One

The room is quiet. There isn't much light, but he can still see the place has been torn apart. A desk and an executive's chair stand before an entire wall of large windows. There's a pile of black suits strewn on the floor at the foot of the staircase. CDs and DVDs have been pulled out of the wall unit. Someone has taken a sledge hammer to the piano. Someone was looking for something.

Bits of shattered glass crunch beneath the thick rubber soles of his boots. He gazes around, wondering why they asked him to meet them here. He doesn't know what this place is, or its significance. He thought they would have better taste than this, a ransacked penthouse. But he's used to this kind of scenario – looted apartments and office spaces. They're great places to hide. No one ever returns to them.

He starts to wonder who the previous owner of this place is. No doubt he'll find out in a few moments. For the time being, his mind wanders. The guy was rich, that's certain; the designer suits are evidence enough, and the piano is a baby grand. He wonders what kind of business the guy conducted. He knows, from experience, that anyone who has this much money can't be a simple, honest entrepreneur. Honesty doesn't get you this kind of luxury.

"Impressive, isn't it?"

He looks up. Another man is standing at the top of the staircase. He locks his knees back, anchoring himself.

"What is this place?"

"The former penthouse of a very dangerous man."

"Someone tore it to shit."

"We went through it before you arrived."

"You're Hollum?"

"Yes."

"You wanna come down here, maybe? I've got a kink in my neck."

Hollum chuckles and slowly descends the stairs.

He watches as Hollum makes his way to the desk, which has escaped the search relatively unscathed. He's trying to see what he looks like, but most of the lights are off. All he can tell for certain is he's young, scarcely past thirty, and thin. He shivers, then notices one of the windows is open. Cold air has started to blow throughout the room, ruffling some of the papers that are lying on the carpet. Hollum sits down on the executive chair.

"I've got something very important to discuss with you," he says.

"Can I turn on a light?"

"No."

He laughs lightly at the straightforward manner of Hollum's response. "Are you familiar with the name Albert Wesker?"

The smile quickly fades from his face.

"Why?"

"Yes or no?"

"Yeah, I know it."

"If you know the name, then you more than likely know why you're here."

He folds his arms, tries to look Hollum in the eye. A pot light in the corner is bright enough to reflect off Hollum's hair; it's strawberry blonde.

"You expect me to go after him?"

"I'd like you to do what you can."

"Which is what?"

"Wesker, as I said before, is a very dangerous individual. I want him apprehended." Hollum leans forward. He can discern a long, pointed nose and thin lips. "But, of course, if you're not comfortable with arresting him yourself…"

"What's in it for me?"

"Immunity."

He looks away, his eyes falling on a right-handed chaise that's been torn apart with a knife. He's sceptical. He's been offered the same thing in the past, and it always came with a sacrifice. There's no reason to believe it now.

"What's the catch?"

"No catch. I suggest you keep your head down, however. No strings will be pulled unless he's successfully taken in."

"You can pull strings?" he asks, the cynicism sneaking into his voice.

"Yes."

"What if I say no?"

"That's your choice. Before you do, though, there's something I'd like you to see." Hollum holds his hand up, and he hears a jangling sound. Suspicious, he strides forward. He's not too far away when he finally realizes what Hollum is dangling between his fingers.

Dog tags.

"We found these," Hollum says, "during our search. Do you recognize them?"

He nods.

"They belong to a member of my intelligence team," he continues. "Rebecca Chambers. I have reason to believe Miss Chambers is now under Wesker's influence."

"Influence?" he mutters. He's getting angry.

"He's a man of many talents. Mind control being one of them."

"Brainwashed?"

"More than likely."

He takes a deep breath and releases it as silently as he can. It's best not to show too much emotion at times like this. "I want Miss Chambers returned safely, and I want Wesker in custody. You, I'm told, are quite adept at moving in and out of the shadows, given your current predicament. Bring him in alive and I'll make sure you can walk the streets a free man." Hollum leans back.

The offer has been made.

And he doesn't have to think twice.

"You got it."

He's about to leave.

"Mr. Coen," Hollum says, a tone of warning in his voice.

He stops. "I want him alive, do you understand? Despite the logistics of our meeting, this is a legitimate operation. And Miss Chambers' safety is of the utmost importance."

