But it’s not from fear.
It’s from how fucking ready I still am.
How wrong it feels to want more and how much worse it feels to realise—I do.
“Don’t worry,” he whispers in my ear. “There’s no one left to lie to. No mask. No twin. No escape.” He kisses my throat. “Just me. And you. And the part of you that liked it the most.”
He doesn’t touch me at first.
Not properly.
Just sits beside me like a sculptor with clay still wet beneath his fingers, stroking the inside of my thigh with the same hand that bled me last night.
There’s no rush in him.
No urgency because he already knows the truth.
He doesn’t need to take me again.
He needs me to watch myself want it.
“Up,” he says, tapping my hip.
I blink.
“What—”
“On your knees. Now.”
I hesitate, and he smiles like he loves I still think I have a choice.
He grabs the rope around my wrists and pulls—slow, firm, never rough. I slide up the bed, limbs trembling, chest exposed, thighs wet with the aftermath and then he reaches behind me.
To the wall.
To the sheet that I noticed was covering the mirror.
He pulls it down.
The sheet falls like silence.
And suddenly—I see myself.
Knees spread. Skin bruised. Lips swollen. Brand glowing across my chest like a sigil carved in lust.
I look ruined and I look like I want more.
My stomach twists.
I try to look away.
He grabs my chin.
“No. You watch. You watch every second. You think you begged for a man with two faces? No. You begged for this. You begged for what I become when I stop pretending I ever wanted to protect you.”
He reaches between my legs.
Not to fuck me.
