Spike sat awkwardly on the edge of his bed in his tiny room, waiting anxiously for the Slayer to come down as she had said that she would. He wondered for the hundredth time since leaving the dining room if he should have stayed upstairs with her, regardless of her orders, to try to protect her from her furious husband.

*Protect her?* he mocked his own intentions. *You can't touch the git without nearly passing out in pain! There's an idea, mate! Get the soddin' stuffing kicked out of you by Finn...and *then* by the Slayer for disobeying her orders. Great plan, there, mate.*

Still, he could hardly stand the idea of leaving Buffy down there with her violently angry husband. Finn had obviously been out of control. Buffy's almost imperceptible flinch of fear had told him that for some reason, she was at least a little afraid of the man's temper, and the thought that Riley might actually hurt her simply infuriated him.

And even more infuriating was his utter inability to do anything about it. He was well aware that he was in a very dangerous position here in the Slayer's house, his developing feelings for her placing him in the middle of the conflict between her and her husband -- and possibly putting his own life at risk.

Although he desperately wanted to help Buffy, who was obviously hurting so badly from Riley's emotional abuse and infidelity, he knew that there was a very strong chance that she would not appreciate his assistance, or return his sentiments in any way.

And Riley would certainly not be pleased.

He wondered uneasily just how long Buffy would be able to keep him and Riley separated.

And then another troubling thought came back to his mind suddenly. That morning, after Buffy had calmed down and they had actually had a conversation -- when he had offered, humbly and sincerely, to do whatever she needed him to do to make her happy -- there had been no mistaking the look of desire that had arisen in her eyes.

And then, for his sensitive vampire senses, there had been no mistaking her desire, *period*.

The realization of her arousal, her attraction to him, had been rather alarming at the time.
After all, she had, only moments before, given him a vicious beating, not to mention the suggestively threatening way in which she had touched him, insinuating what they both knew to be an unspoken fact.

She could do whatever she wanted with him. Whenever she wanted. Consent was not even a factor in the equation.

All of that, combined with his growing understanding that the Slayer was not in a particularly emotionally stable place right then, made him very apprehensive about her intentions.

He was very attracted to her himself, and his feelings for her were growing stronger with every moment that he spent in her presence – but that did not mean that he fancied being used as her toy to ease her frustration over being ignored by her husband or to get back at him. And he certainly did not fancy the idea of being forced into anything against his will, as she certainly could if she chose to.

But then, just when he started to become afraid that that was exactly what was about to happen, the Slayer had apparently decided that that was not what she wanted, after all, much to his relief. And the tension and fear of that moment had been lost as they spent the afternoon together, growing more and more comfortable and at ease with each other.

He could hardly believe that she had actually been asking him for his advice on her situation with her friends, speaking to him easily and openly, as a friend – two things that she had never done when they had known each other before.

But then, she had changed in a heartbeat, going back to mistress-mode, as if she thought that she was allowing him to get *too* comfortable with her, and he had thought it wise to go back to the careful respect he had treated her with to begin with.

Then, in the dining room, she had defended him against Riley, making a very obvious effort to protect him from his violent anger.

Only to hit him herself – even if it *was* just to get him to listen to her and leave the room.

It was all just so bloody confusing!

Suddenly, a shadow fell across him from the doorway, and he looked up quickly, standing up at the same time in order to be prepared, half expecting Riley to have won the argument and come down to the basement to continue their confrontation.

It was Buffy.

She stood in the doorway to the room, very still and silent. She had a dazed look of shock on her face, and her eyes were red from crying. Then, she slowly stepped nearer to him, out of the dim hallway and into the path of the lamp on the dresser – and a sense of shock coursed through him at the sight of her red, slightly swollen cheek, the beginnings of a dark purple bruise appearing just beneath the surface of her flawless golden skin.

The wanker had hit her!

“What did he do to you?” he demanded, an irrationally – not to mention dangerously – possessive anger rising up in him, making him forget that he was a slave and this was his mistress, that he was supposed to keep to his place.

All he knew was that Riley Finn had taken his beautiful, amazing wife, for whom he had nowhere near the respect and love that she deserved, and dared to show her the disrespect, the insult, to have struck her across the face – and he was not going to get away with it.

Buffy looked up into his furiously blazing sapphire eyes, a stunned expression in her own, as if she still could not quite comprehend the traumatic events of the past hour.

She spoke softly, in an oddly calm voice, “I told you not to talk back to him.” Her voice was not angry or threatening, just a matter-of-fact “I told you so” sort of tone. “I told you this would happen.”

