Chapter 3

Both eyebrows went up now, and her mouth dropped open. Vincent obviously had something to say, that was clear, but she'd never before seen him take such a direct tack. There had been no pacing, no silent moments of obvious introspection to warn her of his intent. Her mouth snapped closed as she realized how her startled state must appear to him, and considered her words for a moment, before answering. Finally she settled on the simple phrase she had learned from the man before her, and him from his father before that; "Tell me."

Vincent sat still in his chair, eyes downward for a moment. Finally he raised his head and their eyes met. "Catherine, do you have any idea why you're as tired as you are?"

He waited for a moment, letting her have a chance to answer. It was strange, but she really had no reasonable response. Not only did she not know, but she didn't really want to think about it, odd as that was. Shrugging, she tried to dismiss his concerns; "No, not really. What does it matter? I just had a physical a month ago, Vincent, there's nothing wrong with me - Peter will tell you that. I work hard, like everyone else, I suppose it's just caught up with me lately. No one ever died from being tired."

He winced at that, and her eyes narrowed in speculation. He was worried about her, really worried. Why? Despite her own reluctance to talk about it, it was clear that he very much needed to. That was enough to push past her own discomfort. "Vincent, what is it?" she urged, her hand reaching out to cover his. He turned his hand palm up and twined his fingers with her own, in a hold almost painfully tight, before answering.

"I know why you're tired, Catherine," he said, his eyes bleak.

She was taken aback by his words. How could he know that when she herself didn't? And why should it matter at all, much less to the degree his anxiety implied. "You know why I'm tired," she repeated, stalling for time, confusion filling her.

"Yes."

His answer was both simple and direct, and seeing the certainty in his eyes, she suddenly believed it completely, where a moment before she had doubted. He did know, and he obviously thought it did matter. That was enough for her. She repeated her earlier demand, but this time the words had more urgency to them; "Tell me."

Reaching out he captured her other hand with his, and stroked his thumbs over the back of her hands, eyes pinned to them as he watched the contrasting image of gentle action by lethal claws. The pause grew, and only when her fingers began to tremble in his, did he tighten his grip to hold her secure, and raise his eyes back to her own. "I watched over you as you slept last night. Are you familiar with the study of REM?"

Catherine nodded, casting her mind back to her freshman psychology class.

"Random eye movement. It happens when we're in the deepest sleep stage, when we're dreaming, right?"

"Yes," he nodded in agreement. We all reach that stage, at least several times during a sleep cycle, often many times more."

More came back to her as he spoke, and she added to his comments now. "I only remember a little about it, but it's the most complex portion of sleep for humans. A lot happens during that time - dreams are the result, or the means, I can't really recall which," she said, her mind trying to retrieve material absorbed some fourteen years before.

He nodded again. "The fears and anxieties of our psyches are purged during that time. It's the outlet for the extreme emotional demands human beings inevitably place upon themselves throughout their lives."

She nodded, but part of her was already jumping back to what he had said about watching her sleep. "What has this got to do with me, Vincent? I'm sleeping through the night, and even if I don't remember my dreams, that's not unusual, if I remember correctly."

He shook his head, stopping her. "You're not dreaming at all, Catherine. I watched you." The peculiar emphasis he placed on that word 'watched', took her aback.

"How... Why wouldn't I know that? Why wouldn't I remember waking up?" Her questions were chaotic and confused. She didn't even know where to begin.

"Because you don't wake up, not really. You begin to reach the REM state, but then it's disrupted. That disruption almost wakes you - I can see that - but some part of your subconscious controls your response enough to keep you at a low level of sleep. That's why you don't know why you're tired. As far as you can tell you're getting a sound sleep, but it's not true."

"Why?" she repeated intently. "Why would that be happening? I told you I just had a physical. Nothing was wrong. Nothing!" she stated emphatically.

He sighed and sat back, releasing her hands with a restless motion. "Perhaps this wasn't something so easily captured by the physical tests run during a routine checkup. I don't know why it wasn't caught, Catherine, but I know why it's happening."

"You know why it's happening?" She winced to hear herself repeating his words once more, but couldn't stop herself. There was something very surreal about this whole conversation.

"Yes."

She waited, but he said no more for the moment, and once again his eyes were turned downward, to his clasped hands now resting in his lap. Reaching out she cupped his chin and lifted his face until their eyes met once more.

"Why, Vincent. Tell me." He couldn't possibly miss the command inherent in her words.

Taking a deep breath, he answered; "Sometimes we hide things from ourselves. Sometimes - often -" he emphasized the revision, "there are good reasons for doing that. We all need to control certain parts of ourselves, things deep inside that should stay there..." He shook his head from that thought and began again. "None know that better than I, Catherine," he added intently. "But if those things have sufficient strength, we can only be so successful in attempting to suppress them." He stopped there and her hand dropped away. This time, despite its absence, his eyes stayed pinned on her own, as if he were willing her to understand what was still unspoken. She searched for what was missing in his eyes, but found only anxiety there, masking the rest.

