Valentine.

His Return.

For full experience, readers are encouraged to read with music.

"Happy Valentine's Day", coos the deep, raspy voice from behind me. His cool breath tickles my ear, as he lightly brushes his lips across my skin. Quivering, I remain frozen in place, allowing the hot tears to run traces of mascara down my face. 

I can feel it is slowly getting harder and harder to breathe, as my chest rises and falls with a ferocity rivaling that of an engine's. The rapidly rising room temperature does nothing to help.

Hiccupping in terror, I look everywhere but behind me. At the scattered trays, the torn menu cards, the spilled bottles of expensive wine, even at the piles of left-behind jewelry. Everywhere else. I refuse to turn around. Chills run through me as I feel the harsh caress of his cool breaths picking up their pace against my neck as his breathing accelerates.

This is not how the night was supposed to go.

A suited arm slowly reaches around me and gently settles a lively black rose onto my lap. As he rests his heavy hand over the rose on my thighs, warning signs race all throughout my body and envelop my mind. Once again, paralyzed with fear, I don't know what to do. What to say. How to get away. There's no one to call for help. No one to turn to. Sniffling, I stare down at his large pale hand, the black wedding band still snugly fitted around his ring finger.

I let out a long, shaky breath as I await his next words. Finally, after another long pause, he speaks again. "I see you've worn my favorite color today" he taunts from the side of my neck. 

Still, I remain silent, allowing the drawn-out seconds to tick by. My thoughts race as I think of ways to get away. To get help. I was sure moving to this small town; I'd be able to escape his ever-piercing eyes, his menacing control, and his destructive ways. I guess I was wrong. He'd found me...again.

Forcing myself to repudiate his presence, I instead stare in horror at Henry's corpse slouched across the table. The blood over his skin and shirt have now dried, and Valentine's scar still shone bright and fresh on his face. This only makes me sicker and my stomach lurches at the sight. I fight the urge to retch over the tablecloth and add my own color to the pools of scarlet.

"LOOK AT ME!" he roars, startling me out of the last remnants of my wits. I quake like a dog left out in the cold, cold rain and my forehead drips with sweat. "Please", I whisper to him, my voice cracking pathetically. But it's no use. His strong fingers are already clutching my jaw and turning my face towards him, my body following.

In a last attempt to hang onto my sanity, I clamp my eyes tightly shut, just in time as he positions me to face him. No. No. No, is all that is running through my mind as his unwavering grip on my jaw tightens. Growing impatient, he sighs. "I see you haven't lost your stubbornness" he breathes , a hint of fondness to his tone.

Still, I refuse to open my eyes. To acknowledge my fate and face the worst of my fears. After another long pause of silence and feeling him study my face, he speaks up again. "Very well then, Petit Papillon, you leave me no choice".

Petit Papillon. That does it. My temper rises at the sound of my old pet-name, and I see red. "Don't you fucking call me that", I let out in panicked frustration, my voice wavering like that of a coward's. I am only met with his mocking, raspy chuckle accompanied by a faint, growing pain in the back of my temple. As his grip on my chin grows tighter, I can feel his electricity seeping through me, commanding me to obey. Commanding me to open my eyes.

My resistance only gets me so far, as his static current continues to seep through me and finally seizes my brain. One can only defy a god so much. As expected, my mind surrenders to his prodding, against my will. My eyes fly open.

Immediately, I am met with a striking set of familiarly stormy pupils, their color rivaling that of Amethyst. The same menacing eyes from which I have been seeking refuge for the last 12 months of my life. His snow-white hair is in a gelled back arrangement with two strands resting over his forehead and carefully caressing the top of his dark brow. He has groomed himself as if he were coming for a date. He truly never fails to be ironic. Devastatingly handsome. Devastatingly dangerous.

As he zeros in on me, his chiseled jaw ticks in disappointment. One by one, his features set off a familiar alarm in my head. An alarm I can no longer snooze. This was not a drill. He was really here. His pupils dilate as he continues to take me in. He looks at me as a starved animal would look at a warm plate of its favorite prey, served fresh.

Here he is, in all his glory. The curse that is The God of the Sky.