! I’m home.”

Eloise is sat on the couch with a book. Judging by her upper attire, she’s just finished work. The neat shirt and cardigan contrasts with the loose joggers.

Brown eyes look up at my entry. Eyes meeting mine briefly before she flicks her gaze away and back. “Welcome back.” Her gaze keeps flicking to the side.

Cute.

My gaze drifts down.

Their trousers have rucked up. The skin is still raised. Angry welts littering the skin above and below their ankle.

Their gaze follows mine and their heart rate spikes.

A memory rises, unbidden, in my mind. One of Cameron’s memories.

 “Watch what you’re doing?”

Eloise cowers, picking up the shards of broken glass on the ground. The split pasta sauce blends with the blood dotting their hands.

I look down. There is sauce on my shoes.

“You ruined my shoes. If you want to cook, do it right!” I storm out. “I need a drink.”

NO.

That was Cameron. I am not him.

I am not him.

I put the food down on the coffee table and kneel slowly.

Don’t be scared, please.

“What happened to your leg?” I twist my brows and scrunch my face in concern.

Eloise tenses at my words.

I’m not him. I won’t hurt you.

Her eyes dart away nervously. “I just burned it while cooking. Don’t worry, I cleaned it up.”

She’s more worried about some spilt food then her injury. That’s not right. They’ve been so brainwashed by that bastard; I’ll have to work harder to build them up.

“Oh no, love. How do you feel? Does it hurt? Should I get a cold towel?” I ghost my hand over the wound, drawing their gaze to the burns.

See, I’m worried about you, not anything else.

“Look.” I crinkle the bag. “I brought dinner. Why don’t I serve up while you relax.”

She nods.

Wonderful.

I move to the kitchen, making sure to keep my movements smooth and slow. Spoonful by spoonful, I fill a plate with steaming vegetables in a vermillion sauce, amber rice, and curried lamb. One of the lower cupboards yields antiseptic and wound healing spray. Another yields a small towel; I hold it beneath the running tap for a moment, then twist it between two fists, wringing the water from the fibres till only the damp remains.

I return to Eloise’s side with my load just as smoothly. A thrill of satisfaction runs down my spine as, with a little gentle coaxing, they settle in to let me care for them.

I can’t let this precious skin be marred by my mistake.

I gently apply the antiseptic and then use the wound spray to coat their scars.

She squirms a little under my ministrations and even lets out the cutest gasp when the cold towel is laid on the skin.

Once I am satisfied, I can finally allow myself to enjoy the sight of her munching away.

Eloise’s mood improves somewhat as she eats, and she agrees to continue our evening plans.

I follow her example in satisfying my own hunger before looking to satisfy another craving.

Tonight’s movie is an action horror. A cornucopia of mindless violence and sexual gratification humans seem so fond of as entertainment. It’s perfect. The fear it induces will drive them straight into my arms.

They’re warm. A comforting weight. So fragile and soft. The feeling is comforting.

She smells so nice. So … appetizing. I could lean down and sink my teeth into the flesh, taste the life on my tongue, silence this infernal hunger. But then I wouldn’t get to do this.

I press a kiss to the brow of their head. Blunt teeth behind soft lips.

Eloise sighs. A rush of oxytocin blooms beneath their skin, and somehow they smell sweeter than before.

Her mind is racing. I can feel it, the connection on the tips of my fingers. Tantalising. But I hold back, I don’t reach in and pick apart the memories. I just revel in the brush of the fringes of their mind, soft, featherlike.

Not pushing me away. Not fighting me. Any lick of fear is prompted by the movie, not me.

Accepting me. It feels like acceptance.

My gaze flicks down to her ankle again. Guilt churns in my gut, pushing the hunger aside to fill my mouth with bile.

I am sorry. I promise I’ll do better.

*                          *                   *

It has been three weeks and things are going well.

The rising of the sun is still a few hours away. Enough time to make it home and slip into bed before my love awakens.

I focused on devouring Cameron’s skills and technical knowledge tonight. I will be able to do his job and earn what I need to provide for my mate partner with anything they want.