"You're saying I'm suppressing something? That in doing so, I'm disrupting my dream cycle and not really sleeping, not when it counts. Is that right?"

He nodded, then finally whispered his assent, "Yes."

She searched within herself at that response, trying to find what it was, but there she encountered a peculiar resistance to go further and gasped audibly in response. He was right. Something was wrong, and she herself was causing it, to such an extent that her conscious mind wasn't even aware of it, or more appropriately, perhaps, was being kept unaware of it.

"You believe me," he said, watching her face closely.

Her attention was drawn outward once more, to him, and finally she nodded, looking dazed. "Yes, I believe you. I can feel that what you're saying is true, but I can't reach further... I don't know why..." Her stammering words trailed off and her gaze grew hazy as she directed her focus inward again. She was pulled abruptly from that introspection by the sound of his voice calling her name.

"Catherine?"

"Yes... I... I don't know what it is, Vincent." She shook her head to clear the fog, then stared up at him intently, her eyes now imploring his." You have to tell me what it is, Vincent."

He took a deep breath before answering, and when the first words emerged they spilled out rapidly, then dwindled to a stammering halt. "You're suppressing dreams about us, Catherine, about you... and me."

Speechless, she stared at him, the only sign that she understood what he said in the flush that suddenly appeared on her throat, moving upwards rapidly. He watched, unable to look away, as it tinged her chin, cheeks and forehead, noting bemusedly that at the end her ear lobes were a particularly bright shade of red. They actually looked as if they might be hot, and he clasped his hands together tight as an almost irresistible urge came over him to reach out and touch one to see if it was true. He felt warm himself suddenly, and wondered if she saw the same flush in his own cheeks now. Her mouth opened several times to speak, but each time she stopped, as if uncertain what to say next, or perhaps reluctant to say anything at all. When she finally did, he was surprised by her words.

"How do you know that, Vincent?"

He had imagined her initial response in several ways, but this had not been one of them. Taken aback, it took a few moments for him to frame his answer in turn, and while he did so, she elaborated on her question.

"You said I wasn't dreaming at all, that my subconscious was disrupting the REM cycle. If that's true, how could you know anything about these non-existent dreams?"

The feeling of heat increased, and that, along with a flicker of her eyes, told him that he had been right a minute ago, though that response had only just become noticeable to her now. Before he could speak, she supplied the answer to that question herself.

"The bond. The bond told you, didn't it?"

He nodded, still silent, their eyes locked. Finally he found his voice. "I watched you through several REM cycles, but even the bond couldn't sense anything in that instant, between waking and dreams. I could see it happen,

I could feel... something. But it happened so fast...impossible to tell what it was, not like that..." His words tapered off to a barely audible whisper.

"Then how?"

Her words were terse and clipped, and he realized that she was barely holding on to her own control now. Through the bond he clearly felt her discomfort and dismay. Reaching out, he took her hands once more, hoping his touch would reassure her, worried that it might do just the opposite. Her fingers trembled, but he sighed with relief when they curled around his own to grasp them tight.

"I used the bond in a different way. Just as I began to see motion beneath your eyelids, I focused it, opened it. I'm not sure how to describe what I did - I don't really understand it myself. Whatever it was, though, it worked.

"How?" she repeated insistently.

"It held back your subconscious, at least long enough for me to see your dream begin."

"See?" she asked, her brow furrowed with confusion.

"See, sense, I don't know, Catherine, but however it works, it was enough, just a glimpse, but enough to know."

"What did you see?"

The heat in his face flared again, but he held her gaze, despite his own growing distress. "A light... bright, diffuse, almost as if it came through a fog. Two figures were in it, hazy, almost indistinct. They were kissing..."

He said the last word reluctantly, his eyes dropping down to examine her hands in his. She was silent for a moment, and so too, now, was their bond. Finally, unable to resist, he looked back up at her, needing to know what she was thinking about all of this.

Her face was a frozen mask, expressionless. "Then what?" she asked, her voice as neutral as her face.

"Nothing."

She cocked her head quizzically at him and he went on.

"Your subconscious is very strong, Catherine. I lost control of the bond and it reasserted itself. You almost woke, like all the times before."

She stared at him for a few minutes longer, before speaking again.

"Vincent," she began hesitantly, "why are you so certain about this? It doesn't seem like there was enough time for you to really tell anything at all. You even said the figures were indistinct..."

"It was you and I, Catherine," he said, interrupting her words mid-sentence. "Believe me, I know."

