• He hadn’t expected the store to be pristine, exactly.

    Kittalyn had never truly been one for cleanliness. As long as her customers could walk in and out of her store with the ability to peruse her merchandise, the witch was happy. Ten years clearly had not changed that.

    The red-haired businessman looked up as a bell rang, signaling his entrance. He had been in the neighborhood and had decided to visit on a whim, thinking that perhaps Kittalyn had hired someone to help run the store should she need the day to herself. That, however, was not the case.

    Not that he minded – seeing his former friend was a refreshing sight after waking up next to Charlemagne for the past decade. The woman was, in all respects, boring and rather moronic. Even if she sometimes said nothing until he left to get dressed for work, the vacancy in her eyes as she smiled at him still gave him chills.

    It had been such a contrast, too, those first few years. After months of seeing nothing but deep chocolate brown – those eyes had been full of intelligence, full of love. Visinyne knew he still wasn't completely used to the change. Perhaps he never would be.

    As he tugged his son, Quartermaine, into the store, he happened to catch the keeper's eye. The familiar stirrings of butterflies welled in his stomach, and he had a difficult time waving them off.

    "Looking for something in particular?"

    She was talking to him, and for a moment he could not truly comprehend her. After all, it had been ten years.

    Nothing had changed, not much, anyway. She was a bit taller now, still not quite reaching his shoulder (The years had given him a few more inches), and her eyes had become hard, calculating. One thing that did remain the same, though, was her hair. It was still long, reaching somewhere toward the middle of her back and falling in unkempt ringlets.

    Curious.

    "Just browsing."

    Alastair let go of his son, allowing him to freely explore the store as he wished. Quartermaine was, ironically, the one child of his who had inherited his brains and penchant for pranks. He was also the only one that Charlemagne did not slobber over endlessly, which was why the entrepreneur usually took him with on his ventures to Visitech. One of his children needed to run the company someday.

    Even if none of them were named Alastair.

    "Browsing in a store like this?" The woman behind the counter shot him a pointed grin, but he could detect the bitterness in her voice. "Your wife won't mind at all?"

    "She doesn't know I'm here." Indeed, the only reason he had been able to shake his wife off at all was because she happened to be going dress shopping with Jessi and Wednesday. It wasn't often that they went without him, but money was money in her book, and he'd had a particularly important conference today.

    "I've seen you in the papers." Kittalyn watched the little blonde-haired boy toy with one of her stuffed demons. "You'll be having another one soon."

    The entrepreneur followed her gaze, watching his son with a weary eye. Yes, he would be a father again. But it was not, as one would have thought, a subject of happiness for him. In fact, he avoided it as often as he could - having children with his wife was almost equivalent to wasting sperm. Not that he would ever tell the press that.

    "How have you been?" Inquired Alastair, casting her a glance out of the corner of his eye. She could keep tabs on him all that she wanted, but he'd heard neither hide nor hair of Kittalyn since that fateful day ten years ago. She had been kidnapped, chained down, beaten and Dis knew what else. Of course, the witch had managed to escape eventually.

    A little too late for the wedding, though.

    The businessman could remember easily the way that she had barged through the doors, covered in cuts and bruises and rambling on about nothing in particular. He had always had eyes for her - his had been the first to notice. But the ties had been made, the rings exchanged. Charlemagne and he had been married, and Kittalyn had been too late to do anything about it.

    "I've been making a living." Kittalyn looked around the store with a sigh. She had only really read the papers because, out of a dwindling interest and a morbid sense of curiosity, she had wanted to see his face. That wasn't to say that she read every Sunday paper - it was too hard to keep up with all those air headed people. However, Alastair had made many front pages during his ten-year takeover of Visitech, establishing his position as the richest man in the world. It was easy to spot the rust-red hair and the all too familiar smile. A smile that he had perfected years before they had even met.

    A smile that he was, at the moment, not wearing.

    It was unnerving, seeing that grin again. She was willing to bet her entire shop on the fact that it had disappeared the moment that Charlemagne had forced his hand in marriage. Still so warm, and inviting - the witch studied the handsome face before her with a critical eye, carefully guarding herself against emotions that had been locked away. They were never to see the light of day again - not after that pain. After all the fighting, all the turbulent emotions, all the nights and every little game they had played, it had broken her to lose him. She'd had her lover torn away by a wench and a homewrecker who didn't even really have a claim to any place in his heart.

    It was always for the money. That was the type of society Alastar Visinyne the third had been raised in, and she, the impoverished delinquent, was an expendable casualty.

