In sleep he looked not at all evil. There was no anger in him, only peace. She resisted the urge to reach out and touch his pale face, his dark hair. To wake him would be to flip a switch, to turn his consciousness on, and with it all the ire and pain. His subconscious self was so sweet, so young . . . If only he could stay asleep . . .
She regarded his full lips, slightly parted, his dark lashes shadowing his high cheekbones. He twitched slightly under her gaze and she wondered if he felt her attention. What did he dream of? Was he happier asleep than awake?
"What would make you happy?" she asked.
He stirred and resettled. Unable to stop herself any longer, she leaned in and pressed her lips to his. They were as soft as they looked.
His dark eyes opened, wide and startled, and everything in the room trembled with his awakened rage at the sight of her. The metal bulwarks of the walls screeched and crumpled around them.
She drew back and squared herself for a fight. "Okay . . . For the record, kisses don't make you happy."
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