It’s wrong, Wesley knows. Utterly sick and wrong that he should look at the bruises ringing the boy’s throat, the stiffness of his movements, the emptiness in those wide, expressive eyes and feel the slow burn of jealousy.

When the picture plays across his mind’s eye, Wesley sees Xander and Faith, locked together. The boy. With his slayer. Perhaps Xander has stopped struggling, eyes wide and wet, and accepting of the inevitable, of the orgasm building like none he’s ever felt before, brought by strong fingers around his neck.

He’s sick, Wesley knows. Because he’s bitterly jealous.

Jealous of Faith.