Snow WhiteHis fingers traced over the veins that lay beneath the surface of her translucent skin. They were just visible, like flower stems crushed by the morning snow, or a few rude brush marks left by a painter in a moment of contempt for the Academy. He, at that moment, felt no such fire burning in his blood just a sick, panicked feeling that came in ebbs like the evening tide. Her satin ruffled as he moved his hands from her neck to her face, and then to her slim shoulders. She was fragile, but not as fragile as this.More Like This
He gave her a playful shove, managed a crooked smile and whispered in a tone that lay somewhere between choked hope and frightened disbelief, "Snow. Hey, Snow, wake up."
He leaned over her, watching with almost vicious concentration. No response. She was perfectly still, like an image from a painting or poem by those damn Romantics; their full colours and pretty words hiding the darkness that was always brimming just underneath. Lovers weren't meant to kill and they cert