The Art of Balance

He allowed himself a moment to look at her. Her features were calm, and her breathing steady. Stray pieces of her dark hair framed the sides of her pale face. How odd it was to him that she had spent her life in the sun, but other than a small ocean of freckles, she remained as pale as him.
His mind began to drift as he allowed his gaze to roam about her face and body. He wondered how her skin would feel against his bare fingertips, and began reaching his hand out to touch her cheek.
"No," he growled internally, yanking his hand back. He frowned at the strange impulse, squashing any remaining trace of it.
"She is not here to be touched; she is here to be broken, exploited, and discarded. She is not worthy of anything else."
As he turned to leave, something in his cold, calculating heart begged him to turn around and look at her one more time. "Pulchritudinous," he murmured, furrowing his brow in confusion. His gaze wandered to the floor, and he scowled, turning on his heels and storming out of the room.