    She had, once, allowed herself to love. To hold and cherish him, and give her heart freely. The shopkeeper had known that he would take care of it, and it had been a fair trade, for it was a known fact between them that his own heart lay solely in her possessive hands. The witch had allowed herself to believe, for those two years, that someone or something would make a miracle happen. And for a while, the Gods had allowed her to treasure the effervescent gift. They were immutable. They were timeless. They were perfection.

    Shame that high society had stolen him away. Kittalyn had not seen or heard from her former lover, and they had drifted until each was a mere shadow against every bloody sunset - looming over them day after day, and sometimes - only sometimes - haunting them at night. She had thrown herself into her work, and fought the onslaught of murderous intentions that threatened to boil up her throat into a fresh deluge of frustrated tears. Over the years, the assault had been assuaged.

    And yet, there he stood. Breaking down her barriers one by one, as usual. Alastair had never truly needed any tactical advance. Like the water that he so loved, his words, his very presence ebbed and flowed, wearing away at the walls that she had had to rebuild over a decade of heartbreak. Llyich's teeth ground audibly as she huffed and looked away. He made it all look so easy.

    "Something bothering you, Kit?"

    "Don't call me that."

    "Come now, Lovely." Her brown eyes swiveled to glare at the magician, and narrowed at the cat-like smirk she received in return. "I haven't seen you in ten years, but don't insult my intelligence."

    "Damn it, Alastair - "

    "I miss you."

    "What?" The tender demanded, off-put by the change of pace.

    "I miss you." The entrepreneur sighed, pulling a hand through his bright red spikes. "And I know you miss me too. Why else would you be so angry? Or keep your hair that long? I just can't stand knowing… Knowing that I married Charlemagne, that I didn't put up a bigger fight. Knowing that I could have been so much better off. We could have been so much better off."

    Visinyne gave a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "You know the worst part? I can't even think ahead anymore. I'm too stuck here, in the past. With you. Can you imagine that? I was in the office one day, looking out through the window, down at the city. We could be taking it over by now, you and I. Terrorizing it. Like in high school. And it's frustrating to know that I can't do a thing about it… I can't even get divorced or else she'll draw out all of my work - the public would crucify me. They'd murder my father."

    The Cambion shook his head. It had never mattered before. In the confines of Eirenharzt, trapped in the walls of ice where virtually no one could have reached them, he had been safe in his assumption that he and Kittalyn could make a clean break with the rest of reality. That he would not have to be with his betrothed and would be able to take his lover's hand in marriage one day. Up there, in the sky, dire consequences of things like divorce had never occurred to him. Now, they were all too real, and all too much a threat to his family to ever risk. "Don't you wish it hadn't happened this way?"

    The witch stared at him, impassive. Of course she wished that it hadn't happened that way. She wished that she had been able to free herself from the Kingstons' hold and make it to the wedding in time to stop it. She wished that she had been able to get a hold around Charlemagne's throat before the heiress had tied the proverbial noose. She wished that she had had the nerve to call her once-friend and further the relationship that they had once held so dear. She should have been the one to throw the bouquet. It should have been her hand that he had taken in marriage. His children should be her children, and they certainly should not be raised to become brainless idiots. She wished, but that didn't mean that she was going to make it happen, and Kittalyn had stopped wishing for anything to do with the Visinyne family a long time ago. She had moved on, and she had re-trained herself to maintain an anti-social lifestyle.

    "Dad?"

    The adults started, looking away from each other automatically as Quartermaine tugged at his dress pants. He was holding a little dragon made out of rope, its snout narrow and elegant while the claws looked maliciously sharp. Alastair observed it with a morbid amusement - one that he rarely got to indulge in. "Can we buy this?"

    A sigh. He knew that Charlemagne wouldn't approve. She would probably throw it into the fireplace and burn it once she found it, and he didn't want to hurt his son that way. Quartermaine had a very strange attachment to his toys.

    Still, it seemed to make the boy happy, and he got so little love from his mother these days. So the entrepreneur pulled out his wallet, thumbing through a few loose twenties and pulling them out before a voice cut in.

    "Take it." He looked at her, raising an eyebrow. She stared balefully into his eyes, almost challenging him to disobey. "Just… Take it. It's on me."

    "If you're sure." The man knew better than to go against her wishes, especially so soon after she'd managed a bout of anger. Visinyne glanced around, inhaling sharply as he noted the time. "We should get going. Charlemagne will have my head if I'm not back by six tonight."

    He watched the witch's lip twist in bitter humor, and shook his head at her, catching her eye one last time.

