It ends with a sword.

He raises a hand to the wound in his cheek. The skin has sealed, yet a scar remains–Tessaiga’s parting blow.

Somewhere beneath the tumult of the waves lies his brother’s precious blade.

For the first time since he laid eyes upon it, he feels no urge to retrieve it.

He looks to her instead.

She is sleeping again. The side of her face rests against him, her ruined shirt plastered to her chest. Her brow furrows as he trails a finger over her mended skin.

Pink flesh yields beneath his touch, and he remembers.

There was a place within her he could not reach.

But he has breached her last stronghold. She is his now, in every way.

His vendetta with Inuyasha is over.

She stirs as he gathers her up, but does not wake.

They return to the ransacked mansion. Broken glass litters the hardwood. Through the balcony door, a current of air rolls in. Strewn papers rustle in the salt-laden breeze.

Stepping around the wreckage, he makes for the adjoining bath.

She has dealt less damage here. He sweeps aside the shards of a mirror and lays her on the marble floor.

Their bloodied clothes strip off with reluctance. She groans when he rips her shirt from her breast, pearl buttons pinging across the tiles like chips of hail.

The wire of her undergarment shears against the edge of his claw, her skirt and underwear following suit. His knuckles skim along the curve of her hip.

Even bloodied and bruised, she is beautiful.

Beneath the warm spray of the faucet, she shivers.

He holds her upright against him. Crimson sloughs from their skin, mixes and whorls in the water below.

One blood, indistinguishable.

He savors the sight.

Blue eyes flutter open as he lowers her to the shower ledge. She sags in his arms, parts heavily from him as he leans her against the wall of the alcove and draws a bath.

When the tub is full, he collects her. She starts as they dip beneath the scalding surface, her palms pushing at his shoulders.

He takes her by the wrists, and she falls against him, her body melding with his own.

A sigh leaves her lips.

He savors it, too.

She is a stubborn creature, more willful than he had ever anticipated. When her strength returns, she will resist him.

She will always resist him.

His hold on her tightens, the tip of his fang grazing along the pad of her thumb.

And he looks forward to making her submit.

But for now, he enjoys her surrender. As the water cools, he lifts her up and takes her to bed.

Beneath the sheets, they curve together, intertwined.

When the sun rises, so does she.

He watches as she goes about, setting the ravaged house to rights. When the maids arrive, she sends them away.

An act of penance, he supposes.

She works long into the night, but it will take many more to undo the destruction she has wrought.

If, indeed, she can.

As the moon looms high above the western sea, he finds her on the balcony once again.

She sits atop the railing–a brimming glass in one hand, an empty bottle in the other.

He takes the glass from her and drains it, frowning at the taste.

She sways as she steps down. The bottle slips from her listless fingers and over the edge of the rail.

He catches her against his chest.

“How old am I?” she asks him.

“Fifteen,” he answers.

She laughs, short and bitter. The sound muffles in his shirt.

“You were a child when I made you mine,” he says, tilting up her chin. “You are a child, still.”

“And you?” She glares. “Were you ever a child, or were you always as you are now?”

“I was a child, once.”

She twists in the circle of his arms. Her eyes return to the waxing moon.

“So you had parents?” she presses.

“Yes.”

“What happened to them?”

“My father was slain by the daiyoukai Ryuukotsusei.”

“And your mother?”

“I killed my mother,” he says.

She turns, looking up at him. “Why?”

He gazes back. There is no need to answer.

And when he crushes his mouth to hers, he leaves no more room for her to question. Her lips part beneath his, pliant and soft, and he growls into her with savage need, plundering her freely until she breaks from him with a hiss of pain.

He glances down.

Her heel is raised. A thin stream of blood threads down to the stone.

For the second time in as many days, he bears her to the balcony floor. He plucks the shard of glass from her skin and laves at the tender arch of her foot.

She gasps, her toes curling as his tongue traces over her ankle and along the inside of her thigh. Her other leg lies askew. He settles in the space between, ripping away the slip of fabric that conceals her.

She blooms before his eyes, ripens beneath his lips. So supple–so sweet.

The taste of her consumes him.

He devours her. He prepares her. To be apart from her is agony, and from the way she whimpers and writhes beneath him, he knows that she feels this, too.

Naked and ravenous, they join together at last—one flesh, one being. She is his slave and his master, his destruction and his creation. She is the most powerful priestess who has ever lived, and he is the most powerful demon.

They are the Jewel incarnate, the union of light and dark.

And he marries her beneath the glow of the full and gloating moon, as a new vendetta is born between them.

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Inuyasha © Rumiko Takahashi