A purr bubbles up in my chest, one I quickly stamp down. I look around, no lights or voices, everyone on this street should still be asleep. Good.

I slip through the door. Past the locks and through the cracks into the shadows of our home.

Carefully, trying not to make a sound, I remove my shoes and leave them on the rack. First step, second step, skip, skip, fifth step, sixth step, skip, all creaky stairs avoided successfully. Wait …

What is that sound?

It sounds familiar. Up and down, choking and hums and gasps. The sound of crying.

My love is crying.

What is wrong? Who hurt them!?

I rush down the hall to the nest bedroom. It takes considerable effort to remember to turn the handle and not crash through the door.

My love is crying. Mein Engel. Meine Liebe. (My angel. My love.) A shaking heap on the bed, curled beneath the covers. They shift at the sound of the door. Then burrow out from the shadows of the duvet, face peeping out cautiously.

Their eyes are red and swollen, nose running, cheeks flushed. The pulse of blood rushes under their skin. They cry harder, eyes closing and burying themselves again.

They’ve never looked so adorable.

The taste of salt and oxytocin hangs in the air. I can’t help but let my tongue stretch out to taste the air.

Slowly so as not to startle her, I slip closer. The bed dips under my weight, causing Eloise to roll slightly towards me. The duvet peels back easily, exposing her back to me.

My ears twitch at the sound of choking sobs. A flare of burning pain twists in my chest.

The muscles shakes under my palm as I rub gentle circles on her back, following the curve of the spine.

Distraction is required. So, I start to talk.

I talk about anything I can think off. About the weather. About my work. About how a pigeon flew in through the door behind Mrs Allen from accounting and stole her sandwich. About how the stray cat the neighbours have been feeding is expecting kittens.

I keep talking while slowly, oh so slowly, the shaking slows, and the sobs die down to sniffles.

“What do you need, love? Tell me, please.”

She doesn’t answer immediately, but I know what is needed now.

Warmth. Food. Comfort. Not always in that order, but each is a crucial piece of the puzzle. Each one leads to the regulation of hormones and thought patterns. Each will help to sort through the maze of her mind and bring clarity.

I move slowly, restrained to the pace of a newborn deer tentatively taking their first steps. Gifting one last comforting press to their back before I go to run them a bath.

The tub fills slowly, the water steams the mirror with a fine mist; my reflection distorts, a truer likeness of myself than the face it showed before. I turn away.

I allow myself a quick hunt in the kitchen to find her favourite snacks, before I run back to the bedroom.

Eloise is still bundled up beneath the covers when I return. Her limbs jerk and snap like dry twigs in summer heat when they move at my urging. Half-frantic. Half-stilted.

I wait and watch. Keeping my touch featherlight and unhurried. Fighting every twitch of my claws, itching to press in and hold soft flesh still.

Keeping my voice soft, my questions unhurried and gentle.

I am patient. I don’t press beyond the barrier of blankets. Ignoring my own urge to start providing for her immediately, I wait for Eloise to tell me what she wants.

Finally, a mumbled an answer. A disjointed collection of syllables that roughly translates to “routine”.

Routine. That word means many things. It is predictability. It is security. It is a reassurance that the unknown will not taint the inescapable reassurance of tomorrow.

I understand.

I should have expected this.

Usually when I take a new face, it takes time before I can mimic them perfectly. Like putting on a pair of brand-new shoes, I don’t always fit into their routines and mannerisms straight away.

I’ve been taking my time devouring Cameron’s memories and living his life. Too complacent. Too confident in my earlier observations of their life.

Too confident in my ability to fix the wounds he left.

I will fix this. I can do better. I will be better.

I tell her so. Whispering soft reassurances against their palm and against the dark.

She eats my offering and lets me lead her to the bath. Small victories.

I keep talking, assurance after affirmation after reassurance. Eloise slowly calms, the tears finally stopping. The heat and the full belly soothe the pain, little by little.

I will do better.

I will give her anything she asks for. I will ask before I touch. I will provide anything. No matter what it takes, I will earn her love.

I must. Whatever I’ve done wrong, I will fix.

Please, I can do better. Please. Please.

Don’t give up on us.

I won’t.