fun fact: we wrote this chapter MONTHS ago, like, right near the beginning of the book. I think "excited" is a bit of an understatement about this particular installment . . .

without further ado, enjoy. ;)

I would give everything I have or will ever have just to feel pain again

Following Michael's dreaded departure, the days seemed to blend together into an abysmal blur. It was almost as if Winona had been thrust into that appallingly familiar and tremendously tedious cycle of repetition.

Every morning, the sun rose beyond the horizon, cloaking the entirety of a very active and alive Los Angeles in a warm, glorious glow—whereas a very dead and miserable Winona sat defeated on the doorstep, fingers tangled in her hair, fat, salty tears claiming her cheeks. The big city continued to thrive around her—ever changing, ever growing. Kids on bicycles without helmets would glide past the house, intensely eyeing the broad, iron gates as several of them audibly expressed their interest for the abandoned area. A sleek, black tour bus would park itself out front quite often, filled nearly to the brim with nosy tourists, handheld devices held between bony fingers as they "oohed" and "ahhed" at the sight of the infamous Murder House—an old, decrepit mansion that directly served as a portal to hell and housed over thirty sorrowful souls.

With every dejected day that passed, the diminutive sliver of hope that Winona had seemed to dissipate, until one day—nearly seven months after Michael's departure—all hope was lost. Just like Jack, he would never visit her. She'd fade into oblivion once more, forgotten and unwanted. Fading into a figment of one's imagination, as if she were nothing but a part of a delightful dream. Besides, why would he visit? Why would he confine himself to this house—to this hellmouth—as the bleak, brick building had nothing more to offer him? As she had nothing more to offer him? He was thriving—changing. He had a purpose to fill. A prophecy. Winona would never fit into his equation, fit into his purpose. She was merely a microscopic step on his very grand staircase, leading south towards the hellfire–

"Pouting again?" Tate teased, taking a seat beside a wary Winona. Her stare remained blank, empty and open, fixated solely on the house across the street, where an elderly woman excessively watered a dying rose bush.

"Don't you have someone else to torture?" Winona whined, eyeing the exceptionally dead bouquet of white lilies at her feet. Michael had given them to her several days following his departure, and although the pretty lilies had shriveled up and died only weeks after his doleful disappearance, Winona couldn't help but carry them around with her, like some kind of sad, extinct wife, or something.

"You really love him, don't you?" Tate wondered, his tone shy and soft—comforting, even. The striped-sweater bloke had been in a considerably good mood lately, mostly due to the fact that some preppy witch by the name of Madison Montgomery managed to reunite him and Violet.

At least their story had a happy ending.

"Yes."

Winona knew how Tate felt about his offspring. He'd expressed his keen disgust for the evil little fella on multiple occasions, but for some peculiar reason, he managed to turn somewhat soft for the boy—at least when he spoke of him to Winona. After all, he was his biological son, whether or not he was conceived under the influence of Satan, himself.

"Do you think he'll ever come back for me?" Winona wondered, craning her neck to view a stiff Tate. She hadn't noticed until that moment that Violet had joined them, fingers threaded between Tate's, her head resting on his bony shoulder.

The boy sighed, shooting Winona a genuine, sympathetic glare before spilling: "I don't know."

Routinely, Winona laid in bed that night, wide awake and bug-eyed. It was the very same bed where her and Michael shared their intimate moments together—the bed where she'd told him that she loved him. The bed where they'd worshipped one another. Loved one another. Become one another.

Grievously, Winona released a heightened cry, clutching the lily white sheet between curled fists as she vociferously sobbed. The unchanged bed sheets were wrinkled and old, and she almost swore that she could still smell her Michael on the pillowcase. Either that, or she'd completely lost her mind.

It wasn't until thirteen-past-three in the morning when Winona heard a noise originating from downstairs—a noise that instantly dried her tears and shook her down to the very core. She was used to the seldom sounds of the house, to the sounds of the other residents—but this was entirely divergent.

