Eliza lay in the grass with her deep blue eyes wide open and unblinking. The sharp scent of blood filled his nostrils. Fenrir removed his eyes from his beloved to glance up at the redness staining the side of the house. The same blood that coated the back of her head. Distraught, he collapsed to his knees, uncaring that her parents were demanding he leave and threatening to alert the Ministry. It occurred to him too late that the annoyance tugging on his arm had been his precious, innocent witch pleading with him to stop hurting her father. He hadn't known his own strength, hadn't understood that now that he was a werewolf it didn't take much effort at all to send someone as tiny as she flying backwards into the stones.