I flinch as i feel a claw scrape along a fresh scar. It is followed by a leathery paw pad, and eventually soft fur.
She fidgets a lot in her sleep. Mumbles words sometimes, and even the occasional growl parts from between her lips, reacting to some unknown narrative in whatever dreams might find her in her often restless sleep. 
Tonight's not one of those nights though, fortunately. Her breathing is relaxed and maintains a steady rhythm, and the muscles that find themselves pressing against my back seem quite relaxed. Her right arm laid out over me, across my chest, with her hand resting a few inches from my face, having just moved up from around my collarbone area, where the scraping took place.
I am not often blessed with peaceful sleep, and when it does come it does not come easy. It takes little to break my slumber, and as is, whenever I manage to sleep through a number of hours uninterrupted, it is usually due to sheer exhaustion...that is, if you can count that as really being asleep, as opposed to just not being awake. Such erratic sleep patterns often force me to find something to entertain my mind with to pass the time until I manage to find my way back into the world of dreams, and that's how I picked up on almost all of her sleeping habits.
Today though, I have something else to focus on; her hand. White-furred with shiny black paw pads, each finger crowned with a menacingly curved metal-tipped claw. Very peculiar claws, to which I am no stranger, for many a time they have been sunken in my flesh. They were her great pride and joy, and she made sure they were always filed to a sharp point, whether by her own means, or by having some underling file them for her, oftentimes more than not, me.
Strange how something can look so sturdy, so strong, yet so feminine, but I suppose the same could be said for her entirety. The same hand that held many blades and took even more lives was also capable of warmth, affection, and even, dare I say it, tenderness, in one of her rare moments of peace. I could say many of her moments of peace are in fact during her sleep, restless though it may often seem. She pulls me closer, encircles me with her arms, legs, or tail, and at least for a while, does not try to make me scream or bleed. Not to say I haven't been scratched, bitten, or even bruised during her slumber, but when compared to what she inflicts upon me when there's a conscious intention behind it, these can be hardly considered painful. With her size and strength when in comparison to myself, I can consider myself lucky with just the occasional breakage of the skin.
She groans and slightly shifts her weight. My body instinctively tenses up and I gasp weakly. Old habits die hard. The arm that was draped over me shifts again and hugs me tighter, her other arm sliding from under her left side and finding its place between my neck and the soft pillows, before crossing itself over my chest, the hand ending up somewhere in my stomach area. I can feel her muscles and bare chest press against my back, and her warm breath on the back of my neck. I almost feel like a small, ragged stuffed toy in the arms of a sleeping child, weak and vulnerable, yet protected.
For all ends and purposes, I am, indeed, like a toy. However, I would hesitate to call her a child. Impulsive and unpredictable maybe, but painfully malicious and aware of her own actions and consequent repercussions.
 Innocence is an unknown concept around these parts, I know that much.