Death hurt. 

Was that even possible? No, she’d hurt before, knew pain, physical and emotional, and knew that it was, as incongruous as that may seem, a sign you were alive. The injuries that didn’t hurt were the ones to look out for; they were the ones that were most serious. (Drowning in mere inches of stagnant water in the Master’s lair, only his bite hurt, everything else hadn’t. Opening her eyes to see Angel, looking down at her with fear and love in his dark eyes, and everything had felt fine.) 

So, if she was in pain then that meant she wasn’t dead that she was alive; that was a plus. Buffy moved her head; eyes still closed and rethought that last statement. 

Man, everything hurt. Everything. What had happened to cause every muscle, bone, joint, and nerve ending to throb in pain like this?

Taking a deep breath, Buffy choked on the air. It was hot and thick, nearly suffocating in its presence, settling heavily over her. Her thin top stuck to her skin, and Buffy desperately wanted to remove it, to strip in the intense heat that blanketed the air, the very fiber of the land. She felt like she was drowning in the air, there was so much moisture and that was strange because California wasn’t known for its humidity. 

Oh, never mind. Fuck, she remembered now. 

She’d failed. 

Moaning more in emotional pain now than physical, Buffy tried shallow breaths and attempted to block the last scenes out of her mind as they bombarded her over and over again. Too late, the images wouldn’t stop so, in a vain attempt to get them to, she opened her eyes. And immediately realized her mistake; there, sitting right next to her in the biggest bed Buffy had ever seen, sat a seemingly content Drusilla. 

Even awake her nightmare wouldn’t stop. 

“Oh, you’re awake, dearie. Daddy’ll be so very pleased, he’s looking forward to you, you know.” Eyes dancing with delight, Dru leaned closer as Buffy leaned further back against the mattress. Everything was proceeding as she had seen, everything was working out just as her daddy wanted things to, and she couldn’t have been happier. 

Daddy? Angelus? Oh, God, Buffy thought, she had failed; they were in Hell, Earth had been swallowed whole. Acathla had opened, Buffy remembered now; that stupid stone creature had opened, and she hadn’t been fast enough, hadn’t been quick or strong enough to ram that blessed sword (Kendra, so, so sorry for failing you, too) through Angelus (lover, demon), hadn’t been able to close the mouth to Hell. 

She needed to leave, Buffy thought as she frantically looked around the room, she had to escape; she couldn’t be here, not with Angelus, not trapped wherever she was. She had to get out and fight, she was needed out there; God, with so many people to protect, so many who had no idea what happened, she had to fight, she had to make right what she let happen. Buffy tried to breathe, but the air was so thick and hot, and she couldn’t take a deep enough breath. Her heart was racing and her blood was pumping through her veins, tears pooled in her eyes as the full realization of her situation settled on her and with that, the weight of the world fell squarely on her shoulders, crumpling her beneath that burden; and God, she couldn’t breathe! 

She had to get out, she had to fight, she had to, she had to… 

Buffy opened her mouth to say something, what she wasn’t sure, but anything was fine at the moment. Maybe she just wanted to scream, shout that she was sorry, that she tried, God, she’d tried, she tried not to love Angel; and she tried to kill his demon, but she couldn’t, and could she really be faulted for that, for loving someone so completely that even evil, even when the ultimate darkness inside them surfaced, she couldn’t stop that loving? 

Unfortunately, her mouth was too dry, the air was heavier, thicker, hotter with every passing moment, and nothing but an undignified squeak came out. She was more than a little discomforted to see Dru smiling at her in a cross between amazement and worship, but when the vampiress calmly reached to the side of the huge bed and pulled on a long rope, she was even more so. 

Dru reached to a bedside table and poured a glass of water from a pitcher Buffy hadn’t seen and handed it to the slayer. She continued looking at Buffy until the slayer took the cool glass from her, bestowing the blonde with a beatific smile when she did so. Numbly, Buffy took it, gulping the cool liquid down, her eyes never leaving the vampiress next to her. 

“What do you want?” Buffy asked, certainly in no real position to fight, not with this mysterious pain still throbbing through her and disorientation muddling her mind. Drusilla said nothing, and Buffy frowned at that. What happened to the death and destruction Dru had long spouted, what happened to wanting Buffy dead? And did the vampiress have to smile at her? It was freaking her out. 