Billy nods.

"Nothing'll happen to Rebecca," he replies. "I guarantee it."

Wesker, on the other hand… he's a fuckin' dead man.

Two

Leon and Claire are at a gas station somewhere in the mid west. It's 6:30 pm. They've been driving for hours, drinking coffee and taking turns at the wheel. Claire insisted on getting Cumberland back into protective custody. Leon doesn't think it's a good idea; good or bad, the sides are no longer easily defined. But there was no other choice. The road they chose to follow left civilization behind hours ago. Aside from one or two truck stops, all they could see for miles was barren country side and the occasional cluster of trees. They haven't spoken much.

This isn't a road trip, of course. This is business. Still, there's a feeling of freedom that comes with this long drive. They're grateful that, for the time being, the only thing they have to concentrate on is escaping. It's early in the flight; these hours are crucial; they're the only chance the team has of disappearing before someone, somewhere, is given the task of tracking them down. As soon as they passed beyond the city limits, Claire turned on the radio. She kept it on a lower volume at first, until a song Leon liked came on. Then he leaned over and cranked it. Claire didn't mind the noise at all, not even when the bass reverberated so loudly the speakers gave off a buzzing sound. She was just relieved she didn't have to say anything.

Now at the pump, Claire is still kicking herself for what happened. Her hands stayed tightly around the steering wheel the whole time; she had to force herself to move them if she had an itch. She's paranoid that even the slightest move she makes will remind Leon of the things she said, the things she did, the decisions she thought were best. She's afraid anything she says now is going to be dismissed, that he's not going to trust her choices again. Almost ten years have passed, and she still hasn't learned; the people in authority are not necessarily people she should rely on.

Same shit, different day.

She kept on stealing glances at Leon, all the time wondering what he was thinking. Leon's face, however, never gives too much away.

Leon watches the numbers as they climb on the meter. He has no idea where they should stop, or when. His superiors at the SS have tried to contact him a couple of times over the past several hours. He's not answering his phone. For the first time in a long time, he's made the decision not to answer to anyone. They'll probably try to track him down, but he doesn't care. If anything, their training has worked too well. He knows how to stay out of sight. He smiles to himself. He had no idea sticking it to the man would feel so liberating. He hasn't felt this way in a long time.

Not since he quit the force.

He turns and watches Claire in the rear-view mirror of the car. Of course, she drives a Mustang. He wouldn't expect anything less than a Mustang for her. He sees her drumming her fingers on the trunk; she's waiting for the $20 mark. The look on her face, the position of her body, reminds him of a summer he spent working at a gas station when he was sixteen. He would pretend to be reading a comic book, but instead his eyes would peer over the edge of the page at the girls who came by to fill up. The cutest ones were older and had their own cars. Leon's always had a thing for older women, though he won't admit it to anyone. Claire pulls the nozzle out of the tank and replaces it in its cradle, then screws the cap back on the tank and flips the little door shut. She turns and heads inside to pay. Nostalgic, Leon takes a good, long look at her ass.

He blushes.

The gas station doubles as a 7-11. Inside, the song playing over the speakers is an older rock tune, and one of Claire's guilty pleasures. She'd never confess she likes it to anyone; there's something about it that embarrasses her, though she loves the melody and corny lyrics. She stands in line, waiting for the customer in front of her to finish making a purchase before she has to step up and pay for the gas. There are open boxes of candy sitting on the counter top. Claire recognizes them all from her childhood; the red and black liquorice, the cherry bombs, the pop rocks. She remembers playing in the street with friends she hasn't seen in years, the stupid things they said to each other, the favourite sayings and Saturday morning cartoons. She smiles.

How the hell did I get here?

As the customer ahead of her starts to argue with the clerk, Claire tries to remember every choice she made that led her here, to this gas station, on this night, and under these circumstances. It's impossible to count them all, impossible to say where she made her first mistake. There are too many things to consider; her parents, her friends, even Chris. Every day she made one choice over another; and every hour several hundred more choices to boot. Nothing stands out as obvious, as something she should have known to avoid in order to escape this fate.

Fate… am I gonna call it that now?