“He hit you,” Spike said, shaking his head in quiet disbelief, as he ventured a cautious step toward her. She seemed so lost, so disoriented, that his anger at Riley was quickly taking a backseat to his concern for her. There would be plenty of time later to think of a way to make sure that Riley never dared to hurt Buffy again.

Right now, the Slayer needed help.

“Are you – are you all right, love?” he asked her, his voice low and heavy with concern, reaching out a hand tentatively as he drew slowly nearer to her.

She nodded slowly, almost automatically, not speaking, her eyes lowered again, staring unseeing at the wall beyond him.

He continued his slow, careful path toward her, watching closely as she visibly tried to hold back her tears, her lips trembling as she choked back the sobs that rose in her throat. He suddenly noticed with alarm that her whole body was trembling violently, and she appeared to be on the verge of collapse.

“Bloody hell, love, you can barely stand!” he exclaimed, closing the rest of the distance between them unthinkingly, placing a gentle hand under her elbow and guiding her toward the bed, thinking in some small part of his mind that it was a risky move.

But Buffy did not appear offended or angered in the least. She barely even seemed aware of it at all, he noticed with an uneasy feeling. She just listlessly allowed him to lead her to the bed, sitting down with her onto the side of it. His hand remained under her arm, and without thinking of the consequences, he put his other hand on her arm to turn her gently to face him, his wide, deep blue eyes searching hers anxiously, seeking for some response.

At that moment, he thought that even if her response was to slap him across the face and order him to get his hands off of her – it would be better than the vacant, lost expression in her unusually dull green eyes.

“Are you all right, pet?” he asked again, his voice hushed and fearful.

Finally, she turned her face from its point of focus on the wall beyond him and met his eyes with wonder and confusion, as if just noticing that he was there.

“Spike?” she whispered, the words a question that he could not understand.

“I’m right here, love,” he murmured, the words coming to his mind and out his lips without thought, just as his hand rose from her arm to tenderly push her disheveled hair back from her forehead. “Right here.”

Buffy’s wide green eyes took him in, wondering at the gentleness with which he was treating her, especially after the cruelty she had shown him that day. She could not quite wrap her mind around what had just happened between her and her husband.

Riley thought that he could somehow make up for what he had done, the ultimate betrayal of trust, with the physical affection he had withheld from her for so long. He expected her to go upstairs to their room and get into their bed with him and pretend that nothing had ever happened.

She was absolutely love-starved, desperately lonely and bereft of any affection from anyone for so long. And here she was, receiving that tenderness and care she had longed for for so long – from one she had abused and taken out her frustrations on unfairly, that very day.

She noticed suddenly that Spike bore a bruise, high across his cheekbone – not unlike the one she now had.

And she had given it to him.

And here he sat with her, one gentle hand still supporting her, without even realizing he was doing it, his other tenderly running through her hair in a silent gesture of comfort.

Why was her slave so concerned with her feelings, with her pain? After the pain she had caused him?

And suddenly, she felt a wave of warmth and affection toward this creature that she had never imagined she would feel anything more positive than mild annoyance for. She gazed up into the fathomless blue depths that had drawn her in that morning, and felt again the magnetic pull toward her slave that she had resisted earlier.

There was such an open emotion, that she dared not seek words for – not just yet – in those wide, expressive blue eyes.

*Innocent* was the word that sprang to mind as she gazed at the vulnerable, open expression on his face, though she knew that the words was far from appropriate. At any other moment, that thought alone would have been enough to halt the progress of the feelings that were steadily overtaking her, spinning out of control.

Tonight…she did not care.

She did not even realize it as her hands moved out to run gently up his arms toward his shoulders, and she unconsciously leaned in eagerly toward those perfect, parted, slightly trembling lips.

Spike’s eyes widened, his unnecessary breath quickening as he realized what she was about to do – and wondered if *she* realized it. Once again, he could tell that she wanted him desperately, though a rational part of his mind told him that she would not, if not for the events of the evening, and the terribly vulnerable state of her battered heart at that moment.

He knew that what she wanted in that moment was not real, not the love that he wished for – only consolation for the hurts deeper than the bruise on her face.

That morning, it had seemed like a terrible insult, a degradation, to think of being used for her comfort, used by her because her husband would not fulfill her needs. He remembered thinking, with adamant resolve, that if he could not have her completely, he did not want any part of her.

Tonight…he did not care.

Buffy saw the acceptance in his eyes, without even consciously realizing she had seen it, and moved forward with a hunger in her own, urgently capturing his lips with hers, her tongue pressing forward with a desperate intensity, claiming him with her mouth.

