We walk through the woods that lead to my house. Side by side, with only the cracking of leaves under my feet to break the silence. Although we are not touching, I am extremely aware of his presence. The air around him always seems to sizzle. Almost as if he is not meant to be in the world. An intruder that disrupts the atmosphere. Every once in a while, he glances at me, but I never look back. I know he is waiting for me to say something after what I just saw.

Even if I knew what to say, I do not think I could. Maybe it is misplaced self-preservation or maybe I am just too proud. I do not want Death to know that he is getting to me.

I clear my throat.

"So..." I start when we are finally standing in front of my house, "This is me."

He chuckles, "Yes, I know that's where you live."

When I am speechless, I become awkward. Thank god I'm rarely speechless.

"Alright, well," I scratch the back of my head, "Have a good night."

He raises an eyebrow. I take a few steps toward my front door, when he circles my arm with one of his hands.

"Wait."

I pivot on my feet to face him, "Yeah?"

"That was me opening up, by the way. To show you a piece of myself," he says gruffly, "Now, why don't you try it out?"

"No." Because opening up might require stitches.

He does not let go of my arm. In fact, his grasp tightens. It kind of hurts, but I do not pull away. I hold his challenging gaze with my own.

"Why not? What are you so afraid of?" he says. He searches into my eyes, but I block him out by turning my head away.

"I'm not afraid."

"Alright," he lets go of my arm and starts moving towards the house, "I'm all ears."

Instead of going inside like I think he will, again, he sits on the top step of my porch. His long legs rest on the ground, spread wide while his elbows rest lazily on his knees. He fixes me with his dark eyes, pinning me in place. He waits.

It occurs to me that in order to get inside, away from him, I would have to walk through him. I am essentially blocked entry to my own home.

The truth is, I do not even have the energy to fight him tonight. This day has drained me. All I want is to be left alone to digest everything. He has weakened my resolve tonight. I know he knows it too.

"I can wait here all night, sweetheart."

I grind my teeth. He taps the spot beside him on the porch. "C'mere."

I force out a sigh. There really is no way out of this, is there? I take the seat beside him without missing the way our thighs touch when I do. He does not move away and I am left with two choices. Remain pressed against him or hug the rail, but that would be awkward.

"There isn't much to say," I lie, looking at him sideways. Under the moon-lit sky, without his hood on, Death is striking. With a neatly shaved beard resting on a square jaw, hard, onyx eyes that only seem to soften when he looks at me and brown, tousled hair. He looks like a dream. I feel almost sorry for all the people who can not see his face. What a waste.

"You know," he says lowly, "You make it really hard to stay away from you when you look at me like that." He hooks an arm around my waist and hoist me up until I am sitting on his lap.

And you make it really hard to breath when you touch me like that.

"Start with your parents."

"There really isn't much to say," I lie again. My hands start to clam up.

"I find that hard to believe. You always have lots to say. About everything." He says that like it is a bad thing.

His fingers begin to draw slow circles on the side of my leg. "Why'd you kill them?"

My eyes snap up to his, "How do you know about that?"

"I remembered this young couple, a few years back. They had been stabbed. When I collected their souls, they didn't remember anything, but what was even more surprising was how they hadn't been marked before their deaths. There's only one person I know of who can do that," he says matter-of-factly.

I swallow down the lump that formed in my throat.

"So tell me. Why did you do it?"

Wanting me to reminisce on this is pretty much the equivalent of asking 'Would you like some salt with those wounds?'.

But I am apparently a masochist, because I decide to open up like French doors.

"It all started the day my parents found out I don't have fingerprints. Uneducated and desperate as they were, they took this as an opportunity to make me... do stuff," I realize I am fidgeting with my jacket zipper, so I clamp my hands together on my lap instead. "At first it was small things. Petty theft. Stealing at the corner store, breaking into sheds or garages. They figured if I ever got caught, the police would never be able to prove anything since my finger prints couldn't be found. That and the fact that I was just a kid.

"Around the time I turned fourteen, things changed. I was no longer stealing in cars or garage, but houses. Mansions even. I made them big money. I was damn good at it. Small enough to fit through any window. Subtle and most of all, I didn't leave any traces."

He continues to look at me while I speak, urging me to go on.

"That's when things changed. My parents suddenly decided to start a kill-for-hire business. Mostly, I was the one doing the killing. They brainwashed me, told me that if I didn't do it, bad people were going to take me away. I believed them.

"But they had changed too. And green always swirled in their eyes. My real parents were filthy criminals, but they weren't killers. I knew something was amiss, but I ignored it. I did their bidding for the better part of my teenaged years. If I questioned it, my mom would say 'We aren't the bad guys, the people who hire us are. We just fulfill contracts.'

"Killing them was the one and only time I killed outside of a contract, actually." I swallow. Peering into his warm eyes, I find myself wanting to continue. I have never told anyone this and maybe letting it all out feels kind of good.

"How did that happen?" he asks. His fingers caress the part where my shirt and pants part to reveal a small stripe of bare skin. I try not to focus on it too much.

"One night, the man I was told to kill already knew I was coming. To this day, I have no idea how, but I think he must have been a warlock or a mind-reader or something. He just... knew things. Like why I was there and who I was. It was so weird, but he gave me this," I produce Janice out of my coat pocket, "He said it was the only way to get rid of my problems and somehow, I knew exactly what he meant. It was like he put the idea in my head."

"Go on."

"I killed them that very night. Whatever demons were possessing them were siphoned into Janice when I stabbed them. I never saw the man again. And now here I am." A bloody mess, but at least it is on my own terms.