Leon's stomach starts to rumble. He wonders when the next truck stop will be, thinks about where they're going to spend the night. He knows their ultimate destination, but they won't reach it for at least another 18 hours. He groans and runs a hand through his hair, then rubs his tired eyes. He used to make trips like this with his father, years ago, when they went fishing or visited his grandmother. Leon loved getting take-away burgers and fries and eating them in the car as they drove. His dad told the same story every time, too; about when he first got his driver's license, and how he immediately went to a diner and bought greasy fast food to eat in his mother's station wagon. Leon closes his eyes and smiles.

He doesn't know how he ended up here either.

Leon keeps his eyes closed and listens as Claire puts the key into the ignition and starts the car. After a moment, he feels her looking at him and opens them again.

Claire is holding a Slushie out to him.

"No way," he sighs happily.

"I thought you'd like one," she says.

He sits up and reaches for it.

"I would. Thanks."

"We should stop at the next restaurant and get something to eat," she says. "Are you hungry?"

"Yup. You?" he asks. He lays the straw against his bottom lip. Claire looks away.

"I could go for a burger."

"Me too."

He sips the drink, then smiles at her. "How'd you know?"

"Know what?"

"My favourite flavour."

She grins.

"It's blue. Blue isn't a flavour."

"Yeah it is. Tastes like blue."

She shrugs.

"Lucky guess."

He keeps looking at her, hoping he can get her to smile.

"Good choice, Captain," he says.

Her heart skips.

"Thanks," she murmurs.

They pull out of the gas station and head into the dusk.

Three

1:30 am.

Rebecca is leaning against a brick wall. She's watching a group of four men as they finish their shift. She can't understand what they're saying, but they seem to be in a good mood. They call to each other, laugh heartily. One of them busies himself by pulling a long metal fence closed and securing it with a pad lock. They're dressed heavily in thick coats and hats. It's cold; the weather report said that night the temperature would drop to just above freezing. Rebecca doesn't feel the chill. She's too focused on the task at hand.

She's waiting for his next transmission. He told her it would occur when she reached the correct destination. He's tracking her, but she's not sure how. The equipment he's provided her with is extremely advanced; the gadgets are polished metal and chrome, the uniform is black and expertly tailored. He spent the last week training her to use the positioning devices correctly. Rebecca's gaze narrows as the men start to dissipate. She's wearing black leather firing gloves.

Somewhere in the distance a train horn sounds. This is an industrial area. The building is large and grey and looks like a giant cement block. A chain-link fence, topped with razor-wire, surrounds the entire complex. She's done her research on this facility. They don't employ guard dogs. The information is comforting; ever since that night, she's been afraid of large breeds.

Her PCD starts to beep. She pulls it out of her breast pocket, pushes the correct button. His face appears on the screen. As usual, he's inscrutable. "Report, Miss Chambers."

"I'm outside the facility," she says.

"How many of them are there?"

"Four. They look like they're leaving."

"There's an elevator located in the northern wing of the complex," he says steadily. "Make your way there when they're all gone. Stay close to the walls. We don't want you showing up on any surveillance footage."

"Understood."

"The elevator requires a key for operation," he continues. "You'll have to climb the cables to get to the third floor."

"Do you want me to contact you when I get there?"

"That's not necessary. I'll know when you're successful."

"Alright."

He ends the transmission abruptly, his image disappearing in a crackle of static.

When the men have finally driven away, Rebecca makes her move. She heads for the complex, her head bowed, and takes a pair of wire clippers out from the pocket of her harness. Steadily, and with tremendous speed, she goes to work on cutting the links in the fence. She's surprised she's able to move so quickly. If someone had told her a few weeks ago that she'd be able to move this way, that she'd be breaking into a structure like this, in the dead of night, with his orders echoing in her ears, she wouldn't have believed them.

She laughs as the thought occurs to her. It's about time she started to expect the unexpected.

With this kind of equipment the fence is easily bypassed. Rebecca heads to the north end of the complex and sees a small window leading to the men's bathroom of the facility. Just as she suspected, it's open. She gets the leverage she needs from a nearby crate and slips into the building feet first. She pauses briefly, listens for any approaching footsteps that she didn't anticipate. When all is clear, she leaves the lavatory and makes her way to the elevator. It's a load bearing elevator, the kind large enough to move heavy wooden skids, and is exactly where he told her it would be. The doors are open, and she steps inside. Just as he said, the elevator can't be operated without a key. Rebecca looks up at the thick black cables. A grappling hook is the next tool she uses to hoist herself onto the top of the cart. In a moment, she's climbing the cables.