Clutching the glass, and still too sore to move much, Buffy scooted to the middle of the bed, as far from Drusilla as she could manage and hoped that the brunette wouldn’t do anything to her. Despite her frantic thoughts to the contrary, Buffy could barely move, every breath was agony, every beat of her heart, and she was really in no position to fight her way out of…where was she? 

Taking the risk of turning her back on her enemy, Buffy tore her eyes away from Dru’s still smiling countenance. The slayer refused to admit that the loon looked beautiful when she wasn’t trying to kill her. Maybe she really had lost her mind… 

Buffy looked around the room, this time really seeing what was in front of her. It was huge, but then considering the bed she occupied, that shouldn’t have come as too much of a surprise. 

It was easily the size of two Sunnydale High libraries, probably more, with rich thick tapestries lining one wall, floor-to-ceiling windows against another, and a long leather couch and loveseat on the third. The floor was cut stone, area rugs covering portions of it; Buffy vaguely thought they were called Persian Carpets, but her numbed mind couldn’t remember, and she didn’t think the name of the rugs was significant anyway. 

The bed was in a far corner of the massive room. Now that Buffy really looked at it, she noticed that it was a four-poster with heavy midnight blue curtains tied back and matching blue sheets. 

“Half the junior class could fit in here,” she muttered to herself. But the bed really was large. 

Running a hand absently over the material of the sheets, Buffy noted the smoothness, the softness. Silk? She had only ever felt the sheets of such fine material once, in Angel’s bed… 

Don’t go there, Buffy ordered herself. She focused her breathing, like Giles taught her, and forced her eyes to take in the rest of the room. 

The large windows that banked one wall let in a red-gold light that didn’t look like any sunrise Buffy had ever seen. Intrigued, Buffy wanted to wander closer, wanted to see what caused that light. What kind of hell she’d allowed (her fault, all her fault) to be brought to Earth. Closing her eyes for a brief second Buffy envisioned hoards of creatures roaming the town below, destroying all traces of human civilization, and demons tearing apart the hapless humans across a fiery land. 

Snapping her eyes open, Buffy tried desperately to banish those thoughts. 

There was a balcony beyond the windows, Buffy could just make out; a long rail running about waist length across the stone construct. She was drawn to it, wanting to look over and see if her imaginings were real, if her greatest nightmare had come to life, and if she was the instrument that brought all this about. Because of her weakness, because she couldn’t kill her lover (demon), because she couldn’t kill the demon (lover) who wore Angel’s, her sweet loving Angel’s, face. 

In that moment, Buffy thanked whatever God still looked down on this Earth. Thanked that god or goddess or all-knowing deity for not letting Angel see just what a disappointment she was. How powerless Buffy was in stopping that which she herself brought forth. Angelus. 

Turning abruptly to the rest of the room, Buffy tried to get the layout of the place and noted there were several other doors. One was out, Buffy surmised, one was to a bathroom she hoped, but the other two she didn’t know. Just as she decided to stand on legs that protested, and explore, needing to know what her prison looked like, needing to know how she could escape, someone entered the room. Well, that was one question down. The door on the far end of the room – at least a league away, the place was that big – led out. 

Scooting to the edge of the bed, Buffy ignored the scent that stirred when she moved (Angelus’ addicting scent wafted up to her, causing Buffy’s insides to clench in a mixture of need and fear; sometime during her slumber, he’d lain with her, held her, and she knew it; knew it because she’d felt safe and comforted in his arms) across the sheets and tried to stand. She was still tired and weak, but determined. She was the slayer, she needed to get out of here, wherever here was, and fight. 

She had to find her mom, her friends, Giles. With Kendra dead, there was another slayer called, and Buffy had to find her, too. She had to organize the fight against Angelus (lover, demon, safety, comfort), and try to find a way to undo that which she’d had a hand in doing. 

Dru caught Buffy’s arm just as the slayer’s feet landed on the blessedly cool stone floor, and forcibly led her towards another door. A door on the opposite end of the room from the way out. 

“This way, my little star,” the mad vampiress said.  Dru knew what Buffy wanted to do, what she thought she could do, and wasn’t about to let that happen. Daddy entrusted her with the care of his Queen, his Goddess, and Dru intended to see to that. 

