The Ripper

William Jack Holloway

The Hunter almost had his emotions in check. Almost. Underneath that practiced smile - which, of course, had been the direct result of his upbringing in London - was a rage that threatened to break that carefully constructed control that he held over his power. He could feel it bubbling beneath his skin like an electric charge. That energy would be so easy to call to him. So easily to manipulate into blades that could end the life of the vampire who dared call himself her master. And if it wasn't for the girl standing there that made him need to be in control, perhaps he would have allowed it. But he wouldn't risk harming Vhalla. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he did.

It took everything the Hunter had to not twist his features into disgust as he touched the hand of the vampire. The smile that was brought to William's features didn't meet his eyes. It was such a practiced look. One the vampire clearly had centuries of practice in as well. Still, he was relieved when he was allowed to step back, even if that relief only lasted for a second as he scrambled to come up with some excuse as to why he was there. He could only hope that Ivan hadn't heard the words that William had shouted, though his hope for that was minimal at best. It was clear he'd been found out, and as the vampire spoke the Hunter continued his almost bored expression as though the thought of his disappointment meant little to him.

"And I believe it is rather rude to put your hands on a woman without her consent," William said simply, though his tone remained entirely neutral, as though he was bored with the entire situation instead of boiling with rage. But that bored tone only went so far when his eyes followed Ivan's every movement. William couldn't control the way he shifted uncomfortably as Ivan's hands fell upon Vhalla's shoulders and those long fingers caressed her skin. No. No, it was William who should be touching her like that. William who loved her, and was loved by her. Not this monster. Again, that rage boiled under his skin until he could practically envision the purple sparks that would be called to life if he chose to call upon that psychic energy that fueled his power.

Still, William did his best to appear neutral as he spoke to Vhalla. The twisted, pained look on her features made William ache. How he wanted to wrap his arms around her and protect her, and yet he failed to see a way to protect her from this. At least, not a way that wouldn't result in something terrible happening to her. But it was that whispered - though not really - words of what would happen within Vhalla's bed that made William shift so fully. He wanted to react. He wanted to murder. And yet reacting would put Vhalla in danger, so all he could do was force himself to stay still with that passive look on his features. He wouldn't react. He wouldn't react.

But god, he wanted to murder him.

It was the vampire's final words that had William reacting at all, his eyes focused on Vhalla's gaze for a long moment before he lifted his eyes to Ivan. His expression remained entirely bored, though his mind screamed to get his hands off of Vhalla. "Love?" He said with a roll of his shoulders. "What do you think I could possibly do with her love? She's a witch. She's nothing to me." He didn't dare look at Vhalla. If she reacted at all, he wouldn't be able to continue. He didn't mean it. He couldn't mean it. And yet his words were all he had to protect her. "I've heard she's been talking to that friend of hers - the Faerie Queen." The words fell off William's lips without a second thought, the man hardly thinking about how he might be putting another person that Vhalla cared for in danger. "She's been telling her all these silly notions of love. I'm here because there's a Were that I would like taken out and I'm too lazy to do it myself. Loving me is a waste of her time."

But darling -- it's only human nature.