There was a living, breathing human downstairs.

Winona slunk from the mattress, blinking back blinding tears. The aging, wooden floorboards creaked beneath her weight, a particularly bold lump taking refuge in her throat. She didn't quite know that it was possible up until now—but apparently, ghosts could feel some type of
anxiety . . . almost like an impending doom sort of feel.

As if anything in this house could actually, genuinely hurt her . . .

The downstairs foyer was cast in some kind of transcendental glow. A multitude of white-wax candles filled the floor, stunning orange flames frolicking along the painted walls, mimicking fearsome figures. Winona froze at the sight, a hefty breath hitching in her throat as a series of dark, low murmurs filled her ears.

She knew that voice.

"Michael?"

The world seemed to be spinning on an axis, a genuine warmth consuming the room as the sharp-dressed man spun around on his heel. The attire that adorned his lanky figure was unlike anything Winona had seen him wear before—dark, menacing, pure blackness. A long, weighty cloak clung to the broad length of his shoulders, accented with a sparkling silver clasp. He looked majestic—powerful. Like some kind of Greek God, hand carved by the angels themselves. If Winona were required to breathe, the sight of him alone would have knocked the air cleanly from her lungs.

Almost instantly, a genuine grin tugged at Michael's pouted lips, lanky legs darting in Winona's direction as he keenly avoided the abundance of scattered, lit candles.

"My Winnie," he breathed, rapidly approaching the shaking girl as he claimed her within his arms—tightly and possessively, as if she'd simply slip through his fingers if he didn't hold on tight.

Habitually, an essence of fresh tears pricked at her dark eyes, palms claiming fistfuls of his thick cloak as she practically clawed at his back. It was as if she'd managed to succumb to a serene slumber, where she'd migrated into the loving arms of the only man she's ever truly loved since the moment their eyes met. However, this was no dream—Michael Langdon had returned to Murder House.

Their lips met in a rushed, sloppy snog—one so full of passion and lust that it made Winona's toes curl within the comfort of her matted Chuck Taylors. Her hands met his hair, which was knotted and messy, per usual, but so soft and warming and welcoming, just like every inch of his broad, lanky self. Michael's lips were sugary sweet, an overwhelming, syrupy sweetness coating her taste buds as his pretty pink tongue caressed her lower lip, inaudibly pleading for entrance. She, of course, openly obliged; releasing a series of staggered sighs as the soft sounds tumbled into his mouth, prompting the itty-bitty baby hairs on the back of his neck to stand straight up. His fingers kneaded her lower back, drawing her sylphlike frame forward, tepid groins colliding as the man practically growled into the cavern of her mouth.

"You came back," Winona whispered, her tone drastically muffled by the presence of his needy tongue. "You came back."

Michael pulled away, resting his forehead against hers as their pointed noses collided. His pretty pale eyes were hidden by the thick skin of his eyelids, (much to Winona's dismay), and he was breathing heavily, broad palms hovering her hips.

"I'm here to free you." He said, still short of breath as their lips briefly met once more.

"What?" Winona croaked, eyes widened in wanton abandon as their gazes suddenly met. His eyes—such a sweet, icy shade of blue—passionately pierced her soul, igniting a fire deeply within as her chest grew warm.

Michael's silken palms migrated to the flesh of her cold cheeks, cupping them gently as a hearty, toothy smile invaded his features. His complexion vastly brightened, smooth thumbs etching circles into her skin before he continued with: "I'm going to get you out of here. You're going to be fucking free, baby."

Defeatedly, Winona claimed his hands in hers, begrudgingly tearing them from her saddened expression as she stepped out of his embrace. At this, Michael flatly frowned, brows knit together in bewilderment as she woman simply shook her head.

"Sweetheart," she began, fighting back the urge to cry—yet again. "I'm dead. I can't leave."