    And for a moment time suspended itself. Though she was not crying, the Cambion knew that it pained her to see him walk through the door as much as it pained him to do so. He could see the jaded love in the deep chocolate brown eyes and knew that they had both wished that this meeting had come sooner, and he knew that they had waited too late - much too late - to do anything about it now.

    Or not…

    Kittalyn watched him go, feeling him leave like it was something physical. She remembered that pain - it had happened once before, when he had confessed his love only to leave her with it, thinking that it would be best if they parted ways. The witch had been an idiot to almost let him slip through her fingers that way, and she knew that. This time was no different.

    Frustrated, Llyich ground her teeth and slammed a fist down on the counter, retreating to the back room that had been labeled "Authorized Personnel Only". She made her way to the very back, where a small work station sat in the dimly lit corner, cluttered with ropes and newspaper clippings. One of them had been laminated and framed.

    It read: "SECURITY GIANT ON THE RISE AGAIN - VISITECH NAMED MOST PROFITABLE BUSINESS IN THE WORLD." Kittalyn smiled down at it and thumbed the picture with something akin to a lover's caress. The clipping was a few years old, having yellowed by the time she had decided to frame it, and the picture that accompanied it held none of the real details of his face. Alastair could fake a grimace and the world would see it as the best thing to happen since sliced bread. But she knew better - he looked strained, tired and fed up with the world. His eyes had lost the mirthful spark that they had held all those years ago. Still, he looked prideful. And as the shopkeeper re-read the detailings of the article, she couldn't help but allow some bitter satisfaction cloud her head. Charlemagne may have stolen his hand, but she had taken his heart.

    And in some long-forgotten chamber of her heart, she knew that the most successful businessman in the world would never want to take it back. Not unless she was attached to it.

    "I know you, Alastair." Intoned the witch as she rose to help another passing customer and shut off the lights. "And I know how easy it is for you to get what you want…"

    A derisive laugh escaped her as she shook her head. She would be waiting.

    And she wouldn't have to wait that long.

    Something about that visit had struck a heretofore forgotten chord within him. Alastair Visinyne the third looked out the tinted windows of the limousine and narrowed his eyes. It was high time he regained control of his life; control that he had lost before he had even been old enough to rein it in. The woman running that store had been his lover once - she was the only one he belonged to, and a wedding ring was not going to change that.

    He fiddled with the small platinum band that had left a ghostly imprint on his finger. It had taken some time to work off, but water always did the trick.

    Tonight, decided the Cambion, was the night to end all nights.

    "Alastair!"

    "Go." He whispered to Quartermaine, who nodded in understanding and slinked up the stairs with his newest stuffed toy. Heaving a sigh, he stepped out of the car and wandered around to wrap his arms around the blond woman's waist. "Hello, darling."

    The man had to fight off the urge to roll his eyes as she squealed. One would think after ten years of hearing nicknames like that, she would have gotten tired of them. But no, this was Charlemagne Kingston-Visinyne. Anything her husband did was squeal-worthy.

    His wife was only beginning to show, the barest of bumps rising from the stomach of the lurid pink dress that she was wearing. It was common knowledge to the both of them that sex was quite healthy for a recently conceived child.

    Perfect timing.

    Without any real warning, Visinyne unzipped the back of her dress, carrying her through the threshold to their bedroom and pressing her down onto the sheets. She moaned and giggled, rubbing against him in what she thought was a sensual gesture. "Why, Alastair, I didn't know you had it in you…"

    "You'd be surprised what I can do if I have enough incentive." Muttered the man, his mouth covering hers in an attempt to ward off any further conversation. He didn't hear any complaints, and so the heir worked his magic well on into the night - kissing, caressing, touching. Never once did he call her name, and by ten o'clock that evening, his energy ran high while his wife slumped against the sheets, cold.

    He was an Incubus' son, made for love and lust. She couldn't have expected anything.

    By nine that morning, the reporters had received news of Charlemagne's death. Alastair showered and dressed, molding his face into as forlorn a mask as he could manage before he walked out to meet them. Yes, he could certainly act the part of the grieving, widowed husband. He could feed them stories about an untimely heart attack all day, and he would attempt to remain as stoic as possible while preparing funeral arrangements.

    But he had done his job, and the Visinyne heir could not be more relieved. That day, after he'd shaken off as much paparazzi as he could manage, his silver Audi pulled out of the driveway and made a little side trip on its way to the funeral parlor. There was only one thing that he had wanted, and after ten years, the time had come.

    Kittalyn was waiting for him, a full-fledged smirk on her face, before he had even stepped out of his car.