Chapter Three

"I've died! I've died and gone to Heaven!" was Catherine's first thought as she slowly regained consciousness. Not the conventional vision of Heaven, complete with clouds, wings and harps, but more her own idea of it…since she was naked in Vincent's arms, tightly held against the length of his bare body. The last thing she could remember was being in the water, and then…nothing. The memory of the terrible cold that had engulfed her made her shudder and she instinctively snuggled closer to the wonderful warmth of Vincent's flesh.

"Catherine?" She looked up to meet concerned blue eyes. "Catherine, are you all right?"

She felt much more than all right, but simply nodded. "Yes, I…think so." So she was alive, after all, and as her thoughts became clearer, a quick look around helped her understand how she could find herself in such an undreamt of situation. They were lying on the sandy shore, wrapped in Vincent's cloak, that she remembered dropping on the ground before diving. A small driftwood fire provided a meager, but welcome warmth, and clothes, his and hers, were scattered around, put to dry on rocky boulders. The raft was nowhere in sight.

"Catherine…"

She felt his embarrassment through their once more fully open connection and looked at him again, filling her eyes with the sight of his beloved features, of the face that she'd feared never to see again. Remembering the pain and anguish that had thrown her into the water, she clung to him.

"Vincent, I can't believe you're here! I thought I had lost you forever!"

His hold tightened in answer and his face became grim. "I, too, thought I had lost you, Catherine! When I carried you out of the water you…you were no longer breathing…"

He didn't finish, but the thought of Vincent's lips on hers, breathing life into her lungs, filled her with a sudden warmth.

"You were cold, so cold…" he lowered his eyes to their intertwined bodies and she felt his embarrassment as he hastily brought them back to her face and changed the subject. "Why, Catherine, why did you do something so dangerous?"

She looked hard at him. "And why did you dive to save me?"

His eyes opened wide in puzzled shock. "Catherine! How could I have left you to drown? If you had died…"

"Still, you were leaving me, going away forever. That would have killed me just as surely as the water, you know! Maybe not as quickly, that's all."

He flinched as if she had hit him, and she felt his anguish through the bond.

"I wanted you to…"

"You wanted me to be happy. But…is there a way to make you understand that I could never be happy without you? You're my life, Vincent, without you there's nothing, nothing, you hear me? And if I can't manage to get that through your stubborn head, I might just as well jump right back into the water!"

He managed to surmount his shock enough to answer. "Catherine, after what I did…"

She nearly screamed at him. "Stop that, Vincent, please stop that! And try to listen to me, really listen, for once!"

"Catherine!" he protested.grimly, moving as if to disengage himself from her, but she held him fast.

"See, you're doing it again! But this time I won't let you. You're going to stay right here and listen to what I have to say, or, I tell you, I'm going straight back to that river!"

He stared at her, bewildered. There was no doubt that she really meant what she said. He could feel her burning anger, too, but the most obvious cause he could see for that anger came in total contradiction with the way she clung to him, the way her body trustingly molded itself to his. How could she even stand to be close to him, much less touch him so easily, after what he had done?

She took a deep breath and spoke, her voice much softer now. "I am angry with you, Vincent, terribly angry, but not because you finally made love to me." She felt his body stiffen at those words and hushed his rising protest with a soothing hand. "Shh, please let me finish! Yes, you did make love to me, but we'll talk about that later." He relaxed a little, but remained wary as she continued. "I'm not really angry with you for running away from me right after we made love. It pained me, but I could understand you needed time alone to come to terms with what happened. No, what makes me so angry is that you alone decided both our fates. You appointed yourself judge, jury and executioner, and condemned us both to a death sentence for the crime of making love together!"

Vincent moaned, pierced both by the sharpness of Catherine's words and the sharp wave of anger that accompanied them. He might have pulled away from her but part of him was very reluctant to let go of her, after coming so close to losing her to the nameless river. Catherine's body language, the trusting way she lay in his arms, belied her hurtful words, and he allowed his own body that comfort, while his mind whirled frantically, trying to make sense of what she said.