“Lydia,” Dru instructed to the newcomer, “Draw a bath and lay out clothes for mummy to wear.” The other vampiress, shorter than Dru, obviously weaker, a fledgling probably no older than a decade Buffy figured, obeyed immediately. Lydia she could take, Buffy knew; Dru was a different story but Buffy was confident in her abilities. 

Once the world stopped spinning and her head stopped pounding that was. And maybe her legs supported her without the aid of Drusilla. But damn, she couldn’t afford any weakness, not any more. She used up her allotment for the year, and was now forced to face the consequences of that. Buffy the slayer had to finish what Buffy the woman could not. 

She had to kill Angelus. But would that stop the spread of Hell? Was it already too late? If she killed Angelus, assuming she could, would it do any good? 

Entering the bathroom, the door closest to the bed, Buffy could only stare in awe as her thoughts continued to whirl around and around. Wow, it was huge; at least the size of her house. 

A mirror took up an entire wall, hanging over a pair of deep sinks done in black marble with gold fixtures. A sunken tub was opposite the mirror, also done in black marble and big enough for a family. Or, Buffy amended as her mind flashed to the past months, as she remembered the notes and presents and signs she wasn’t quick enough to pick up on, she and Angelus. 

Desire pooled low in her belly, and Buffy fought the images Angelus so carefully planted in her mind of the two of them together. The drawings he’d left her (You are mine, my love) of passionate embraces the two of them could share. 

Absently playing with her ruby claddagh ring, as she often had since he’d given it to her (This binds us closer together, my darling. Wear it always.) Buffy looked at the rest of the room, desperate to take her mind off (passion desire need lover demon lover) Angelus. 

There was a shower stall in a corner, opposite the toilet and again it was huge. The lighting was bright, a direct contrast to the reddish twilight that lay beyond the windows. Thick fluffy towels lay stacked on a shelf next to a wide array of bath salts, lotions, soaps, and shampoos. 

“Did hell have plumbing?” Buffy wondered, but wasn’t surprised when Drusilla didn’t answer. Lydia seemed mute, but that was okay, too. 

Well obviously hell had plumbing, the proof was staring right at her. But why, how? Was this for her, but then why…? (It was never about you.) 

Lydia drew the bath as Buffy stared at the immense bathroom, and now Dru was undressing her. Shrugging the vampiress’ hands off, Buffy glared at her and muttered, “I can undress myself.” 

Taking another deep breath, wondering how the heat wasn’t affecting her any longer, or not as much as it first had, Buffy tried to think. She couldn’t escape now; she was too exhausted, drained from the previous months and from her fight with Angelus. Whatever happened to him, whatever energies Acathla released, had drained her. Buffy shuddered to think what they did to him. 

But why should she care what they did to him? 

‘She doesn’t understand yet?’
‘Would you if you woke up to find yourself in a hell dimension of your lover’s making?’
‘No,’ he shook his head, a rueful smile on his face. ‘Probably not.’
‘Didn’t think so. Now let me get on with the story, kid. There’s still a lot to get through.’ 

Not thinking on that, (Have I hurt you, lover? Have I not let your pathetic friends live? Have I not let your mother live her oblivious life?) Buffy crossed escape was off the list. But she was so escaping as soon as she could, ornate bathroom or not. First she needed the layout of the place, she needed to know where she was, needed to know what happened to her friends and mother, what happened to the rest of the planet. And the only person who could answer all those questions was currently not here. 

She couldn’t stake Angelus until she knew the fate of her loved ones…and even then, Buffy doubted her ability to do so. 

So Buffy would bide her time, she’d bathe, as it was equally obvious the two vampiresses weren’t letting her out of this room without first getting her clean. Just as well, it’d been two days since she’d showered, what with the all night planning and staying out of the way of the police and the fighting with Angelus… 

Sinking gratefully into the lavender scented steaming water, Buffy closed her eyes and rested her head against the soft pillow, letting the scent slowly ease her headache. Her arms were braced on the sides, as her feet couldn’t find purchase in the long tub. She needed a little shelf thing there to stop her from slipping under; this was very uncomfortable. 

Not that she was sticking around to enjoy another bath in here.

She must have dosed, because the next thing Buffy felt was a cool hand on her face. Opening her eyes, she met the dark, captivating ones of Angelus. 