She thinks about the last couple of weeks. He was exceptionally focused on honing her skills, didn't crack a single smile as he told her exactly what she needed to know if she wanted to continue. It reminded her of her days with S.T.A.R.S., of the first time she ever laid eyes on him during the first training seminar he gave the team. He spoke like a disciplined soldier, and she almost felt as if she'd joined the army. The various disciplines he's mastered are staggering in number. He's a true Renaissance man. Since that first session all those years ago, she's come to know a different side of him; a side that's more demure, but just as uncompromising.

And she'd do anything for him.

When she arrives at the third floor she swings with enough momentum to land on the hard concrete. She falls forward onto her hands, mutters a curse before standing upright and looking around. Two long hallways stretch out, one in front of her, the other leading off to the right. Hundreds of doors are lined up along the way. She doesn't know what's behind the other doors. She's only concerned with the door he's sent her to find. She still doesn't know which one it is. It doesn't take long for her to find out. Her PCD beeps again. She answers it. "Well done, Miss Chambers."

"Thanks."

"I trust the cables didn't give you too much trouble?"

"Not at all."

"Good. Take the corridor to your right until you reach unit C2236. You'll be presented with a combination lock. To open it, enter the following code: 09-01-60."

Rebecca smirks.

"Any significance with that number?"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss it with you now, Miss Chambers."

He sounds serious. She doesn't press him further.

She walks down the corridor. The air is stale and smells of mildew. She's reminded of the old facility back in the States. She remembers the run down equipment, the dusty rooms and lack of supplies. She wonders how everyone's doing now that the whole thing has gone to shit. Claire is probably worried sick, Leon as calm as ever; Jill's most likely struggling with her emotions. She's always been sensitive.

And Chris; angry as ever. But trying his best.

Rebecca finally reaches unit C2236. She kneels in front of the lock. She can tell it hasn't been touched in a very long time; the dial sticks a little as she turns it. Still, she spins it until the correct code has been entered, then takes it off the latch. She opens the door. There's a light switch to her left. She flips it, and a bright, naked bulb turns on, illuminating the space. The unit can't be more than 6' by 6'. The floor is carpeted and free of debris. The shelves are empty. The only thing in the unit is a small, black box. Rebecca crouches down, picks up the box, and opens it.

She can't believe what she sees.

Her PCD beeps again. She answers it. "You've succeeded, I suppose?"

She nods, but is too overwhelmed to answer. "You look unwell," he says.

"No, I'm not, I'm just… I just can't believe…" She pauses. "Is this what I think it is?"

"It's exactly what you think it is," he replies.

She laughs lightly, more out of disbelief than anything else.

"Oh…"

"It's the only one in existence. Its whereabouts has remained hidden, of course, for obvious reasons. I have you to thank for retrieving it for me."

She continues to look at it, fascinated. "Now, head for the…"

He stops suddenly.

Rebecca looks at his image. Something has caught his attention.

"What's wrong?"

His tone changes. He speaks to her steadily, but with urgency.

"Listen to me carefully," he says. "Go to the end of the hallway and make a left. You'll see a ventilation shaft about fifty feet ahead of you. Get into the shaft and follow it to the first bend, then turn right."

Rebecca can tell something is wrong. She doesn't ask what. "Exit the shaft through the second grate," he continues. "The room has a window that looks out onto a stretch of roof. Leave the complex through that window and meet me at the rendezvous point as soon as you're able."

"Right."

"And think about how I can reward you, Miss Chambers."

She smiles.

"Will do."

"I'll be in touch," he says. The transmission ends.

He slides out of his chair, reaches for his jacket, and heads for the door. He's going to pick her up himself.

Someone is following her.

Four

The sun is setting on the horizon. It's quiet, hot, and sticky. It's dry enough that clouds of dust are being churned up by the slightest breeze. Black birds are circling overhead, though there isn't much on the ground to peck at. It's a ghost town, right out of a Hollywood Western.