There had been no doubt for him that Catherine could only share the overwhelming disgust his unspeakable behavior inspired in him. It was his terror of feeling that repulsion in her, of seeing it in her eyes, that had made him close their connection and run blindly away from her, unwilling to listen to words that could only hold reproach and condemnation, or, even worse, a forgiveness he knew he couldn't deserve. It was the certainty of never being able to face her anymore that had sent him into a no-return journey to the dark bowels of the earth.

And now she was telling him… His mind still had trouble processing her words, especially those she had repeated several times to make her point clear: she said they had made love! He couldn't reconcile those words with his own blurred, shame-filled memories of unbridled lust and dark, primal possession, but the bond left no doubt that Catherine meant them, that she had a completely different perception of what had happened. He didn't know how that was possible, and the mad hope that she really might not hate him for what he had done fought the new wave of shame that overwhelmed him as her other words hit home, too, and he felt their truth. She was right, he had not listened to her, he had chosen the coward's way out and fled rather than facing her.

Well, he was facing her, now. He wouldn't leave Catherine any more, he knew it with a certainty that came from his deepest reaches. The choice had been made out of pure instinct when he'd dived in after her, abandoning the raft of his death-bound exile to the nameless river. He had fought for both their lives in the fierce current, carried Catherine's limp body out of the water and revived her with his own breath. With his whole being, he had finally chosen life. For both of them. He had chosen to survive what had happened, but couldn't see yet how he might live with the knowledge that one of his worse nightmares had finally come true.

Words from long ago came back to his mind. It's not a nightmare. It happened. And you're alive.

"You have the strength, you do! I know you!"

Catherine's soft whisper startled him out of his introspection. She was watching him with knowing eyes, the barest hint of a smile on her lips, a fierce tenderness filling the bond, with a faint, intriguingly smug touch underneath. It was as if she'd read his thoughts, the same way he'd sometimes been almost able to read hers, and this proof of the increased power of their bond opened the way to new interrogations. Could those changes have been caused by…what had happened?

He'd always considered their connection as a gift and a miracle, and if it sometimes laid a heavy burden on him, it was one he'd been happy to bear, for the joy of feeling Catherine's heart beat alongside his own. How could something so beautiful feed and grow on…that? Again his mind cringed from the shameful event, denying it the crude precision of words.

"Vincent!"

Her voice called him back, forcing him to remember that she had words for what had happened, words so outrageous that he could only deny them.

"Catherine, how can you call…what happened…'making love'?"

"And what would you call it, Vincent?"

He moaned as if she'd stabbed him, and in a way she had. Catherine was cutting deep into an already almost lethal wound, aware of the pain it caused Vincent, but knowing the poison had to be let out if they were to survive at all. She sent a warm, loving current of encouragement through their connection and tightened her hold on him. Waiting.

Vincent breathed deeply, gratefully accepting the comfort she was offering. He, too, knew there was no other way but to face the truth, in the hope that it could free them, but how could he say those words? How could he speak the unspeakable?

You have the strength, you do! Looking away from her eyes, he finally spoke, every word painfully torn from his throat.

"Catherine, what I did to you….is…what those men wanted to do." He felt a wave of protest rising from her but went on. "I…only finished what they had begun. I acted…like an animal."

It was Catherine's turn to take a deep breath, overwhelmed by the violence of Vincent's shame and self-loathing, before answering in as even a voice as she could manage. "Those men wanted to rape me. Are you saying that's what you did?"

He moaned again and stared at her with tortured eyes. Catherine's heart was bleeding at the torment she was inflicting on him, but she stubbornly went on. "Tell me, do you really, honestly think it's true?"