“Hello, lover.” 

A jumble of questions, accusations, pleas, confusion swarmed in her mind, but all Buffy could do was stare at him. He’d changed, she realized as she struggled to control her breathing again, changed since the last time she saw him – hours ago? She couldn’t tell, not with the perpetual red haze that hung outside; and she never wore a watch and didn’t think there was a calendar here. 

Angelus looked stronger, harder…different. His eyes were still dark, still that deep brown that drew her into him, but behind them, just beneath the surface, they swirled with something…else. 

Still silent, the slayer watched as he glided to the edge of the tub, watched as he stripped off his shirt and pants. Her senses told her three things; Angelus was definitely not a vampire any more, Dru and Lydia were gone, and her former lover was about to enter the immense tub with her. It was the last, unsurprisingly, that caused her the most alarm, though trying to categorize Angelus as he was now was a very close second. 

His beautiful marble body gleamed as he lowered himself into the still warm bath, taking up most of the space and making Buffy feel very small in comparison. His hairless chest was all hard muscle, and her fingers itched to touch him once again. She refused to look lower, but her traitorous mind’s eye could see the rest of his body. His toned thighs, the strong muscles that moved his body as he (Angel, God, I miss you, Angel) moved in and out of her. His manhood, the long turgid length that filled the slayer to nearly overflowing, that completed her. 

Buffy realized that her gaze, despite her feelings to the contrary, had, indeed, wandered to the water line, probing the smoky depths; and she wrenched her eyes back to Angelus’ face. His knowing smirk did nothing to ease her discomfort or her anger at herself, and Buffy made a move to get out of the tub. Trapped though she may be in this whatever, that didn’t mean she had to stay in the same space as her enemy (lover, mate). 

Angelus’ firm grasp on her arm stopped Buffy halfway out of the water, and she gasped with the power that single touch sparked. Again locking eyes with him, she clearly saw the swirling colors, the energies behind that gaze and wondered: What had happened to him? 

“Going somewhere?” He asked, but it was clear the only answer he expected was for her to return to the water. 

Buffy did so, reluctantly. She wanted to be nowhere near Angelus. Her mind screamed at her to leave, to take her chances and run, but if the last months taught her anything, it was to be cautious. Look what happened when she wasn’t. (I love you, my Angel I love you so much, I love all of you, so very much. I love you, mo cridhe, mo gràdh.) Plus, she was naked, and it would take time to dress, time Angelus wasn’t about to grant her. 

Swallowing, Buffy adopted a cool façade – one she’d perfected over the last months – and returned to the water, wishing she’d asked for a bubble bath instead. At least then the bubbles would cover her nudity, and she wouldn’t feel quite so disadvantaged. She was horribly mortified and wanted nothing more than to leave, to take her embarrassment and her fear and loathing and leave, wallow in it for whatever length of time she (fought to the death) had left. 

(Escape) her mind whispered, (Love) her heart whispered, leaving Buffy confused and just as adrift now as she was before hell came to the land. Angel was nowhere near her, and her heart ached for him. 

Unable to control the flash of self-hatred and loathing, of blame, Buffy lowered her eyes, admitting her weakness to her greatest enemy. She wasn’t sure she could survive another day of this, let alone however long Angelus let her live. 

“That’s better,” the demon approved, and picked up the soap, a spicy scent that tickled Buffy’s nose. “Now then,” he continued as he handed her the soap and a washcloth and waited, “As you wash me, I’ll explain the rules.” 

“Rules?” Buffy asked as she covered herself with her arms, refusing the offering in his hands, wondering how he could possibly punish her for that refusal when she had nothing left to lose. 

Pulling her arm from across her chest, Angelus admired her breasts as they floated in the water, and slapped the soap and washcloth in her hand. His fingers brushed one breast, lightly toying with her nipple until it hardened, and she pulled away, irritably soaping the cloth and glaring at him. Ah, but he loved how he affected her, loved how she responded to him and only him, how the lightest, gentlest of touches could arouse her. 

“Rules, lover,” he repeated and smirked. “Now wash me.” 

Buffy opened her mouth to refuse; it was on the tip of her tongue, her eyes sparked with green fire and her nostrils flared with her anger. Taking a breath, she prepared to tell Angelus just what he could do with his condescending command to ‘wash him’ and where he could shove the soap when she breathed in the scent of Hell. 