Just as she'd started towards the stairs, planning to collapse into a depressive heap upon the wood—Michael claimed her elbow, roughly, not yet knowing his strength. She whined at the sudden gesture, his features contorting into that of immense concern as he immediately loosened his grip.

"I'm sorry." He muttered, jaw parted in angst. Suddenly, vivid visuals of that night riddled both of their minds, a memory that Winona still had difficulty coming to terms with. She knew of his power, of his alliance and his destiny—but sometimes, the entire situation was a bit hard to grasp.

"You can't be here, Michael." Winona said, hovering the foot of the staircase, the very spot where she met her untimely demise nearly thirty years prior. It seemed like an entirely different lifetime, then. She hardly recognized the city anymore—the atmosphere. Every Halloween when she's able to roam free, something was new. Something was different. The world was still spinning and aging and growing, and she'd be stuck at seventeen years of age for an eternity.

"Winona–"

"I'm serious, babe." She sharply interjected. "There's nothing I can offer you. Nothing I can give you. I can only leave this fucking house on Halloween, one day a year. That's it. I can't help you with your path, or destiny or plans or whatever the hell it is. I can't give you children. I can't do anything. You'll continue aging, and I'll be like this forever. Seventeen until the end of time."

"Winona." Michael clipped, jaw clenched as the woman avoided his glare. The candles managed to paint pretty portraits along the walls, and she'd found herself fixated on that. Otherwise, she'd burst into fits of tears once more—a pitiful, meaningless repetition of absolute misery.

Winona fell silent, a single, salty tear grazing her cheek as Michael swiftly wiped it away with his thumb. Their stares eventually met, a weighty silence consuming them as the young, powerful man finally broke the silence.

"Princess," he began, a slight snicker present in his tone. "I think you've forgotten what I am. Who I am."

Winona raised a brow, fingers prancing along the slick flesh of his hands as the man suddenly urged her sideways and towards the open foyer. The hardwood floors audibly cried out beneath their weight, hot, sticky wax dribbling from the hot flames as it coated the floor.

"Where the hell did you get all of these candles?" Winona wondered, following closely on his heel. He blatantly ignored her inquiry.

"Undress."

"What?"

Michael discarded his hefty cloak into a nearby corner, the fabric nuzzling into a giant heap as his nimble fingers worked at the buttons of his sleek black dress shirt. Winona had so many questions—and yet, her mouth lay agape, words temporarily eluding her as the man she so helplessly loved gracefully disrobed in the middle of the front foyer.

"Michael, can't we like, take this upstairs?" Winona urged through gritted teeth, glancing over her shoulder to view their surroundings. However, it seemed as if all of the remaining residents had gone into hiding.

The shirt feel away from his torso, revealing a profusion of silky, smooth skin—pure and pale, so beautiful and intoxicating that Winona's fingers achingly buzzed at the sight. It had been way too long since she'd seen that beautiful body, or even tasted it, rather . . .

"Michael–"

"Trust me, Winnie." Michael gruffly clipped, motioning once more for her to remove her clothing.

Finally, she obliged, a peculiar prickle of worry consuming her bones as she lifted the flowy top from her body, revealing the black bra that laid beneath. Usually, Michael would take his sweet time with her—eyes always bugging out of his skull as if it were the first time he'd seen her body. Breaths short and erratic, chest inordinately heaving. However, this time, he didn't even seem to notice the absence of her shirt at all, for he was too wrapped up in whatever was in that big ole brain of his.

"Michael, you're scaring me." Winona whispered in a tone so low that he could hardly hear. He, however, kept his lips sealed, stepping out of his laced boots and shrugging out of his slacks as he fished a questionably large and exceedingly sharp switchblade from the pocket. The woman fiddled with the button of her jeans, unblinking eyes cautiously studying the glimmering blade of the knife as Michael suddenly plunged it into the flesh of his forearm.

Utterly horrified, Winona cried outward, thrusting forwards and nearly knocking over a candle to stop him, fingers becoming slick with warm, oozing blood.