She stared up at him and there was no doubt in his eyes, none at all, though she easily read the trepidation and fear there.

"How?" she repeated yet again, "Why?"

"I know it was us, Catherine. After all this time do you think I could mistake my sense of you through our bond? Do you think I could feel...that... from you, and not know?" He shook his head, dismissing the question out of hand. "It was us, and it was obvious to me, in that instant, that some deep part of you was watching over your dreams, cutting them off before the bond... Before I could sense them."

The last sentence was spoken in low tones, and she easily read his reluctance to disclose such a thing to her. She thought over what he'd said, trying to look at the situation objectively. No matter how she did, though, her analysis always fell short.

"Vincent, what do we do now? I'm not doing too good a job, that's apparent. If you can't, if the bond..." Her voice trailed off, and in her eyes he finally saw a growing concern to match his own.

"Knowing is the first step, Catherine. We'll find a way," he said, pressing her fingers tight. "We will."

"How?"

"The bond," he replied, as calmly as possible, though the blood was rushing in his ears and his heart pounded painfully fast now. It took all his strength to keep his growing distress from her.

"The bond?" she repeated dully. "Vincent, you just said the bond didn't work, that my subconscious was... stronger than it." She winced at those last words, and so did he. Even imagining that their bond had a weakness made them both intensely uncomfortable. Neither had ever considered that possibility.

"It wasn't the bond that was weak, Catherine. It was me," he whispered bleakly.

The controlled expression she'd fought so hard for during the last few minutes of their discussion began to dissolve. Tears filled her eyes and blinking hard, she struggled mightily not to let them fall. Her lower lip quivered. He didn't need to explain any further.

Hadn't she known all along how painful this was for him? How painful it would be to be exposed to these particular emotions from her? They were so raw, so overwhelming. She didn't know how she'd lived with them herself for so long. As that thought swept through her, she could contain them no longer, glistening tears falling from darkened lashes to trickle slowly down her cheeks. "I'm sorry, Vincent, I'm so sorry. I never wanted to cause you pain..."

A sob welled up in her throat and desperate not to expose him to more, she drew her legs up to her chest, pulled her hands away from his and wrapped them around her knees, leaning forward upon them to stifle the sounds trying so hard to escape. Her hair curtained her face, and even in the midst of an almost overwhelming sorrow, she suddenly pictured Vincent, head ducked to hide behind a cascade of glorious, golden hair. How often had she seen him do that? Anger, shame, even humor, he hid so many emotions from her, afraid she herself would be frightened, or repulsed... It made her cry all the harder. The mattress sank beside her, and suddenly Vincent's arms were around her, holding her tight, as he rocked her gently against his chest.

"It's all right, Catherine, it's all right."

She pressed her fingers hard against her mouth, but there was no stopping it now, and she turned to bury her face against his quilted vest. Her fingers clutched convulsively at the leather laces and she shook with the force of her loosed emotions.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." She couldn't stop saying it, the repetitive whisper almost hypnotic, like a chant.

"Don't, Catherine, please don't."

The choked sound of his voice caught her up short, her sobs stopped with an abrupt hiccup. Looking up, she found him crying too. He pulled her back against his chest and pressed his cheek to the top of her head.

"It's my fault, mine. You were never meant for this, not you..."

She let go of his vest and wrapped her arms around him, holding him with a tight, fierce grip. That she should be the cause of this! Hadn't he had enough pain in his life? To bring him more... It was almost more than she could bear. She wanted so badly to soothe him, protect him, love him. Even in the midst of this maelstrom, she wanted to kiss his tears away and pull him down to the warm bed beneath them, to love him until they were utterly exhausted, the pain of this moment forgotten entirely.

At that thought reality struck her like a douse of cold water. To be imagining that now, when he so badly needed her help to control this situation! What was wrong with her?! She clamped down hard on her emotions and willed her arms to loosen their grip about him, just a bit. It hurt, physically hurt to do it, and when finally she succeeded, she was exhausted, too tired to cry any more, too tired to even open her eyes. Unaware that she was doing it, her hands moved gently along the long, muscled planes of his back, soothing him even as she fell into the peaceful darkness of sleep. 

Vincent continued to rock lightly, the motion barely perceptible, holding her to him. Tiny shivers trickled down his spine whenever her fingers touched that sensitive area he couldn't quite reach, at the very center of his back, about eight inches down from the nape of his neck. Though his range of motion was amazingly wide for a body so heavily muscled, this was one spot that was just impossible for him. Whenever he bathed, it got his first attention, with the help of a small protrusion of rock at just the right heightto the left of the first step into the pool he shared with Father. There was no bench in this particular spot, and when he stood pressed flat against the wall, that smooth bump nestled into the unreachable indent of his spine. Rubbing furiously against that outgrowth seemed to do the final job, along with the warmth of the chest-high water, at draining away the tensions of the day. But her touch was so much lighter, so tender and gentle. It was barely a teasing sense of touch through the numerous layers of his clothing, so much so that he wouldn't have anticipated any response at all to such a thing. He was wrong. The effect was devastating. A rumbling growl, so low it was almost inaudible, vibrated through his chest, and with his next exhaled breath came a purring sound. A startled gasp escaped him, and the sound disappeared abruptly, much to his relief.

