She was his fever dream, his ruination, his damnation, his Annalise.
He stole her in the night, held her captive in his ivory tower. After all, she was his little star and he wanted to spend all his eternity with her. With her aquamarine eyes, her cheeks glowing a delightful shade of pink, her lips pulled down in a grimace and her ink black hair a sharp contrast to her fair skin, she featured in all his daydreams.
The first time he saw her, he was enraptured by her beauty, his thinking capacity completely and wholly obliterated. From that day he wanted her, he wanted her close and he wanted her with a madness that defied logic.
He placed a white rose in her hair, just the way she liked. She looked so forlorn, that he couldn’t hold himself back anymore. His hands took hold of her face, turning her face upwards, thumb lightly tracing the arch of her lips before closing the distance and covering her mouth with his. He sighed, his soul at peace, his heart at home. He wasn’t leaving her, so he pulled her close and she went easily into the heat of his arms. His hand left her face, slid down her throat and came to rest upon her heart. His other hand encircled her waist and held her tight lest she melt like molten wax and escape his embrace.
His open mouthed kisses and rough caresses heightened the colour on her cheeks, she was enchanting, his Annalise.
Before he could lay her down, love her senseless, dawn broke through the sky, and she disappeared in smoky tendrils, escaping through his fingers. He was left clutching the air, sitting with the white rose on her unmarked grave that he had dug with his own bare hands on the day he silenced her screams.
Oh, she was sweet, his Annalise.
His fever dream.