"I'm sorry, Emma," he says, his features softening. Death looks at me with a mixture of compassion and pity. "You shouldn't have had to go through this alone." He pushes my hair away from my face, but I moved away from his touch.

"I don't want your fucking pity. I only told you this so you would leave me alone." The French doors snap closed again, "Can I go now? I've told you what you wanted to know."

I try to push away from him, but he tightens his hold on my waist. "Stop. I'm not done yet."

"No, but I am. You don't get to decide for me."

Instead of letting go of me, he spins me around so I am now straddling him, forced to look him in the eye. "I'm trying to save you, god damnit!" he grips both of my shoulders forcefully, "Why do you always have to make it so difficult?"

"I don't need saving," I spit.

"Oh no? 'Cause to me it looks a hell of a lot like you do. Have you even acknowledged the fact that you're being hunted? Were any of the attacks not clear enough for you? You almost fucking died, Emma. Twice," he growls.

"Everyone's time comes one day or another."

"Not yours!"

"You don't get to decide that, either."

"Actually, I do. And don't be so naive as to think killing you is all they can do. They can hurt you. Badly. And you just look like you're going to let them." His grip tightens and I wince.

When he sees that, his hands loosens, but he does not let go. He shuts his eyes briefly and I watch his jaw tick. He is getting angry and this is his way to calm down.

A few seconds go by where the both of us are speechless. I want out. I want out, but I can not move. He regains his composure and when he looks back at me with stoic eyes, I know I have dodged another bullet.

"The vampires, Emma," he says.

I frown. What is he talking about?

"What?"

"The one you killed that night." He wipes one his eyebrows, "You know, the night you shot me in the head. Multiple times."

I smile at the memory.

"Yeah, what about them?"

"The one you killed was the mate of a vampire who is rumoured to be hunting whoever is responsible. I think she is the one who is after you."

"Really? Those guys?" I recall the band of leeches with disdain. What a bunch of losers they were.

He ignores my question.

"I need you to tell me everything you can remember about them."

"They were just your typical, run-of-the-mill, leather wearing, dancer-bar-hopping vamps."

He curls his top lip before looking downwards and looking back up at me.

"Yeah, I'm going to need more that. Tell me everything."

I jut my chin forward and I have not a clue why I utter my next words. Maybe it is me being my spiteful self, maybe I enjoy challenging him. Most likely, though, it is because I want to get back at him for all those times I hated myself for letting him touch me, kiss me, without knowing that uncontrollable forces were pulling us together.

"You mean, kind of like you told me everything about what's going on between us, right?" I cross my arms in front of me, as if putting a wall between us, but he grabs them and uncrosses them.

He presses his lips into a thin line, never once taking his eyes away from mine.

"You're not going to let this go, are you?" he says with an edge.

No, I will not. "Why didn't you tell me?"

He looks me dead in the eye and without faltering, he says, "Because, believe it or not, I didn't want you to be with me because you felt pressured, or because you thought it was 'meant to be'. I wanted you to want to be with me."

He makes a valid point, but that does not change the fact that he kept me in the dark on purpose. Now, instead of just feeling trapped, I feel cheated.

"Why would I ever want that?" I say with the full intention of hitting a nerve.

I think it works. We just stare at each other in silent argument. Our glances battle with one another and neither one of us dares to say anything else. Then, when I least expect it, he pulls me in closer, "Because of this," he says, low and husky.

One of his hands finds the nape of my neck and then I feel his lips press onto mine. They are not hungry like the first time, nor gentle like the last. This time, his kiss is deep, greedy. And I let him possess me. Of course, I let him.

Everything from the way he moves agonizingly slowly against my mouth or the way goosebumps dance against my skin in response, I want it all. I get so easily lost in him that when he pulls away, a foreign sense of emptiness washes over me.

He does not stop there. He starts kissing a trail along neck, greedily covering every inch of my exposed skin with warm, soft lips. I feel myself tingling and close my eyes to savour the feeling. I move my palms against his chest, suddenly and against my better judgement, wanting nothing more than to close the distance between us.

I want more.

I bring both hands up to cup his face and pull him into me, crashing my lips against his. I kiss him as though this is the first and the last time. Like my life depends on it. I feel him freeze in surprise, but then he smirks against my mouth. He knows he has won.

I know I am lost.

Lost.

When one his hands slips under my shirt, the fog in my brain begins to dissipate. I have to stop now, or else I think I never will.

I push him off me and scramble to get to my feet. He just looks at me with a dumbstruck expression. The heat in our eyes is still very much there.

"This doesn't change anything," I stammer.

"I disagree." He stands up and pushes his hands in his pockets. With a sly smile, he adds, "I mean, you all but attacked my face."

I just stare at him, feeling my blood begin to boil. I just want to wipe that smirk off his face. With the back of my hand. He always knows what buttons to press.

"You're an asshole."

"An asshole who kisses really well? An asshole who's lips you can't get enough of?" He is still smiling. Why is he still smiling?

I walk past him to my front door in a few angry strides. He does not stop me, he just watches. I do not offer an answer. All I want is to get away from him.

I angrily push open the door, about to walk inside when he interrupts me.

"You know, I'm really glad you decided to stop killing like I warrned you to," he says in that insufferable voice only he can take.

I freeze. This again, really?

"Who says I've decided to stop killing?" I keep my back to him, grinding my teeth and hoping he can not see how much he is getting to me.

"Haven't seen you ending anyone lately," he whispers in my ear.

I pause, debating if I should says something back, but the truth is, I do not have anything to say.

"Whatever." I slam the door in his face.