Tentatively he lowered his cheek to the top of her head once more, this time more warily watchful for any uncontained responses, prepared to clamp down instantly should such a thing occur again. Her hair was so silky, so soft and warm. He turned to nuzzle it more fully, drawn, as he always was, to the delicate scent that was hers alone. She was so tired, and he felt so helpless. He gathered her closer, his emotional, physical and mental state on high alert as he held her protectively, guarding over her sleep, fervently hoping that it would continue on. A moment later, though, when a tingling frisson shuddered through him, he recognized it instantly as what he'd felt from her the night before. He knew what would follow, and without hesitation, without conscious thought, he focused the bond where it needed to be.

Had he been pressed just then to describe how he'd done it, and exactly where that spot was, he would have been incapable of answering. There was no understanding the bond on a conscious level, it simply was, and somewhere, deep inside them both, they responded to it on a primal, instinctive level. He was much more adept at it and he knew why. Catherine thought she did, too, but she was wrong. He preferred that she continue to believe as she did; that the bond originated with him and was thus attuned and directed by him. He had never found the courage to tell her how false this assumption was. He knew the bond didn't emanate from him, that it sprung from neither separately, but instead from the two of them together, a single entity, as it were. And the two shall be as one... The liturgical line whispered through him. Though formalized religion did not exist below as it did above, at least not in the institutional sense, he had studied the bible from a historical context, as he had most of the other revered documents of the world's most followed faiths. There was some beautiful imagery there - he was especially fond of the Song of Solomon. But that thought was a mere whisper, drifting away on the breeze. The bond demanded his full attention now. He knew that he felt the workings of it more strongly than did Catherine, and was sure his heightened awareness of it was due to the closer proximity of his primal nature to his acculturated consciousness. Day and night, light and dark, they were never far apart in him, no matter how much he struggled against it.

Now that darker side, the one who knew the night, played to his strength, finely manipulating the bond as a fisherman casts his line, unerringly hitting his mark, just as he'd intended. The shivering sensation grew, like rings expanding in a pond from a dropped stone, widening the rent in the fabric of reality until their bond held it away and apart. A warmth filled him, and the light followed, just as before, hazy and dim. The sensation of encompassing pleasure washed through him first, and then, an instant later, the image appeared, two figures kissing, their separate forms blurred as one. The light grew, but strangely enough so did his perception of the figures within, and with that increased awareness came heightened sensations. So sweet, so warm, the silky softness of her in his arms, the tender caress of her lips on his... Oh, Catherine...

They were almost unbearable, these feelings. It was him, and yet not. He saw the image and responded as though those touches were indeed upon him, but at the same time he stood apart, separate, an observer, keeping his conscious emotions in check with an iron grip, all of his control needed to hold her sub-conscious back and thus allow this vision to proceed. To sink into those emotions, as everything within him was crying out to do, would be the end of the dream. He knew that with a grim certainty. But this... How long could he possibly do this? How long could he endure the physical sensations bombarding him while yet maintaining the emotional control needed to hold the bond tight to this very specific point?

The light flared for a moment, and he shut his mind against the brightness in a wincing, instinctive response. He would have sworn it was actually a blinding light, and his eyes which had closed, but of course it was no such thing. His muscles tightened with the effort it took to maintain control of the bond under that onslaught, but somehow he did it. An instant later the flare subsided and he carefully opened to the vision once more. The figures were now clearer and he was able to confirm by sight what he had known all along by feel - it was he and Catherine. And though he'd had no sense of this before, he saw now that they were naked. That sight was like a blow, his flesh tingling all over as the dream image sank into him. His dream self held her so close, pressed tight along his full length. He saw his arms surrounding her and though he'd never felt it, could imagine all too well the sensation of his forearm resting along her naked spine, his hand cupping the nape of her neck beneath the silky fall of hair. He saw his fingers move and knew the caress of them upon her tender skin. His other hand was hidden from his sight at this angle, that arm rapped around her waist to disappear on the far side of the vision. But at that moment, as if the very thought of it had brought it into focus, his hand appeared, sliding across her waist into view, then dipping down to stroke the fullness of her hip, sliding lower to cup and hold her. He felt a tightening in the muscles of his own arm, and watched her rise up on her toes as he pulled her closer, to nestle against that most sensitive part of himself which he had always kept from her. The dream Vincent had no qualms, and though the tight press of their bodies gave him no visual clue, he felt his body respond viscerally. Heat spread through his groin and his erection surged abruptly to press painfully against the tight constraints of his clothing. He shook in response, groaning weakly, and the bond wavered. A little more, just a little more, some part of him whispered urgently. A test, a challenge. He brought the considerable strength of his mental focus to bear, trying desperately to dissociate himself from the dream figures. The trembling in the bond eased, and he growled low in triumph, the response completely instinctive.