Defeated, Buffy closed her eyes against the tears that threatened and nodded. 

Amused, actually hoping that she had argued with him, Angelus stretched his arms out against the wall, long legs taking up most of the tub, and waited while Buffy arranged herself awkwardly. She’d been right; this tub was designed with the two of them in mind. A fierce blush colored her cheeks, one the demon knew wasn’t from the heat of either the bath or hell itself, and she gingerly picked up his leg, running the soft material over foot, calf, thigh, stopping very short of his growing erection to switch to the other leg. 

Angelus laughed, the sound causing Buffy to glance up from her work. She felt stupid, awkward and stupid, and incredibly naïve and young; and he was laughing at her. Great, her humiliation was complete. First he belittled her performance in bed, then he taunted her with gifts and flowers and jewelry, and now he laughed at her. Wonderful. This truly was her definition of hell. 

“Fuck you,” she snarled, and threw the washcloth in his face, the wet fabric slapping against him in a satisfying sound. Buffy scrambled out of the tub then, needing to get away from Angelus as quickly as possible. She didn’t care if she had to run outside naked, she was leaving. Survival was foremost in her mind, and to do that she needed to be as far away from there – and Angelus – as she could get. 

He grabbed her wet leg as she swung it over the side of the tub, his grip iron, unyielding. Buffy made the mistake of turning to look at him, his glowing eyes, his face set in an uncompromising frown. His large hands gripped her waist and pulled her back into the water, sloshing some onto the tile floor. His hand clamped on her shoulder, and he made sure her struggles stopped before he removed it. At her fierce scowl, an angry growl rumbling towards him, Angelus only smirked wider. 

“All of me, Buffy,” he said as he released her, satisfied that she wasn’t going to fight him further on this, and there was no mistaking the command in his voice. 

“I hate you,” she whispered, shocked when the words actually left her mouth. 

In a lightening quick move, Angelus gripped her upper arms, dragging her along his body until she straddled him, face to face, water lapping around them. She stared into those swirling colors that were his eyes and noted his fangs elongated but his face hadn’t changed, and wondered at it all. His erection throbbed against her, and Buffy hated that she felt a stirring low in her womb. 

“Don’t ever lie to me,” he hissed, “You don’t hate me…you hate that I’m not your precious Angel, so you can wrap me around your finger. Get over it. This is reality now, baby, and you have to deal. I don’t give a shit about your cause, your precious friends, or your pathetic family. There is only one thing on this miserable mud-ball of a planet that is worthy of my attention and stirs my passion, and that is you, my love.”  

His hand tightened in her hair, pulling her closer, and he rubbed his face along hers, cheek-to-cheek; sliding down to the crook of her neck like a big cat does when marking their territory. He breathed deeply, there, before placing a gentle kiss on the pulse beating in her neck. Buffy shivered at the contact, unconsciously arching to allow him greater access to her sensitive neck.  

Angel loved that spot, and Buffy loved the attention he lavished there. She’d wondered if she was the only slayer to enjoy a vampire kissing her neck; Angel laughed at that, assuring her that it didn’t matter. The look in his eyes told her of his love long before he spoke the words. She’d killed that look when she killed him. 

“I am Lord and Master here, Buffy,” Angelus smirked at her, at her reaction, at her situation. “I am god. I rule everything, and that includes you, my dear. You are mine as you have been from the first, and there is nothing and no one who can change that. There can only be one Dom between us lover, and it’s me. The sooner you accept that, the happier you’ll be.” 

With that he released her, his eyes boring into her. Though silent, she stared back at him in anger and defiance. Angelus smiled at that, enjoying her anger, and leaned back again and instructed, “Now finish washing me.” 

Glaring at him mutinously, Buffy nonetheless did as he ordered. She’d find a way out of here, and when she did, she vowed to kill the demon in front of her. Nothing was going to dampen that resolve now. Not the (consuming/all/desperate need) love she had for Angel, not whatever (consuming/all/desperate need) lust she had for his demon, not the conflicting emotions she felt between Angel and Angelus, nothing. Turning her hardened gaze to the water, she nonetheless gently lifted his arm, rubbing the soapy cloth over muscle and sinew and carefully rinsing him. 

