Your heart in her hands

There is a certain pleasure in causing them pain. To seduce and betray, to see how much they will suffer before it becomes unbearable to them. Until they beg her to stop. She does not stop, unless it is to prolong the torment.

Melisandra has never found it difficult to make people fall in love with her. Perhaps the hunt would be more compelling if it called for more effort. They fall so easily, into this insane and vulnerable state. It is a mystery to her, she has never felt for herself whatever it is that possesses them, but watching the process is entertaining.

A man can wake into absolute love, and crumple into utter despair in a matter of a few hours. She holds their hearts in her hands. Often this is not a metaphor.

Compulsion is something she does understand. She has been into the sea enough times, enthralled by the unspeakable ones who dwell there. Hunger, she understands perfectly. It is the softness that fascinates her. The wide eyed adoration that insists on seeing her as more than a beautiful monster. They are wrong, of course, but it is a curious experience seeing herself misreflected in their eyes. Melisandra has always enjoyed her own reflection, however distorted it may be.

The hunt is never truly satisfying. The hunger never leaves. No matter how she draws out the process, and regardless of any new variations she brings, it is never enough. In the end the bright eyes dull. The adoration is reduced to blood on her skin and entrails between her fingers. There is no substance to it. No matter how she pulls them apart, she cannot possess what she inspires. It slips from her grasp, perhaps before the dying breath. Their hearts are always mute in the end, and only so much flesh after all.

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