Because the shape of her now—the silence, the ache, the waiting—doesn’t belong to one man. It belongs to all of us: the priest, the surgeon, the thing I buried so deep even I forgot his name.
And now she’s lying in front of me, lips parted— cunt leaking down her thighs like proof of everything she’s endured—and I can’t fucking move.
Because if I touch her now, it’s not just my hands she’ll feel.
It’s his.
Venator.
The name inked on my hand. The one I used to chase. The one I told myself was someone else—someone darker. Crueller.
But I know the truth now.
I always did.
There was never a second stalker.
No other man with Raven in his crosshairs.
No split face in the mirror.
It was me.
Every message.
Every photo.
Every fucking whisper through the vent.
The tattoo should’ve told me that. Latin script. Sharp. Branded down the tendon of my right wrist like a curse I thought I’d outrun.
Hunter.
Venator.
I used to believe it was a badge. A mark that said I’d survived the dark, not joined it.
But the ink doesn’t lie.
It never did.
And now it’s staring up at me—my hand hovering just above her crown, not touching—watching her breath like she’s waiting to be claimed.
I could touch her now.
I could say her name.
I could slip my fingers between her legs and slide the plug out and fill her with the part of me that still thinks this is love.
But I don’t.
Because I can feel the fracture widening.
Not just the split between who I was and what I’ve become.
The split between reality and memory.
Between protector and predator.