Vincent cringed at her words. She was asking him to recall memories he wanted to banish for ever, to relive the shameful events that had occurred when he was "not himself". It led him to realize that he'd always avoided that, letting the memories of his moments of rage sink into a hazy oblivion, something outside him, belonging to the other. It was hard enough to live with the consequences of his actions, or even the knowledge of them. The direct memories would have been unbearable.

Yet now Catherine demanded that he search those memories, face the reality of what he became during those moments...

"Do you love me, Vincent?" she asked abruptly.

He stared at her in shock, then looked away from her clear expectant eyes before uttering, in a very low voice, the words that had burned in his heart from the first second and that he'd never thought he had the right to say.

"Yes, Catherine, I…love you."

A wave of pure joy reached him through the bond, forcing his gaze back to her. Catherine's face was glowing in the flickering light, her eyes shining with unshed tears, and he felt a fleeting regret to have denied her those words for so long.

"And I love you, too," she answered, the intensity of her emotions belying the softness of her voice. "What happened was the physical expression of those feelings, how could it be otherwise? We made love!" she affirmed.

Love. It filled their connection as they said the long-withheld words, and Vincent's battered soul reveled in its miraculous warmth, while his mind reeled with contradictory thoughts. Could love have had anything to do with...what had happened? It seemed impossible to him, yet Catherine sincerely thought so, and he owed it to her to be equally honest, whatever the cost.

Warily, but with determination, he let down the protective barriers shielding his mind from full recollection. Images and sensations came tumbling down on him, bright and raw, full of all the colors, the noises, the scents magnified by the enhancement of all his senses in those moments. Emotions assailed him, frightening him by their violence.

The mindless urgency that had sent him flying to the park entrance, in instant response to Catherine's fear. The dark rage he had felt when he had seen those men, turning into a red, bloodthirsty madness as he fell on them. The bestial sound of his own roars, mingled with screams of terrror. The horrible, yet savagely exhilarating feeling of bones breaking under his deadly blows, of flesh torn apart by his claws, the at once heady and sickening smell of blood. The dizzying sensation of dominance, of power. His roar of victory when he'd seen the enemy defeated, before picking up Catherine and carrying her to the safety of the tunnels. And then the very moment when his emotions, without decreasing in strength, had taken another direction. He didn't know if it was the sight of her bare breasts, or the thought that those men had touched her, but he'd been invaded by a powerful wave of primal possessiveness, an overwhelming need to touch her, too, to claim her as his. His!

Catherine felt Vincent tighten his hold on her and snuggled closer into his unconsciously possessive embrace, offering him all the comfort she could while he faced the ordeal her question was putting him through. He had to remember, acknowledge the reality of what had happened, and not the distorted idea of it his feelings of shame and culpability had imposed on him.

He had touched Catherine. Led by a powerful impulse he was in no state to resist, he had reveled in the fragrant softness of her and tasted her skin. Driven to a frenzy by her spicy, compelling scent, he had disposed of the last barriers between them to greedily feast on her delicate folds. He had pierced her tender flesh with his hard, eager one, claiming her in one mighty, mindless thrust, impaling her again and again in a blind race for completion to finally explode within her warm depths.

Yes, he had undoubtedly done all that.

But he hadn't raped her.

However ashamed he could feel about what had happened, however unable he still felt to accept Catherine's words for it, he couldn't honestly call it that terrible name. For Catherine's emotions were there, too, clear and strong as he had felt them, as clear and strong as his own, and they left no room for doubt. Catherine had been willing. More than willing. She had shared his desire, his craving, his pleasure, opening to him like a flower.

All the vivid memories came back to him, the hot, tight feeling of her silken sheath, the way she had clung to him, moved with him, her scream echoing his roar as he spilled his seed in her convulsing depths. To his great shame he felt himself getting aroused again, his erection hopelessly swelling between their tightly joined bodies. He tried to deny it, force it away by the strength of his will, but it was impossible. Catherine was too close, her skin too soft, her scent too enticing. The only way to calm his covetous body would be to leave her arms and jump into the river, and he didn't want to do that. Not now. Not anymore.

