They fought often. Viciously, without a thought of mercy or guilt.

She would not admit it, but the only time she felt she mattered to him was when they fought. When she tossed her scorching words at his back and watched him shrivel in contempt and rage. When she was held against the wall by her arms, his hands clenching her wrists so tightly they left bruises. She felt thrilled, amused, entertained by the way his green eyes caught fire and his lips spewed a thousand curses upon her.

He would not admit it, but he enjoyed her attention. It did not matter the ways he got it, so long as he did. Whether she tore at his cheeks with her nails or snarled biting words into the flesh of his neck. Whether she trailed kisses down his jaw or bruises down his back. Whether she hated him or loved him. None of it mattered, as long as she gave him her attention. As long as she looked at him with those icy eyes.

It was a bad habit the two of them have gotten into. Unhealthy. Lethal. On more than one occasion, one or both were at the mercy of the other, begging to keep their lives. At times, they wanted to end their little deadly game. But what fun would there to be had if the game ended?

And so they continued.

Neither would admit it to the other, but the only time either felt truly alive was when in the company of the other. She, because she's too prideful; and he, because he didn't want her to leave him.

For to leave him would be the greatest punishment she could ever give him. Without her, he would feel lost, hopeless. So he shall never admit his secret.