"Michael, stop–"

Instead of protesting, Michael simply stood still, wincing slightly as he dug the keen blade into the flesh of his arm. When she'd attempted to snatch the knife out of his grasp, however, Winona had found herself flying backwards several feet, lanky limbs colliding with the floor with a loud thud as she openly yelped. When she tried to stand once more, her legs turned to jelly—preventing her worrisome self from approaching a profusely bleeding Michael as the dark, sanguine liquid flowed down the length of his nearly naked body, coating the floor in gaudy, gross puddles.

"May you rise from the void, Father." Michael hoarsely began, empty eyes meeting a frightened Winona at his feet.

Thus, Michael fell to his knees, palms flattening against the sticky surface of the bloody, wood floor as Winona shot him a perplexed glare. Spooled ringlets of dirty blond hair cloaked his darkened vision, slender digits unvaryingly spread as he nudged the knife into her direction.

"Cut." He said, motioning towards the ghastly gash along his left arm.

Winona thickly swallowed, nodding slowly and curtly before crawling towards the bleeding boy upon the floor, clad only in a pair of wrinkled black boxers. She remained only in her undergarments as well, a shaking hand claiming the discarded knife before bringing it to her arm.

Their eyes momentarily met, a reassuring nod overcoming Michael's head as his striking blue orbs rotated upwards and into his skull, leaving nothing behind but the whites of his eyes. It was then that the open wound on his arm swiftly closed, sealing together with an invisible thread and needle, as if stitched. Dumbfounded, Winona stared at the rapidly healing wound, a quivering hand hovering her arm as she prepared to carve her own limb so that her blood could join his in the growing pool.

Before Winona could slice through the flushed flesh, a strand of low murmurs filled her ears—intrepid and dark, almost sinister. The blade hovered her flesh, drawing a single bead of blood to the surface as her breaths thinned.

"Dicere vale ad dolorem."

Bracing herself for the pain to come, Winona sucked in a harsh breath before plunging the extremely sharp knife into her flesh. Yet, the pain never came.

Winona watched in awe as the blade sliced through her arm, a profusion of gushing red blood slipping from the substantial wound as it intermingled with Michael's upon the ground. Even though she was dead, she still usually felt pain—severe pain, at least.

A shaken sea of blue met her wide glare, needy fingers claiming her bleeding arm. Michael ran his thumb along the gaping intentional injury, large lips parted in awe at the sight.

"Does it hurt?" He worrily wondered, opposite hand claiming her knee. His bloodied fingers smeared tracks of crimson along her naked leg, creating morbid pictures along the pale, dead surface, as if he were an artist, and she was the canvas.

"No." She assured him, the knife slipping from her slippery fingers as it clattered to the floor. "Why doesn't it hurt?"

Michael leaned forward, lips just barely grazing her nose as he whispered a giddy, "I told you to trust me."

Suddenly, he slunk back into place, hurriedly spreading out the overwhelming amount of blood along the floor as Winona intently watched, doe-like eyes unblinking, as if one single flicker would cause her to miss everything.

Quickly, Michael etched out a neat pentagram along the floor using only the liquid form of his and Winona's lives. The heat generating from the nearby candles was enough to make Winona slightly sweat. Michael dipped his index finger into a puddle of blood, capping off the satanic pentagram with a neatly drawn circle before discarding his blood-stained boxers and settling onto his knees, eyelids flickering shut. When Winona glanced down, she'd realized that the ghastly wound that only just claimed the surface of her skin had already sealed, as if it were never even there in the first place.

"Pater mi—vendere animam meam."

Winona's fingers met the clip of her bra, swiftly removing the small article of clothing before wiggling out of her panties, weighty exhales spilling over her bottom lip. Michael seemed to have drifted into a temporary trance, sloppily smearing the remainder of their blood along his bare skin. The warm glow of the candlelight shimmered along the stunning, scarlet liquid—causing a petite whine to emerge from an antsy Winona.

