A small voice broke through the loud humming in his ears. It is Violeta. It is me.
His body stilled, his head cocking sharply to the side in that way he had when he was considering something or when he heard a strange noise. He did not release her, but for a moment it seemed as though he were somewhere else, as though he had forgotten entirely about the gasping, barely-conscious woman dangling from his hand.
Violeta.
A bombardment of images flashed through his half-crazed mind, a moment of clarity through the crimson cloud of his rage. A small woman with dark coils of midnight hair and a scarlet, teasing smile. A tiny hand against the dark fur of his arm. The soft, lilting musicality of a voice that murmured assurances, kissed by the faintest hint of an accent. Flirtatious looks from under dark lashes. The taste of champagne as her lips yielded to his as the television counted down the seconds to a new year. His brow fell over his eyes, his focused fixated on her face as confusion played somewhere in the pitch pools of his eyes.
"...Shut up," he growled, annoyed by the distraction and sure that this was some kind of trick. He had fallen for her deceptions far too many times, offers of kindness, mercy, or release that she withdrew with glee, delighting in how it broke his spirit. Not again.
Never again.
He wanted so desperately to hold onto this anger, this righteous revenge. It felt good. It felt right. He finally had her right where he wanted her. But as he curled his free hand into a fist and drew it back, prepared to let it act as a battering ram against her ribs, the woman he held began to change. Before his eyes, the pale strands of her hair and the sea-foam coloring of her eyes both darkening into richer, darker coffee hues. He made a sound of surprise to look upon the tearful visage of the woman who struggled in his grasp, and with a jerk he released her as though he had been burned, leaving her to fall gracelessly to the floor as he took a stumbling step back from her.
This is a trick, part of his mind screamed, while another part continued to flip through a rapid slideshow of memories. Good memories. Memories Vi had given him. He lifted a trembling hand and pushed the heel of it against his temple, clawing at his hair as he struggled to orient himself. "Shut up, shut up, shut UP!" his groaned, his voice rising in intensity and volume until the final shout finally brought him the silence and stillness he craved.
The only sound that registered at first was the hollow rasps of his own breathing. He felt deeply disoriented, and when he brought his hand away from his face he looked around in search of his tormentor, but what he found instead was something far worse. His eyes fell upon the broken-looking, crumpled form of his savior, and a soft, strangled sound of dismay rattled from him before he could stop it. This... couldn't be. This didn't make sense.
He blinked and his eyes were his own again as they dropped to examine his now-trembling hands with betrayed horror. This is what monsters do, Dante, his father's voice taunted, and his breathing was coming in shorter, rasping gulps as realization dawned and threatened to escalate him into a full panic. "Oh shit..." he whispered weakly. "Vi..."