That Herculean task done, the image caught him once more, and he whispered a fervent prayer of thanks that he had made that effort, for the physical sensations besieging him now would certainly have been his undoing were it not for the emotional strength he had gained in that endeavor. He watched, unable to do otherwise, and felt the corresponding nuances of response in his own body. The extreme control he had exerted over himself during the course of the last twenty years, ever since Lisa, had been sufficient to maintain an emotional separation from the physical demands of his body. The disastrous impact Lisa had had on his vulnerable teenage psyche enabled him, however, to endure those periodic physical demands with a stoic resolve, giving in to them when he could contain the need no longer, but without allowing an emotional tie which would give it more significance than he could live with. That had all changed when Catherine entered his life. With her coming, and the formation of the bond, he found it impossible to separate his emotional and physical responses for her. The only way he could deal with it was to suppress the physical altogether, and this he had done, through a will that was specific to his own unique makeup. But now... Now the bond conspired to merge those two, and he had a dreadful fear that it was stronger than he was, stronger than he and Catherine both.

He shuddered, gripping the wildly fluctuating fabric of their bond with all his strength as the physical sensations observed in her dream washed over his body. With his mental focus entirely on the task at hand, his emotional and physical response was completely ungovernable. He was so open to the onslaught, so completely vulnerable. Never had he felt the full demands of sexual need as he did in this moment, when it was impossible to shunt them aside at their early stages. The response of his body frightened him. This was how he felt in the aftermath of the rages; weak and trembling with violent shudders, guilt, disgust and dismay vying with some primal sense of hunger satisfied. Only it wasn't the aftermath, and this was so much worse. Now the sensations coursed through him and he couldn't stop them, not without failing at his objective. He had to endure them as they happened. With the rages his conscious mind retreated, leaving him gratefully ignorant of the details of that dark time. He paid the price afterwards, but there was some consolation in seeing only so much of that primitive creature, and no more. That was no longer true.

In the chaotic haze of the moment, reality and dreams had become one. When Catherine, blissfully asleep in his arms and engulfed willingly in the dream, shifted slightly, her hip brushed his throbbing erection and he moaned loudly, the contact completely unexpected. She rested flush against his chest now, her arms wrapped around his back, and somehow, though he knew it couldn't truly be, he felt the taut press of her nipples against his bare flesh, the juxtaposition of his dream and waking self merging to one. Her hand slipped from behind his back, and for a moment relief filled him, but only for a moment. Thinking that her sleeping hold was losing its strength, he was completely unprepared for the tender caress of her hand down his belly and over his pulsing erection. It surged strongly under her palm, through the taut fabric of his trousers, and a growling groan rolled upwards through his chest and throat, to emerge between teeth held tightly clamped. Too much, it was too much...

That thought was cut off abruptly as the sensations spiraled out of control. The growl grew to a rushing roar as his body lost the struggle, climaxing in a fiercely explosive burst. The pleasure was savage in its intensity, and within that blissfully demanding haze all control disappeared. He wasn't aware of the reassertion of her sub-conscious mind as the wildly intense emotions wrung from him a heavy toll, gladly paid. He wasn't aware that he clutched her to him with a desperate strength as his orgasm played out, long and hard, extended by the knowing strokes of her fingers over his convulsing, enclosed flesh. When it finally ended, he collapsed against her, enfolded once more in her loving embrace.

********
There was nothing at first, nothing but warm contentment. Shielded in comforting darkness, he rested. Gradually the muted haze lifted and sensations crept in, only tactile at first; a softness against his cheek and under his palm that drew him with an irresistible force. Sometime after that - impossible to know exactly how long - sound followed; a tapping rhythm that slowly began to resolve itself from random raps to staccato tidings, dim and distant, but familiar and reassuring nonetheless. And there was something else, some mixture of sound and touch, like white-noise in the background of his thoughts. It was comforting too, a low-pitched hum that reverberated through him, a deep, almost silent rumble that made his chest feel as though it were glowing. It was lovely.