"Michael," she breathed, crawling towards the libidinous lad, who currently basked in the glorious feel of their exquisite blood.

Their mouths feverishly met, needy, razor-sharp nails digging against the blood-smeared flesh of Michael's collarbone. At the sudden contact, Winona whined, palm flattening against the warm, heaving flesh of his chest as Michael's heart drummed beneath her fingertips. His pulse quickened moment by moment, heavily hammering beneath her greedy touch before lurching forward, flattening Winona's body against the hand-drawn pentagram.

The blood beneath her back began to boil, the fervid liquid bubbling around her lanky limbs. Hands hurriedly roamed—fingers grasping, grazing, kneading—as Michael hoisted Winona's skinny little legs over his hips. Desperate lips strayed from the coldness of her mouth, dipping deeply to meet her neck as Winona released a chorus of animalistic groans. The boiling blood underneath her managed to singe her skin, earning irregular, conflicted moans as Michael unexpectedly eased into her warmth.

Winona cried out from a mixture of pure pleasure and sudden shock—trembling fingers entwining within Michael's locks as the bright, bold blood intermixed within the striking blond hue.

Instead of mumbling a series of reassuring phrases into her ear like she'd pictured—Michael murmured something soft, something strange. Something that made Winona's toes curl and her eyes rotate to the back of her skull as he repeatedly struck that incredibly sensitive spot deep within her, expertly so, as if he'd done this a million times before.

"Sertis inpedienda animabus nostris." He spoke, sealing the statement with an open-mouthed kiss as Winona outwardly groaned, fisting his hair. Whilst being wrapped up in all-things-Michael, Winona failed to notice the overwhelming amount of creepy, slithering snakes that, quite literally, had appeared out of thin air. The eerie reptiles slithered around their conjoined frames, audibly hissing and spitting as Winona began to see stars.

"Babe, I'm close," she whimpered, locking her legs around his hips as she urged him inward. Michael gasped at the sudden contact, palm flattening against the slick surface of the floor as he adjusted his posture and increased his pace. At this, Winona continually cried outward, digging her heels into his lower back as her back arched, an unbelievable array of vivacious, vibrant colors raiding her vision as she physically shook within his hold.

Michael instantaneously froze within her, failing to finish as he reveled in Winona's exaggerated release, her nails digging into the slick surface of his bloody back. Coolly and confidently, Michael uttered an eloquent incantation: "vacat vobis, liberum vincula tua."

Simultaneously, the very moment the final word left his lips, Michael's eyes rotated to the back of his skull, his arms weakening and legs shaking as he violently came undone—emptying himself dry into the squirming woman as she continued to ride out her high.

Lazily, their lips collided—wet, sopping, squelching. Michael purred a plethora of sweet nothings against her glistening skin, smearing bold streaks of scarlet along her stomach. Loving stares clashed, Winona's palm routinely hovering the heaving flesh of Michael's peck as his frantic heartbeat vibrated against her palm. Thus, that beautiful, blissful blur of blue promptly dissipated, masked by a heavy set of lids. Michael dramatically exhaled, tightening his hold on Winona's wiggling frame as the stagnant blood swirled around her clammy ass.

Michael's eyes reopened, revealing a striking set of stygian orbs—eyes so dark, so evil that Winona nearly felt her nonexistent breaths hitch within her throat. His swollen lips parted, graveled, husky voice announcing: "Ave satanas."

Winona seized beneath him, discharging a garish scream. Michael dipped back into consciousness, an overwhelming sense of worry riddling his every fiber as frantic eyes flew open.

When his vision finally steadied, he was greeted with an empty room and a cold breeze, one which extinguished the flames of the candles and left the lonely boy in stark darkness.

Gasping, Michael let out a defeated whine, one that actually mimicked the tone of a small child. "Winnie?"

