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He loves her. Truly loves her: strongly, deeply, and selflessly. He loves her to the point of gnashing his teeth, to the ache beneath his ribs, and that is why it hurts so much, because Mabel Gleeful is a flawless sculpture carved from ice, poison, and pure narcissism. An extremely intelligent, dazzlingly beautiful sadistic bitch, for whom the emotions of others are merely clay in her manicured hands.
Will knows: if she finds out, if she catches that pathetic, trembling impulse in his gaze for even a second, it will be the end of him. Her twisted, brilliant mind will turn this to her advantage. She will transform his love into the most exquisite instrument of torture, pulling at the strings of his attachment, forcing him to dance on red-hot coals, and reveling in how the once-great demon breaks himself over and over again, just to please her.
So Will remains silent.
It is not difficult, for he has always been a shadow. Silent, obedient, and convenient. He trails behind her through the endless corridors of Gleeful Manor, counting the hollow strikes of her heels upon the parquet.
Click, click, click like a metronome counting down the seconds of his servitude.
He carries out all her orders, even the most humiliating, even the most cruel.
"Fetch," "bring," "intimidate," "destroy," "stay out of the way."
Will does it, casting down his eyes, hiding the trembling of his hands behind his back. He is silent when she screams at him for tea that has gone cold. Silent when her magic lashes across his mental field, leaving burns that do not heal for weeks.
Mabel, surely, believes this is how it should be. In her worldview, there exist only predators and prey, masters and servants.
She detects no ulterior motive in his submission, attributing it all to fear and magical chains. Which, in truth, is hardly surprising. Such bright, sincere feelings as love, self-sacrifice, or tenderness are alien to such a complete sociopath. She simply lacks the organ with which to feel them.
Mabel Gleeful loves only herself.
And, perhaps, just a little bit, power.
Sometimes Will is forced to observe her performances. He stands in the corner, merging with the blue curtains in her spacious, gothic bedroom, and watches as she transforms. The habitual arrogant grimace vanishes from her face, her gaze warms, and her voice becomes soft and melodic, like a Siren’s song.
She plays the lovesick fool for Gideon Pines.
"Oh, Gideon, you’re so sweet!" she coos, batting her eyelashes, touching his shoulder, ensnaring the poor boy with tales of love, comparing them to Romeo and Juliet.
Will feels his insides churning. He knows it is a lie. He knows that behind that lovesick smile lies only cold calculation. She couldn't care less about the "pathetic hillbilly"; she only needs the journals and those ancient artifacts that Pines, in his naivety, hides in the damp basement of his home.
But watching her bestow [even fake] affection on someone else affection Will does not dare to even dream of is still unbearable.
When the door closes behind Gideon, the mask drops instantly. Mabel disgustedly wipes the hand that touched Pines' shoulder and turns to him. In her icy eyes is that same cold glint that cuts Will deeper than any knife.
"Why are you just standing there? Bring the grimoire. I need more power to break through that idiot's defense."
"Yes, Mistress," Will bows, hiding a bitter, broken smile.
Let her despise him. Let her use him. Let her consider him a nonentity. As long as she allows him to be near, as long as he can breathe the same air as her, he will endure.
For in his distorted, upside-down world, even her hatred is better than indifference.