Hands in the pockets of his black duster, Angelus studied the darkened window of the Slayer’s bedroom on the second floor of the house on Revello Drive. The moon glowed on his pale face and made hollows in his cheeks and around his eyes.
“Buffy,” he whispered. “I will taunt and torment you. I will spend my nights hounding you. I will make your life a living hell, and you’ll wish I had killed you to put you out of your misery.”
In the dark night, he smiled, wondering if she was actually able to sleep any more. If her fear and anger kept her up nights. Her eyes open, staring into the dark, her heart thudding thickly. Tears building, spilling. Because of him.
His mind swam with vivid, detailed images of the Chosen One. Buffy, smiling at him. Buffy, weeping.
I will break her, he thought, clenching his fists, savoring the times that were to come. Drawing out her torment. Hurting her beyond bearing, over and over again. Making sure she never stopped thinking about what he could do, what he would do, to everyone she loved.
To her.
That was far more sublime than simply snuffing out her existence. Destruction versus a quick, clean death, such as he had given Jenny Calendar.
Spike didn’t understand. Spike couldn’t understand. What did a weakling like Roller Boy know about hatred?
About passion?
Angelus stared at the window. He stood there for hours, until the sun threatened him.
Even then, he almost stayed, seething, unable to stop staring at the window of her bedroom.
That’s how much I hate her—
With a passion.
That’s what he told himself, as he whirled on his heel and vanished into the darkness.