Jill thought she would be more emotional, but she isn't. Her arms are hanging at her sides, and she's slouching. Now that they're here, she just feels exhausted. Too much time has passed. She looks around her, at what was once Main Street, and tries to remember, tries to feel something other than numbness. It's not working.

Ahead of her, Chris is sitting on his haunches. He's clasping a handful of dust in his hands and staring off. He wanted to come here, convinced Jill to come with him. He's needed this. It's funny, now that he thinks about it. He never thought he'd want to come back, to see where it all began. It used to be a sweet memory, but something's poisoned it. All he can hear now are innocent people screaming. All he can smell is death.

All he can think of is him.

Wesker.

Chris looks back over his shoulder. Jill is looking past him at where the earth meets the sky. "Hey," he says.

She meets his gaze.

"Hey," she says softly.

He looks down at the dirt in his hands.

"Thanks for humouring me."

"What do you mean?"

"For coming here with me."

She smiles sadly and shrugs.

"What the hell else do I have to do now?"

He chuckles and lets the dust slip through his fingers.

"I used to go for drinks over there," he says, pointing at an area. "That was Terry's Pub. Best wings in Raccoon."

Jill smiles.

"I remember that place," she says. "Half priced wings on Wednesdays."

"Oh man, those were the best."

"Yeah. Remember we used to pick them up and bring them back to the station?"

"The only thing I liked about working Wednesdays," he nods. "Didn't have to wait as long."

"That's because they thought you'd arrest them," she teases him.

"And they were right. Man, those were some good wings."

He looks at her. She doesn't know what else to do, so she smiles.

Chris has jogged Jill's memory. She starts to recall bits of conversations she had with friends, when she was out on weekends. She thinks about places she used to visit, the sights and smells of the neighbourhood, the people who she saw every day, even the ones she didn't know by name. She rubs her hands down the sides of her pants, looks around again. Everything is gone. Despite her recollections, she can't feel a thing. The blast obliterated everything.

Jill included.

"What do we do now?" she asks Chris.

He shakes his head.

"Wait for Claire to call, then hook up at the rendezvous point."

"I'd like to know where it is," she says, annoyed that they're still being kept in the dark.

"So would I. Leon knows a place, she said."

Jill catches the tone in Chris' voice.

"You don't sound too happy about that."

He sighs, then looks at her again.

"You wanna know something, Jilly?" he asks. "I don't trust Leon. Not as far as I can throw him."

Jill knew things between Chris and Leon were strained. She didn't know exactly how much, though.

"Why not?"

Chris stands and walks over to her.

"He's shady."

"Yeah?"

"You know he's shady, I'm not off on this."

"He seems alright to me."

Chris puts his hands on his hips and looks around. He doesn't want to look Jill in the eye. He doesn't want her to guess what he's thinking.

She will, though.

The minute Leon volunteered to go with Claire, Chris' back was up. He tried not to let anyone notice, though he suspects Jill could sense his trepidation at the time, and now as well. Leon is a highly-trained government agent; there's no doubt that he's familiar with subterfuge. He's aware that Leon has been seeing Ada Wong, understands that Ada was working for Hollum. Who can say that her loyalties haven't changed?

He also knows, for a fact, that Leon isn't as discerning about his relationships with women as Claire might think.

He's worried.

Jill can see the tension on Chris' face. She doesn't ask what he's thinking. She can read him like a book, but he still deserves his privacy. Part of that is the right to not voice every concern he has to her. At least not right away. It all comes out eventually. It always does.

"This is some fucked up road trip, huh?" he asks. "Like chasing down a freak show." He looks around.

"Yeah," she says.

"And now he's got Rebecca."

"It wasn't just him, Chris. It was a whole organization."

"You feel sorry for him," he says, challenging, his temper rising.

She nods.

"A little, yeah."

Chris' jaw tightens.

"Why?"

"He was just as much a victim as everybody else."

"He did a lot of damage, Jill. Killed a lot of people. Horrible things."

"I know."

"And you feel sorry for him?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Because I know what it's like to have someone tell you what your place in life is," she says. "I know what it's like to have someone choose for you."

"What's that like?"