He sighed in satisfaction, nestling deeper into the sensual cocoon of his surroundings. The soft warmth beneath his chest shifted slightly and suddenly it had form; soft and slender, with tantalizing curves that teased at the edges of his consciousness. Exploring fingers traced tender hills and valleys to cup a fullness that was both pliant and firm. A harder texture at the center drew his attentions. Light, petting strokes evolved to a stronger, kneading caress, and the small tip grew more rigid until it strained between his finger and thumb. A moaning sigh whispered somewhere above him and he turned to nuzzle the curved length near his cheek, instinctively seeking out the source of that sound. Heated blood. He could feel it. He could smell it. He stroked upward with the downy fur of his nose, then down, shivering as that sensitive coating was pressed against the grain. Another moan vibrated at the base of that luscious arch and his lips rubbed lightly upon the quivering, silky texture, moving slowly upward once more, this time along the pulsing beat of thick blood. It throbbed just below the surface, calling out to him, demanding and strong. Resistance never entered his mind; he opened his mouth to encompass the slender column. Sharp incisors gripped and held with tender tenacity as his tongue traced the heated path within that confine with mindless abandon. The sound he sought shifted. It was softer now, but somehow more insistent, a mewling whimper that demanded more of him. The rumbling in his chest grew to a bolder growl in response, a sense of satisfaction filling him, primal and deep.

"Oh, Vincent..."

The words echoed through him, vibrating outward from his heart to warm him everywhere. Hot blood pounded through his veins and his muscles tensed, his erection surging strongly, thick and hard, tender flesh hypersensitive to the harsh abrasion of the fabric pressed tight to it.

"Oh, Vincent, Vincent..."

Still a low whisper, but breathier now, and growing in urgency. He responded instinctively, without thought; "Catherine..." he murmured with a groaning sigh, answering her call. The tender tip was so tight. He felt a throbbing emanating from that place, and knew it was her own, communicated through their bond. His stroking fingers massaged more firmly now, and she moaned loudly, the sound erupting through the foggy haze surrounding him. He froze. Reality congealed around him and he found himself half sitting and half lying on the bed. His chest rested on top and alongside hers, and his lips were pressed to her throat, his hand upon her breast.

The change was instantaneous as he moved from drowsy languor to full awareness. With a gasping groan he flung himself away from her to stand trembling on the other side of the chamber, his back pressed tight to the cold stone. He stared at her recumbent form in horrified dread. She was asleep. The covers were pooled about her waist and the angora wrap was open, her silk- enclosed torso fully exposed, the firm points of her breasts lifting the delicate fabric and hardening even more as the cool tunnel air swept across her. He couldn't contain the growl that churned in his chest and throat, turning abruptly to press his hands upon the hard rock, uncertain if it was distress or desire that had caused it. A harsh panting filled the chamber, and he was completely helpless to stop it. This was how he felt in the aftermath of the rages; weak and trembling with violent shudders, guilt, disgust and dismay vying with some primal sense of hunger satisfied. When lost within the rages, his conscious mind retreated, leaving him gratefully ignorant of the details of those dark times. He paid the price afterwards, but there was some consolation in seeing only so much of that primitive creature, and no more. That was no longer true. All of it was so clear, even now, the images and sensations with him still, just as he'd experienced them minutes ago. His response to her had been wildly out of control, but he couldn't fool himself into believing that someone else, something else, something not him, had been the cause, not this time. Worst of all, this unforgivable, despicable behavior had occurred when she needed him most, when she desperately needed his help...

He groaned weakly as a dizzying wave shivered through him, blurring his vision. He passed a hand across his eyes and it cleared somewhat, though the light-headed feeling remained, along with a growing self-loathing that made him feel nauseous. His body was still aching and hard, and he glanced behind himself to the bed once more, assuring himself that she was still asleep, before grabbing his cloak from over the chair back and swinging it across his trembling shoulders. He moved to the chamber exit quickly, but paused there, then finally turned and made his way back to the bed to tug the quilts around her neck, insulating her from the chilly air. For a moment he couldn't take his hand away from where it rested, upon her shoulder near the delicate curve of her neck. He stared at the amber roughness and taloned-tipped nails against the contrasting milky whiteness of her throat. A motion caught his eye, a quivering pulse of blood, throbbing along the artery. He swallowed hard. Suddenly the scent of that spot was strong in his nostrils, the taste of it plain on his tongue. He remembered it so clearly. With a muffled groan he tore himself away from her and left the chamber.