There was no sense now in denying his desire for her. With a deep sigh he buried his face in her neck and spoke in a barely audible, muffled whisper. "No, Catherine, I didn't…rape you. I have…known for a long time that you…wanted me, just as I… wanted you…" he painfully admitted, seeking comfort and courage in her closeness as he spoke those long withheld words. "But I feared to lose control if we were to…grow closer physically. What happened proves those fears were founded!" he grimly added. "I did lose control, and what should have been something beautiful happened in a bestial, shameful way, at the worst possible moment!"

She tightened her hold on him, caressing his hair. "It was beautiful to me. You know it was." she said simply.

He whimpered in answer, and she felt his hands, at her back, tighten into fists. "Beautiful! How could it be?" he cried. "I touched you with these hands, Catherine, hands that had just killed, hands still covered with blood! I soiled your body with that blood!"

She held him as he sobbed his shame and disgust, her own tears of guilt flowing out to mingle with his.

"That blood was there because of me, Vincent. If I hadn't been so careless…"

His head jerked up and he stared at her in shock.

"Catherine…" he protested, but she wouldn't be interrupted.

"I was careless! I knew that gang was out somewhere in the park. There had been all those recent attacks, even Joe had warned me to avoid the area. But I didn't listen! Ever since I've known you I've felt safe in the park. I realize I just unconsciously counted on your protection. Even knowing what it costs you every time you have to use violence. I've been so selfish!" She paused for a moment, and took a deep breath before continuing in a low voice, her eyes avoiding his. "And there's even more that you must know. At that moment… I was in such a rage…I hated those men so much for what they'd wanted to do, that I…was glad to see them die." She ignored his shocked gasp of protest and went on. "I was! I'm not proud of it now, but…" Her gaze rose to look straight into distressed eyes. "Vincent, you didn't do anything to them that I wouldn't have done myself, had I been able to! It was only right that their blood be on me, too!" she affirmed, her voice grim. "I'm grateful for it. I'm glad I could share a small part of the burden you bear because of me! Believe me, I would gladly take all of it if I could!"

He remained silent as her words sunk in, first ready to deny them, shocked that Catherine could claim any part in the darkness. It was something he had always tried to shield her from, as he did for all those he loved. Something to be kept to himself, a very intimate, if hateful, part of what he was. Not something to be shared, yet Catherine wanted to share it. Share the guilt, as she had shared the blood!

He could deny her, insist on taking all the responsibility upon himself, and thus shut her out of that part of his life, as he had always done, out of shame…out of pride. With a deep heaving breath that sounded like a sigh of relief, he chose to let her in, to acknowledge her right to share the worst with him, too.

"Blood, Catherine," he said slowly, his voice low and deep "is a heavy burden to bear. The water may have washed it away, but it's still there. It always will be."

Catherine had to chase from her mind the unwelcome image of Lady Macbeth rubbing her hands, and fleetingly wondered if it was the way Vincent saw himself. No more! she fiercely decided.

"I know," she answered softly. "We will have to live with it.".

We will... Vincent's mind reeled at the implication of Catherine's words, and the deep commitment underlying them. Yet he also felt immensely relieved, lighter than he had ever felt. He gratefully tightened his hold on Catherine, suddenly aware of the akwardness of his fists in her back, craving the silky texture of her skin under his hands. Hands that he'd often loathed, but that she once had called hers, to his awe and disbelief. Hands that she had never feared, even knowing what they could do, and Vincent found himself considering the fact that she might have been right.

His hands had not hurt Catherine, he'd instinctively made sure of that when undressing her. Even in a moment of total loss of control, even in the aftermath of ruthless killing, they had treated her with caution, and care. Could he have been wrong when he believed his hands were not meant…for love? His fists slowly unfurled, and, almost unconsciously, his palms began moving on Catherine's skin in a timid, hesitant caress.