She can only think of one thing to say. It's a little dramatic; she can't say it without a small smile, even though it isn't funny. "Like being an orphan."

Chris looks away. He knows exactly what she means. He's selfish, however.

He doesn't want it to be true for everyone.

She reaches out, takes his hand. He squeezes her fingers in his. The remnants of the sand scratches her skin, but she doesn't mind.

"I can't believe it's gone," he murmurs.

"Me neither."

"Did they have to blow it all to hell?" He looks at her. "Did they really have to blow it all to hell?"

She shakes her head, and shrugs, helplessly. "I don't know…"

Five

"Try and hit me."

When he first stepped into the room she nearly started to laugh. He's wearing a black, form fitting tank top, blue canvas pants that have buttons that snap closed up the sides, and running shoes. The muscles in his arms and shoulders are exposed to the light and air, and are so clearly defined they cast shadows on his pale skin. Even beneath the top, she can still see his well-toned abdomen.

Who better to train her for her new, clandestine career?

This is the first time since his stint in the holding cell that she's seen him wear something other than a suit. He's still wearing his glasses, of course, and his gloves. But the way he circles her slowly, waiting for her to throw the first punch, makes him look athletic. And she wanted to laugh because she was taken aback, couldn't help but want to demonstrate her delight. To her, he's never looked better.

Rebecca's cheeks flush. She grins.

"I can't hit you," she says.

"Are you sure?"

"Well…" She rolls her eyes, runs her hand through her hair nervously. "Come on!"

He smiles.

"One punch."

She squeezes her eyes shut, puts her hands over her face, embarrassed. When she takes them away again, he's still looking at her. "One punch," he says again, his voice low, his smile remaining. "Come on now."

"If I actually hit you, it's because you let me."

"Perhaps you'll land one of your own accord."

"Yeah, right."

He steps up close to her. Even dressed like this, she can still smell his cologne.

"I'll make it worth your while, Miss Chambers," he says.

She looks up at him, beaming. She likes him this way.

This retreat, as he calls it, is located somewhere in the mountains. Rebecca's not sure where exactly. It's not a very large place, though it has a gym and other facilities, but it's beautifully decorated and offers a gorgeous view of the summits. She doesn't know if he owns it, if he had it built specifically for him; other than the two of them, there's a staff of three which consists of a cook and two young women acting as chambermaids. The staff surprised her when she first met them. She was so used to being alone with him, to being waited on solely by him.

He must have taken her threat seriously. It's endearing.

She starts to circle too, to keep the distance between them, and tries to plan a move, to surprise him. She doesn't know how serious he is about her landing a punch. There's no way she'd be able to do it. He's too fast, too strong, too cunning. She tries to keep focused on the task at hand, but her eyes keep drifting over his body, keep taking in his form, his stance.

He can tell she's not concentrating, and that he's the reason she's distracted.

"Something wrong?" he asks with a sly grin.

She shakes her head. "Focus now. You can do this."

"Who are you? Morpheus?" she says with a laugh.

He nods.

"Yup," he replies jauntily.

"You saw that movie?"

"Mm-hmmm."

"Did you like it?"

"It's one of my favourites."

She grins, keeps circling.

"Really?"

"For an action movie, it's pretty good."

"I didn't think you watched movies like that."

"Don't change the subject. Hit me."

She wonders if he ever thinks about those weeks, now that they're over. She wonders if it tore him up as much as he said it did. She refused to talk to him, to even look at him. She wanted to hurt him, and he was cruel in response and lashed out. The mood now, however, as they move across the floor, as he trains her the way he was trained, is playful, fun. Apologies have been accepted. But not completely. Something remains. She's pushing it aside.

And she wonders if he's pushing it aside too.

Rebecca lunges at him, the way he told her to. Of course, he's lightening fast and dodges her blow. She strikes back with her leg, taking comfort in the fact that no matter how hard she tries, she can't physically harm him. Again, he steps out of her way effortlessly. At one point he stops, watching her as she contemplates her next move. He pretends to yawn, and they both laugh as he once again disappears in a blur of motion before she can barely graze him. She goes over his words in her head as he dodges every punch she throws, remembers the things he told her to keep in mind, the ways in which she can outsmart any opponent. Suddenly she brings up her hand, and he stops, his cheek inches away from her knuckles.