Buffy couldn’t have said why she was so gentle; all she knew was that a thousand schoolgirl fantasies coalesced within. She couldn’t name the number of times she wanted to be like this with Angel, sharing a bath with him after patrol, or early in the morning before school. She wanted to spend all her time with him, wanted to know him in ways such as this, the intimate, cherished, private moments that she craved to share with her Angel. 

“Rule number one,” Angelus began as if they were having a civil discussion, and he wasn’t fully aroused under her scalding heat as she was forced to wash him. Watching her carefully, her noted the bleak despair in her eyes and knew she thought of Angel. It enraged him, but the demon said nothing. This wasn’t the time for Angel, that time already passed; it was Angelus’ time with his mate. 

“Whatever I say goes. There are no exceptions to this rule. If I say I want you naked all the time, then you will be; I don’t care what you might have against that. If I want you clothed in the finest silks, you damn well better be. And you better be when I say so,” he continued smoothly, his hand caressing her cheek as she glared at him. “Else the punishment will be swift and painful.” 

Buffy sputtered but said nothing, biding her time. Her glare was enough to wish him dead, but she voiced none of her thoughts. 

“Rule number two. Everything you do, you do willingly. When I want you in my bed, you will be there happily and participate in any activity I desire. You will be my lover in every sense of the word, understood?” He didn’t give her time to answer as he continued, their eyes locked in a battle of wills both were determined to win. His hand continued to gently caress her face, a direct contrast to the harshness of his words. 

“When I require you at a dinner or a gathering, you will be there on your best behavior, and will not cause me any trouble. As I said, willingly.” His eyes lighted with the carnal pleasures he planned on showing her with her willing participation. 

“Rule number three. Betray me, and you won’t be the only one to suffer.” 

Buffy finished his torso and waited for him to move so she could get his back, hating every second of this. She hated that she obeyed, and she hated that he ordered. Worse, Buffy hated that she wondered if she’d have done it willingly had he simply asked. And she mourned the fact that she and Angel would never get this pleasure… 

Buffy refused, no matter what rules he’d just spouted, to touch him in any intimate spot; she was in Hell, how much worse could her life get? Besides, she was still the shy, naïve girl whose first sexual experience unleashed a monster much worse than the normal fears of STD’s, pregnancy, or AIDS. She unleashed the monster who wiped out the Earth. 

Setting her on the far side of the tub, he turned so Buffy could wash his back, waiting until she finished before dropping his final bomb. Angelus really wanted to see her face when he told her. He’d punish her later for refusing to touch his erection, for not washing all of him, but that was for later, now was for the rest of the ‘rules’. 

As she ran the cloth down his back, swirling it over his tattoo, the slayer had to hold herself back from raking her nails down the perfect pale plane of his back. Her fingers itched to trace the tattoo, her mouth watered at tasting his skin. What was wrong with her? 

“Now wash yourself.” Angelus watched her through hooded eyes, well aware of her reaction. She traded his spicy soap for a gentler scent, quickly lathering her body, still clad in the jewelry he’d given her over the months, and rinsing in the cooling water. Buffy never once looked at Angelus as she washed her hair and rinsed the shoulder length locks under a wall-mounted faucet that didn’t require her to rise from the tub. Angelus was a creature of comforts and that extended to Buffy – so long as he desired it to. 

Standing, the demon exited the tub, unmindful of the water dripping on the tile floor and grabbed a towel, quickly drying off, beckoning to Buffy to rise as well. Sullen and silent, the slayer stood as instructed, glaring daggers at Angelus, and ignoring his naked body as she did so.  He wrapped the towel around her, his eyes appreciating the water running down her body, before picking her up and carrying her to the bedroom. 

She wasn’t going anywhere, now that he had her all to himself; Angelus wasn’t letting her out of his sight any time soon. 

“I’m not going to agree to anything,” Buffy stated as she folded her arms across her chest, her wet hair hanging tangled down her back, dripping onto the floor. She stared blankly ahead, at anything other than Angelus, though her body knew his, and molded into his. 

“Oh, yes, lover, you most definitely are.” 

“Ha,” she snorted, “I’m already in Hell, trust me, there’s not much more you can do to me.” 

