Rosalind woke as the sun dipped into the horizon. Dusk draped itself over the land as flakes of snow fell lethargically upon the already heavy branches. Wrapped up in a wolf's skin, Rosalind slid her fingers through the soft fur and turned to where Caspian had laid the night before. Though she recalled him stripping her out of her wet clothes and falling asleep in his arms, she remembered little else. She had no clue as to why she had been in the bath, no recollection of the cold of the forest or her fall. As she rose and slipped into her now-dry shift, Rosalind caught sight of her bags and wondered just why they were there and not in her room.

Furrowing her brows, she gathered her dress and all her belongings. Outside, icicles had formed on the exterior of the window. They hung low and ominous as knives. Rosalind looked at them as they glistened. She thought of home and how, although she longed to see her father and brothers again, she wanted to remain with the lord. "Perhaps one day I will return," she whispered, "but not now. Not anytime soon, for how can I part from him for even a day?" Memories of the past few weeks no longer existed. Her return, Clairie's death, and learning about who she really was had all been locked in a little box and held under a veil of dark in some hidden part of her mind where she no longer had access to.

Moving out of the room, Rosalind headed down the hall and back into her own chamber where she tucked her bags under her bed and walked over to the wardrobe.

The gowns Caspian had gifted her hung in wait. She slid her hands over the pale colour of the blue dress before moving to the and yellow and pink. Offended by their soft hues, she pushed them to the side of the closet, as far away from her sight as possible. Rosalind looked to her left where the red and black dress hung like new skins. Moving to them, her finger spider-walked over the crimson dress, over the soft lace and chiffon. Removing it from the wardrobe, she decided she would wear it for dinner with the lord.

The long hem of the red dress trailed behind Rosalind like a river of blood as she descended the stairs. Her skin was paler than it had ever been, her eyes rimmed in natural rings of grey, yet her hair shone like polished onyx as it rested in soft waves down her back.

The gown bore a lacy front which decorated most of her cleavage. The sleeves rested above her elbows, snug as paint. Walking past the kitchen, she listened for signs of Agnes. Cocking her head, Rosalind heard nothing. Finding it odd that the maid had been absent all day, Rosalind wondered if the older woman was ill. As she entered the dining hall, Rosalind spotted Caspian standing by his chair, his hand resting lazily on the high back.

The lord's gaze followed her as she brushed past him with a feathery smile upon her lips. His eye darted to the lace covering her cleavage and the way the dress feathered from her hips. "Dark colours suit you," he said as he moved to her chair and helped her with it. "You would look ravishing in the black gown," he muttered as he brushed a lock of her hair off a shoulder and touched his lips to her skin.

As Caspian walked back to his own seat, Rosalind spoke. "I have never worn black before." Clairie's funeral lay in the far side of her memory, forgotten yet safe from a sad recollection. In Rosalind's thoughts, her dresses until tonight had been of pale or happy colours. Never had she worn one which resembled blood. As she brushed her hands over the smooth skirt, she smiled. "Perhaps I will wear darker shades more often."

Her wine glass had been set before her, the red wine stained the sides. Slipping the stem between her index and middle finger, she brought it to the edge of the table and peered inside. Rosalind took a breath, she smelt the bitter-sweetness of the wine. Pushing her glass away, she rose and headed towards Caspian's side. "You once told me that what was in your glass was different than what was in mine." Her fingers glazed over his knuckles before inching towards his drink. "I want to try it."

Growling softly at her touch, Caspian stopped her hand before she was able to take hold of his glass. "What I drink is –"

"I know what you drink, Caspian," Rosalind said cutting him off. "I know very well what it is." Sinking into his lap, she looked into his blue eyes. "Blood."

"And you desperately want to try?" he murmured as he held her close.

"Yes."

"Blood of another once-living thing..." reaching for a dinner knife, Caspian brought it to her arm and carefully trailed the tip over her skin, aching to draw blood.

"You drank from me," she reminded him as the sensation of the blade sent her shivering.

"More than once," he replied. "I loved the way it tasted and the way your breath hitched when I bit into your flesh." Caspian inched the dinner knife higher, up Rosalind's chest before making his way to her neck. "But I am a beast, you are not. What you are asking for is to step into a darkness you may not able able to return from."

Rosalind touched her fingertips to his thigh. As she spoke, she felt the sharpness of the blade sliding against her. "I am already in your darkness. And I desire to be pulled further in."

"Then come. Let me show you how beautiful darkness can be." Moving the knife from her neck, Caspian brought it to his and nicked his skin, enough to draw blood. "Drink from me."

Turning, Rosalind found herself being pulled to him as the sweet scent of blood came over her. It reminded her of candies, molasses, and the way his lips tasted when he kissed her. Touching her mouth to his neck, Rosalind lapped at the lord's blood as if she had been doing this all her life.

Caspian's hands wound to her back and the knife dropped with a metallic clunk. The pleasurable sensation of her suckling his neck was blinding. As she continued to drink his blood, the overwhelming desire to take her right there on the table throttled him into near-madness. He wanted to tell her to stop, yet he wanted her to go on. When she used her teeth to open the wound wider, Caspian moaned and slid his hand under her hair and around the back of her neck. Her warm skin felt the way the candles once had as hot wax had dripped over his flesh, burning and painful, yet every inch of agony was welcomed.

Before them, the feast lay untouched for now. The wild boar stared with its glassy eyes, watching in silent judgment as the mortal fed off the beast.

When Rosalind stopped, Caspian curved his fingers around raven curls and pulled her gently to face him. "Tell me what it is like," he said softly, "entering darkness of your own free will."

Licking the remaining drops of blood off her lips, Rosalind leaned into his grip. "Like a birth." Carefully pulling away from his embrace, she turned and looked at the table. Her gaze shifting to the roast pig. "Did you kill it?"

Caspian slid his index finger down her neck and dipped it under her collar. "Yes."

"You once told me you enjoy killing."

As his hand moved lower under her neckline, he nodded. "I like the way living things die. I like knowing I caused them to take their last breath."

Turning back to him, Rosalind cupped his face. "Take me hunting, Caspian," she said firmly. "I want to see what it is like."

"My lady," Caspian said startled. "What are you saying?"

Touching her forehead to his, she felt his blood cause a sweet pandemonium inside her. "I want to see what it is like to have something die."