With grief.
With the fucking weight of knowing that I branded her twice and called it devotion.
“I tried to protect you from him,” I murmur. “I thought if I kept him separate—if I split the darkness into names—I could keep you safe.”
She breathes slowly. Still silent.
“But he was never gone.”
I lift my wrist. Let the moonlight catch the edge of the ink.
“Venator,” I say. “You asked once why I wore gloves when I fucked you.”
Her breath hitches.
“I didn’t want you to see this.”
Her fingers reach for it. Feather-light. She touches the tattoo as if it’s the edge of a blade.
“Hunter,” she translates.
I nod.
“I told myself I was hunting the man who hurt you before. That I was different. That I was here to fix it.”
I meet her eyes.
“But it was always me.”
And that’s when she breaks.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just a single sob—so soft it sounds like a prayer.
She leans into my chest and wraps her arms around me like I’m still worth holding.
And I don’t deserve it.
Not after what I’ve done.
But I take it.
Because if I let go, I don’t think I’ll find my way back again.
“I’ll never ask you to forgive me,” I whisper into her hair.
She nods.
“I don’t want you to.”
We stay like that.
On the floor.
In the dark.