His surroundings almost instantly faded to black, the front foyer of the mansion vanishing as an interesting image replaced it—a vision, perhaps? A hallucination? A bit of each?

Michael blinked once, twice, three entire times whilst shaking his head, a look of utter disbelief plastered across his drooping features. Wide eyes scaled the unfamiliar area, his bare, knobby knees sinking deeply within the cold, sharp-bladed grass. The whistling wind kissed the apples of his cheeks, leaving behind a warm, crimson blush as he frantically glanced at his surroundings. The clouds cloaked the nighttime sky with an eerie essence of death and despair, sharp gusts of wind howling between the dramatically swaying trees as Michael studied the atmosphere. A multitude of old, cracked headstones littered the immediate area, but one in particular seemed to stick out like a sore thumb . . .

⁂

The defunct grass crunched beneath the sturdy soles of his rubber boots, incessant murmurs graciously filling the void as a rather irate and impatient Michael Langdon scaled one of the largest graveyards in Los Angeles. Crickets creaked within the nearby rustling bushes, violent gusts of wind sending his golden blond locks amiss.

Of course she'd be buried here, of all places.

It was nearly four-forty in the morning, and Michael managed to save some time simply by using transmutation to travel to the graveyard some eleven miles away from the nefarious Murder House. Although he was on a mission to locate his love's grave, he couldn't help but repeatedly recall the vivid visuals of their second time together—of the official consummation of their relationship. He swore that he could still feel Winona's warmth contracting around him, and the thought alone was enough to make him partially hard beneath the fabric of his skin-tight jeans.

He found her buried beside her mother. A bland, boring old stone; grassy weeds flourishing along the rectangular base like an ugly infestation. Michael scowled at the sight, steadying himself at the foot of her grave as his enclosed fist extended, hovering over the tightly-packed area. Routinely, those beautiful blue orbs rotated upwards into the expanse of his skull, flickering eyelids slipping closed. The outside air was sticky and cold, generating a series of exaggerated goosebumps to raise along the length of his neck. Swiftly, his whitened knuckles tediously cracked, palm flattening out over Winona's grave as the inaudible incantation oozed from the depths of his soul.

And . . . Nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing happened. The cemetery was eerie empty, completely quiet, and Winona's grave remained unaltered. It was as if his Father was cackling at him–he was to be forced to manually dig Winona from the prison of her eternal tomb.

Michael figured the shovel that was propped up on a neighboring gravestone was no coincidence. With a huff and a stomp, a very vexed Michael Langdon folded his skinny arms over his chest, rolling his eyes to the heavens.

"Really, Father?" He grumbled, his tone that of a cranky child. "Nothing can ever be simple with you, can it?"

Crickets chirped as twigs crackled underneath the paws of unsuspecting critters, but an answer did not come. Michael continued to causally–angrily–mutter to himself as he sank the ancient shovel into the ground. It did not take long before beads of sweat formed on his crinkled forehead, dripping over the slope of his nose as his hair plastered to his skin.

Michael could have sworn he felt fresh calluses forming on his palms—formerly virgin to any form of hard work or manual labor. Truth be told, the only person that he would ever dare to exert himself in such strenuous fashion was his Winona.

"One would think that the son of Satan would be exempt from having to perform such a lowly task," Michael spat from between bared teeth. He was growing tired of his Father's antics, and thought that he deserved more reverence and respect after the ordeal of which he had suffered from in the woods.

. . . after the loss of his precious Miriam Mead.

It was true that the fiasco that had ended with him ripping the horns from a goat's head had been of his own doing—but still.

After what seemed like an absolute eternity—the palms of his hands raw and numb from the aging wooden shovel—Winona's sealed casket was revealed. Cheaply made wood concealed the beautiful woman, who was surely nothing but a bag of bones. With Michael's luck, he'd probably managed to wipe her clean from existence.