It took less than twenty seconds for Vincent's long legged-stride to cover the thirty-yard distance between his chamber and the bathing quarters he shared with Father. Once there he flung his cloak across a series of three boulders whose top surfaces had been carved down to smooth, flat shelves of various heights for sitting. With hands that shook, he removed the leather pouch containing Catherine's rose, wrapped the attached thong around it for safety and set it aside on the rough-hewn ledge that ran along the walkway of the room, behind the stones. His movements were clumsy and chaotic - not at all typical of the grace which usually defined him. Next came his clothes, which were removed quickly and tossed without pause into the waiting wicker basket sitting on the floor along one side of the chamber. He didn't bother with the spiralling set of step benches which led into the warm pool, instead stepping off to the left of the first bench to drop smoothly into the four-and-a-half-foot depths with barely a splash. His knees bent upon contact with the rocky floor, absorbing what little impact there was, until he disappeared entirely beneath the water's surface.

Two minutes passed, and the ripples marking the surface at his entrance disappeared as if they'd never existed. A full third minute advanced in utter stillness. Only after the fourth minute was well nigh complete did he reappear once more, his head breaking the water and causing flickering shadows, reflected from the torch-lit flame, to dance across the rocky walls and now-wavering pool surface. Pushing the dripping wet strands of darkened gold back from his face, he sighed, no extra oxygen required to compensate for that four- minute interval without, a testament to the unique nature and power of his respiratory system. To just the left of where he stood was the familiar protrusion of rock, and with a smooth, auto-reflexive movement, he turned and stepped backward to press against the wall, the bump finding its way into the indent of his spine with meticulous precision.

A sigh escaped him at that touch, and he was still for just a moment before beginning to rub feverishly against it, but the expected effect didn't materialize. His head fell back to the wall and a growl of frustration escaped his throat. The tension filling him had not abated. Reaching out, he slid his hands along the curved rock wall of the bathing pool until his arms were spread wide, down low. Even through the buffering layer of water, he heard the screech of his nails on the rock as his hands dug into it, finding purchase in the almost non-existent nooks and crannies there.

The last few hours - or had it been mere minutes? - represented a dramatic shift for him, both in terms of his relationship with Catherine, and in his own historical view of himself. It was Catherine who was the driving force behind these changes, that was no surprise, but his response, his growing lack of control, certainly was. Always he'd had sufficient strength to maintain that control, before Catherine, and even since, though it had become much, much harder to do. True, his rages when she needed protection were more severe, more primal than he'd ever experienced in the years before he'd found her, during the various incidents when the tunnels, his home and family, were threatened, but the bond had to be responsible for that, or so he'd always thought. It wasn't that he questioned that now, but there was another element impossible to ignore on the heels of these recent, revealing events, and that was the undeniable sexual component present during those rages, whenever her life was at stake. Anything, he would do anything to protect her from harm, to keep her safe and with him, because without her, life wouldn't be worth living, in fact he doubted that it would be possible for him at all now. He needed her for his very survival. He needed her...

He swallowed hard, nails digging in to the hard stone until it hurt. It was impossible to ignore the white hot heat of his erection as it strained between his thighs, the heaviness beneath blissfully cradled by the warm, buoyant water. Enduring his sleeping dreams of her was bad enough, but to have to do so now, in full conscious awareness, was torture. Never had he been so aware of the demands of his body, never had he been so woefully inadequate at containing those demands, and denying their existence.

Another growl rumbled through his chest. The tight tendons of his neck vibrated with the sound as it echoed about him, bouncing off the shimmering surface of the water to fill the space above with an eerie, rolling resonance, like distant thunder. He shook his head wildly, as if to clear it, just as his hands broke the surface of the water to reach up and back, grabbing the edge of the pool, his arms still spread wide, but this time just above shoulder level. His fingers flexed with tension and the nails extended and retracted with a rhythmic pulse that matched that of the blood throbbing through him, beating in his neck, his chest, his rigid sex...
The growl erupted again, this time louder. It reverberated through the bones of his clenched jaw, sending a shuddering wave down the length of him until it gathered at his groin, where all his attention was now helplessly centered. The shrill shriek of nails on rock was louder too, without the water to mute it, and he cringed, the high-pitched sound ringing in his inner ears and sending a second wave slithering down to join the first. His throbbing erection surged in response, hot and hard, drawing a moan from deep in his chest. Must stop it, stop it now, he thought with desperation, bending all his will toward that inner spot where control waited, where he had always found and harnessed it in the past.

It was there still, but somehow out of reach. He growled again, his frustration now directed at that failure. Spinning abruptly, he faced the wall and spread his arms out wide once more, again grasping the edge of the pool, his forehead now pressed to the cold stone, willing the heat from him and into the rock, just as he had in his chamber earlier this day, with Father. He had been successful in draining the building anger then, but this was not anger filling him now, and the image of Catherine in his mind would not, could not be eliminated. He moaned again and swayed forward dizzily, the moan turning to a groaning growl as his rigid penis brushed against the hard rock. He pulled his hips back quickly, but his flesh burned, so sensitized that any touch at all throbbed through its length to vibrate in the pendant weight at the base. The water surrounding him was a warm caress and in his mind the silky stream became Catherine's tender fingers, stroking him, loving him...

