She accepted him and loved him. It wasn't a simple thing; he was still a serial killer, and murder was an inextricable part of his person. She could never approve of the actual act of murder, and would never condone his crimes. And yet she still accepted him, all of him, even the violent parts, even the parts that lusted after blood and death. He was dark and dangerous and beautiful and brilliant and she loved it all.

She smiled a little at his order, and considered him for a moment, now slightly back from the table, before pushing back from the table herself. She rose, flashed her eyebrows playfully, then got down on her hands and knees to crawl under the table toward him.