Luckily, Langdon was able to levitate the casket upwards and out of the six-foot deep hole—rotting wood box hovering the surface as the blond bloke fell to his knees, manually unlatching the hooks with nimble fingers. All the while, the irate boy murmured a series of pathetic pleas, helplessly hoping that Winona Wexler wouldn't be completely decomposed within the box.

The sight of a definitely dead Winona stole Michael's breath, lips contorting into that of a slitted smirk. Although the teenage girl laid lifeless within the casket, she was entirely intact; not a lick of decomposition present. Her lanky limbs were clad in some sleek black dress, floor length, gently kissing the rounded nubs of her cold toes. She looked absolutely stunning, and Michael couldn't help but gleefully grin as he ran his fingers through her soft, silken hair.

With a weighty exhale, Michael rotated his palm over the expanse of her unmoving chest, fingers curling inwards to create a taunt fist. His eyelids fluttered closed as he emitted a pent up exhale, a solitary, disparaging thought worming worrily through his brain.

What if it didn't work?

With the utmost determination, Michael's clenched fist collided with the cold flesh over Winona's heart, kick-starting the dormant organ to life. Almost instantly, Winona's bluish tinted eyelids batted open and closed as she sucked in an abundance of air through sputtered coughs. It was as if a thick layer of dust had taken up residence over and inside her weakened lungs as the blood began to flow like fire within her veins.

She looked down at her limbs, at Michael Langdon straddling her midsection, unable to fathom how she was suddenly alive and breathing. It was as if she had woken up from a particularly paralyzing nightmare and was left confused and reeling from anxiety. Winona was hesitant to close her eyes, mortified that the very moment she reopened them that she would find herself right back in the hellhole she had haunted for far more years than she had been allowed to live.

Tears spilled onto her skin, muffled cries tumbling from between her trembling lips as she bolted upright in her coffin. Michael's hands cradled her face, the pads of his reddened thumbs repeatedly stroking her rounded cheeks while gentle, soothing whispers effortlessly slipped off of his tongue. The young man was tangled within an intricate web of emotions–he had experienced so much suffering, so much loss in the few years he had been alive that this feeling of raw joy was nearly too much to bear. He cried, overtaken by the sheer sensation of divine thankfulness as he tenderly, yet assertively molded his lips over Winona's.

She came to life even more so as their hungry mouths couldn't find the will to part. Their loving pants mingled with the gentle, sweet whisper of leaves in the wind as Winona arched her little leg upward, caressing Michael's thigh and backside with the freezing flesh of her dainty bare foot. Michael's greedy hands wandered over the expanse of her velvety smooth skin, his touch leaving chilled goosebumps over her porcelain complexion as he trailed his teasing fingertips over the top of her foot. The girl giggled breathlessly into his mouth as bright, matching smiles claimed their lips.

"It appears as if you've lost your shoe again, my love," Michael breathed, his azure eyes darkening with a promising, lustful hue.

"Good thing I have you to carry me," Winona lightly taunted, affectionately brushing the tip of her buttoned nose against his more prominent one.

"Always."

Out of habit and a longing for comfort, Winona rested her palm over Michael's beating heart. The soft thumping caused warmth to flood through her bones as if it were the melody to a long lost lullaby. Raising his brow with a slight smirk, Michael gently pried away Winona's touch in order to flatten her hand over her own chest. Michael watched in admiration as a look of pleasant shock contorted her features at the alien sensation of the feel of her own drumming heart—something she hadn't felt in nearly three decades.

Suddenly, it dawned on Winona that all of this was truly real. Michael had freed her, saved her. In that moment, she knew that no one had ever felt such world altering adoration. Every love song that had ever been written, every profession of amorous devotion twined by the lips of poets could never actually covey the binding ties of their love.

"My heart will always belong to you," Winona whimpered, remembering how the blond boy had uttered those same words on a separate occasion.

Though their story was twisted by sin and the devil, it was a tale as old as time, yet profoundly different than anything ever told before—somewhere in between heaven and hell.