The moment the words were out of her mouth, however, Buffy wondered at them. Had she just jinxed herself? He obviously thought he had the advantage over her, and the slayer wondered just what Angelus thought that advantage was. 

Dropping her on the bed, Angelus smirked wider as she bounced on the soft mattress. His fingers gripped her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Get dressed, Buffy, we have people to meet, places to go, limits to explore and surpass. You have twenty minutes to get ready, and I expect you to obey. If not, you won’t like the consequences.” 

Buffy remained on the bed, arms folded, glare still firmly in place as Angelus dressed, when he was once again fully clothed, he pulled her upright, pressing his lips hard to hers. With that he left the room. 

If he thought she was obeying him, he had another thing coming. It wasn’t like she was going to freeze if she didn’t move; the room was just the other side of too comfortably warm. Drusilla walked back into the room then, with Lydia, and pulled Buffy up off the bed. 

“Daddy has a surprise for you, my shining star.” 

“I don’t care if he wants to present me to the leaders of the Hoards of Hell, he can wait that eternity he has.” Buffy spat and remained motionless. Her mind didn’t want to even think what his surprise was, and she desperately missed her mother, friends, and watcher. Had they perished when Hell opened, or were they even now fighting? 

“Now, now,” Dru frowned, and motioned for the other vampiress to pick up the dress she’d laid out earlier. 

Despite her protests, verbal and physical, Buffy found herself dressed and coiffed within those twenty minutes. She’d punched Lydia several times before staking the bitch with her makeshift weapon – a broken chair leg – but that hadn’t stopped Drusilla from somehow – and Buffy would never be able to figure out how – dressing her. When she fought Lydia, overturning several chairs in the process, Buffy thought for sure Dru would join the fight. The vampiress waited until Lydia’s ashes were settling and simply grabbed her hair and yanked her to a chair in front of a vanity. 

‘That’s too much,’ he snorted as he learned of Lydia’s fate. ‘Are you making this up?’
‘Of course not,’ his storyteller sniffed, blinking slowly as he remembered times past. ‘Now do you want to listen to the rest or not?’ 

Every time Buffy tried to move, Dru pulled harder on her hair. It was effective, to say the least. 

Fuming, vowing to escape the moment Angelus opened that damned door no matter what she did or did not know of her situation, and promising Drusilla her dust would soon join Lydia’s, Buffy stood and waited, foot tapping, makeshift stake still clenched in her fist, cursing the heels and the floor length creation that she wore. Sure, it was sleek black silk and rubbed against her skin decadently, but how was she supposed to fight in it, let alone flee? 

At least she wasn’t naked any longer. 

Buffy promised to find a way as the door opened, and Angelus smiled down at her. 

Easily catching her as the small blonde flew at him, Angelus laughed, pleased that her spirit wasn’t totally crushed. He held her against him, growing harder at the feel of her body rubbing against his, at the fight still in his slayer, at the look of primal hatred in her eyes. He kissed her then, mouth bruising in its intensity as Angelus lapped up the strong emotions she easily exuded. Breaking the kiss, he waited. Buffy said nothing as she fought to regain her equilibrium. 

Taking her hand and, threading it through his arm as he lowered Buffy to the ground, Angelus allowed her to retain the stake, leading her out of the room. He didn’t say a word about Lydia, not really caring for the fledging one way or another. She was simply convenient until the lady’s maid he had in mind for Buffy arrived. 

Tugging her hand, Buffy frowned when she couldn’t release Angelus’ grip on her. Her heart was still racing from his kiss, but she wouldn’t let that affect her escape. Except that she couldn’t escape, she couldn’t even get away from Angelus. She was stronger – physically – than he was, she knew that, and yet it was as if she had no strength at all. What the hell…? 

“Stop fighting me, Buffy,” Angelus warned, “It’ll do you no good and I prefer you have no – visible – bruises when you’re in my company.”

“Best of luck with that,” she snapped. “Because you know I’m escaping the first chance I get, there’s no use in pretending I’m not. I will find a way to stop you, Angelus, you know that, and I know that.” 

Angelus simply laughed, fingering the ring that lay snug against her knuckle. He loved that he had to work at dominating her; it would make it all the sweeter for him when he won. And he would, there was no mistaking that. 

Wandering down several flights of winding stone stairs, he pushed open a door and said, “Time to say hello to some old friends, my love.

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