He both yielded to her kiss and returned it, first tentatively, and then bolder, his hand at her elbow sliding down to her waist and around behind her to move slowly across her back, the other hand moving to the back of her head, fingers running through her hair, pulling her closer, deepening the kiss.

His gentle touch, the desire with which he held her to him, fed an aching hunger, a desperate need that had gone unfulfilled in her for far too long, and she could feel her desire heightening to an almost desperate level. Her hands on his arms moved up to his shoulders and pushed him down onto the bed beneath her, and his hand at the small of her back slipped lower.

She gasped at his touch, drawing in the breath the kiss had stolen from her, thrusting her body toward him unconsciously, suddenly desperate to find in him the fulfillment for the emptiness that tormented her.

She could feel his body respond to hers, his growing desire against her, as he released a low moan at the unexpected contact.

“Buffy…oh sweet…Buffy…” he gasped out, his hands moving in her hair and on her bottom, pulling her closer to him.

There was something so enticing, that quickened her heartbeat and intensified her desire, in his low, rich voice, whispering her name in that desperate, almost reverent need…a need that Riley had not displayed in nearly a year or more.

*Riley!*

Buffy gasped in shock, as the impact of what she was doing suddenly hit her, suddenly raising herself up off him a little, staring at him with wide, almost panicked eyes. Her husband was upstairs in their bed, waiting for her – and she was down in the slaves’ quarters, on the bed with Spike, moments away from…

“Oh, God,” she moaned, scrambling back off of him, standing up off the bed, hastily, guiltily straightening her rumpled shirt without even thinking about it. “Oh, no…”

He could hear the fear, the confusion in her trembling voice, and quickly rose from the bed with her. “Buffy,” he began cautiously, his breath coming hard and quick, trying to control the desire she had awakened so strongly in him. “Buffy, love…”

She shook her head emphatically, backing a couple of steps away from them, her eyes wide as she tried to process what she had just done. “No,” she whispered. “No, I – I can’t do this!”

“It’s all right,” he whispered, edging closer to her cautiously. He was aware that this was one of those moments that could lead to serious pain if he was not extremely careful. But he could not let her leave like this, distraught and horrified by what they had done.

And that hurt. He tried to push it back and not think about it, but that hurt, bad.

“No,” she interrupted, her voice sharper. “No, it’s *not* all right!” She took another step away from him when she noticed that he was coming toward her. “Stop!” she ordered, anger beginning in her voice.

He immediately froze, watching her carefully, waiting to see what she would do next. He had obviously come to the limits of the control she would allow him in this situation.

“Just…just stay back,” she said, her voice softer, but still trembling with a intense confusion of emotions that she could not quite define. “This – this was a mistake!”

“I – I’m sorry, love,” he told her quickly. “I didn’t mean to…”

“Just – just leave it alone,” Buffy interrupted again, a little edge back in her voice. She paused, obviously trying to get control of her emotions, enough to get control of the situation.

Finally she spoke, her voice softer, but still trembling a little. “This was not your fault,” she said slowly. “I made a mistake. I – I’m upset, and – and emotional, and – and I let things get out of hand.”

He felt his heart sink with the hurt and disappointment of those words.

“It was a mistake, and it will never happen again,” she said firmly. “Riley can never know about this.” For the first time, a note of a threat crept into her voice. “*Never*. You are not to speak a word about this to anyone. Do you understand?”

That imperious, authoritative tone, the one that gave him that cold, distant feeling that he felt so much more sharply in the wake of their unfulfilled connection that had almost happened, was back again.

“Yes, Mistress,” he said quietly but clearly, unable to keep a slight edge from his own voice as he carefully pronounced the title.

He felt slightly gratified when Buffy flinched a little – and then he felt bad, for causing her more distress on this terrible night.

“This, too,” she said suddenly, and he glanced up to see her gesture vaguely toward her face, her eyes averted, not meeting his. “This is between me and Riley. You are never to speak of it.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he replied, though he felt a surge of anger at the thought of simply letting Riley’s violence slide, and he determined then and there that his obedience to Buffy would only go so far.

Sooner or later, he would make Riley pay for what he had done to her.

Buffy looked at him closely, anxiously for a moment, as if trying to be sure that he would obey her. Seeming satisfied, she turned toward the door. “Good night,” she said quietly, in that same distant, official sounding tone that was like a blade through his heart.

She stopped in the doorway, turning slightly, hesitantly. Then she whispered, so quiet that no one but him would have heard her, “I’m sorry.”

And with that she was gone, out of his arms and back into the bed of her husband.