They smile at each other.

"You would've landed that one."

He's proud of her.

She lowers her chin, looks at him through her lashes with large, green eyes ablaze.

"You let me win," she murmurs, slipping her arms around him.

"Maybe," he says. He takes her hands, holds them behind his back, and heads for the steam room, leading her along with him.

"The real bad guys won't let me win."

"They won't have to," he says with a grin, his lips just out of reach as she tries to kiss him.

"You're ruining my hand-to-hand combat training," she points out.

"Don't worry, dear heart," he says as he opens the door and brings her into the mist. "I can train you in other disciplines."

He turns her around and presses her up against the wall; she lays her cheek alongside the tiles, cool despite the heat of the steam, and closes her eyes when he starts to strip her. His hands, still gloved, still dangerous, remove her clothing roughly, masterfully, and tell her that she'll always be his pupil in matters like this. She sighs, bites her lip as his hips press against her. Her soft flesh exposed now to the heated vapour, all she can feel is the cool ceramic wall on her nipples, her stomach, her sex, her thighs; then, his black leather gloves, and his breath on her neck.

"You let me win," she says as his arm encircles her waist. She feels him slide out of his pants. Her knees get weak.

"Yes."

"I won't learn anything if you let me win."

"There's plenty of time for you to learn."

He takes off his shirt, his shorts. She feels him, stiff, against her backside. She bites her lip.

"What's this?" she says, testing him.

"This?"

"Yeah."

He grins, leans into her, his lips brushing her earlobe. "This is me," he whispers, "about to fuck you against a wall."

A wave of feeling, of sensitivity, rushes through her, and pools between her legs.

"Yeah?" she asks, knowing his answer already, but wanting to hear his voice again.

"Mm-hmmm."

He reaches up and takes hold of her hand, then listens to her moan softly as he slowly, inch by inch, penetrates her willing body.

His stance wide, his legs apart, he holds her and thrusts inside her gently. She reaches back and feels the smooth skin and toned muscles of his ass, feels how he tightens with each stroke. She whimpers as his hips start to churn, his sex swirling as he moves. He's eager to hit the one spot that instantly makes her surrender to him. Enveloped in the steam, both of them start to sweat, beads trickling down their bodies, mingling their scents, their longing.

"Albert…" she mewls, urging him to continue.

He smiles, bites her shoulder tenderly. "Yeah?" She doesn't answer. He chuckles. "Can't speak?" She moans. His hand dips down, his fingers seeking her. "Mmmm?" She shakes her head, hot and bothered by his goading, by the steam, by the musk of his balls. He presses his moistened cheek against hers. "Does that feel good?"

"Yes…" she sighs.

"Good…"

He thrusts deeper. She gasps, can feel him filling every part of her.

"Oh god…"

"I'm gonna teach you everything I know," he murmurs.

"Yes…"

"Would you like that?"

"Yes…"

"Mm-hmmm?"

She arches her back, her arms slide higher up on the tiled wall. He reaches up and pins both her wrists with one of his hands. "You're safe with me," he says softly.

"Safe…"

"I won't let anyone hurt you…"

She starts to swell. The condensation on the tiles causes her hands to slip, but he holds them there and doesn't let her go. "You're mine, Rebecca," he whispers, trying hard not to come yet, but losing the fight. "You'll always be mine."

"Yeah…" she agrees, succumbing to his hands, his cock, his voice.

"Always…"

"Yes…"

"Don't leave me…"

"I won't…"

"Promise me…"

"I promise…"

"Oh fuck… fuck…"

He mouths something he can't let her hear, then, his body trembling with pent up desire, he releases himself deep within her. He groans mercifully, his voice echoing throughout the room. It's not too long before she comes too, in the palm of his skilled and commanding hand, with a moan that's just as desperate, just as grateful.

He pulls out as slowly as he entered her, kissing the back of her neck as he withdraws. Her heart still pounding, she lets him hold her, listens to his breathing return to normal. They sigh, murmur things to each other, words that translate into nothing, but leave a feeling behind, like a delicate caress.

She's afraid to speak, afraid of breaking this beautiful spell.

She doesn't know it, but he's just as terrified.