That was enough. The tension in his groin condensed to a single point, at the base of his pulsing erection, then suddenly expanded outward in an inferno of blazing heat. Throwing back his head the growls built to a rushing roar, a crescendo of sound that surrounded him entirely, vibrating through the bond in culminating waves to dash against his convulsing body, over and over again.

*********

Catherine came fully awake in an instant, startled from her restless slumber. She found herself sitting upright in Vincent's bed, wondering what had wakened her so abruptly. The chamber looked as it had before she'd fallen asleep, except that Vincent was nowhere in sight. She laid back down again, confusion furrowing her brow. The conversation they'd had was clear in her mind. She remembered him telling her about short-circuited REM cycles and suppressed dreams. She remembered the growing sense of anxiety filling her as he spoke, when she realized that he was aware of her desire for him, of how she had tried to hide it from him, and how that pained him. She remembered how she'd wept then, how she hadn't been able to stop, and how he'd held her, comforting her. She remembered nothing else.

How much time had passed, and where was Vincent now? The dull emptiness that had grown to feel normal over the course of the last week or so was curiously changed now, but in a way that she couldn't quite define. Before she had felt lethargic and slow, as if she were a hand-wound clock that was running down to its final ticks, time distorted beyond normal recognition. Now she still felt restless, but no longer lethargic or apathetic. The restlessness of her sleep was with her still, a sense of something on the edge, of a waiting precipice or abyss, somewhere just out of sight. It was that and yet more, but she couldn't find the words to articulate it, not even to herself, and finally she let it go, relaxing back to the warm blankets and the heavenly scent of him that permeated the chamber, especially here, in his bed.

It should have been a blissful escape, one she was granted all too seldom, but instead she couldn't keep her thoughts from straying to their last conversation. He blamed himself, just as she always knew he would. Hadn't she always known that this was something to be kept from him? Yes, she had. A guilt-laced tingle quivered through her at that thought. She would sacrifice her own life to protect him, do anything at all, give everything for him, but what she had done hadn't been for him alone. She'd been protecting herself, too. Was that really so terrible, when the result was the same, and just as necessary as if it had been done in his name alone? She knew him so well. He would stop at nothing to protect her, just as she would him, only he was stronger than she was. He would sacrifice not only his life, but his happiness as well, and hers in the bargain, though he was convinced it was both her life and happiness he guarded. He was so wrong, but so stubborn. She didn't know how to reach him on this delicate issue. How could she convince him of what she knew when he refused to even discuss the matter. Impossible! And though she often danced around the issue, even in her own mind, now there was no escaping what it was that had put their joint happiness in such jeopardy. Sex. Sex, sex, sex, sex, sex! How was it possible that such a thing, such a little thing in the whole scheme of things, could cause such chaos and tumult in their lives? No...

No. It wasn't such a little thing, she knew that. It was a very important thing. She wanted to share this with him so badly, not just to have it for herself - though she couldn't deny that she wanted it, wanted it very much indeed - but she wanted to give this gift to him, something he'd never had, and still thought was beyond his reach. Something that would give him a pleasure he couldn't even begin to imagine. She wanted that for him, and, she thought guiltily, she wanted to be the one to provide it, to watch his face dissolve in ecstasy, all from the touch of her hands, her mouth, her body. She wanted to bring that pleasure to him, and feel the joyful relief, watch it in his face, live it with him...

She sighed and shook her head, trying to clear it from the foggy haze which had so quickly encompassed her at the thought of them together like that, trying to regain the logical thought process which she'd started with. Did she want it? she repeated the question to herself, this time in a stern way, as if she were reviewing a legal brief in search of the hidden truth, determined to seek justice by ignoring no sides of the issue. Yes, she wanted it, she admitted with a cold, hard honesty, and yet, as much as she did, she would forego and forswear it all, if the alternative was to have nothing of him at all. She could exist without some things between them, but she couldn't, absolutely couldn't, exist without him in her life. But oh...

She closed her eyes and sighed again, willing an image of him to come to her, consciously giving herself permission, just this once, to indulge again in the fantasy visions of him which had so obsessed her during the last year. Nothing. She frowned, lines of tension appearing in her face.

"Catherine?"

With a gasp she bolted upright in the bed, her eyes flying open to take in the sight of Vincent standing in the chamber entrance. His cloak was wrapped around him in an odd way. She scanned him from head to toe, first noting the wet hair, then the tense posture hidden beneath the enveloping fabric, and finally the fleeting glimpse of a bare shin between the hem of his ebony black covering and the beginning of his fur-topped boots. Her eyes widened as realization swept through her. Vincent had just finished bathing. Vincent was naked under his cloak...

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