If I were going to shatter, I’d make sure he felt every goddamn crack.
His face didn’t change. No twist of surprise or anger, just that infuriating calm that made it feel like I was drowning alone, like he’d always be the one above water, watching.
His thumb dragged across my cheek, smearing the tear that dared to fall.
“Careful what you ask for, Dolcezza,” he murmured, and the rasp of it made something coil inside me, something I hated. “I never do anything half-hearted.”
He leaned in, close enough for our breaths to tangle. And I hated that I felt it again, the spark that lit behind my ribs when he touched me; that slow, traitorous way my body reacted even when my soul recoiled in disgust.
Why did he always feel like fire and gasoline?
No. Not fire. Fire warned you as it crackled, blazed, and screamed its danger into the night.
He was the warmth in a winter cabin, so deceptive and silent it lulled you into dropping your guard, shedding your clothes, letting your fingers inch too deep, too close to the iron stove until skin met heat and pain rattled too late.
He was comforted by cruelty.
The man who made you forget the world was cold until you remembered why you’d built walls in the first place.
And still… Still, my body leaned toward him like frostbite limbs searching for anything that resembled warmth, even if it came with a cost.
It wasn’t fire that scared me. It was the undetectable burns.
I shut my eyes as his hand slid over my ribs, up the line of my spine with strange possessiveness like he was trying to lay claim to broken pieces.
He pressed his body against my back, grinding his hard cock against my arse. His hands slid up my sides, roughly palming my breasts through the tattered remains of my dress. He squeezed them hard, pinching my nipples between his fingers.
“You’re not the only one grieving,” he growled in my ear, his hot breath making me shudder. “Grief doesn’t belong to the pure. You forget who taught me loss.”
That made me flinch. I blinked at him, stunned. “What…”
Before I could ask, before I could even process what he meant, he pulled me into him with a force that stole the question from my lips. All that remained was the scent of him, smoke and sin, curling around me like the fog in the graveyard.
His lips moved over mine with savagery that scared the death around us like he’d been here before. Like he knew every inch of me more than I did.
The screams stayed lodged in my throat, behind my ribs, as my hands curled into his coat instead of shoving him back.
What was the point anyway?
I was tired. Tired of the pain, the silence, the ache in my chest that never let me breathe. Tired of pretending I was whole and Arian’s death hadn’t hollowed me out.
So I let him touch me. I let him kiss me like he wanted to erase the man he buried and fill the void with himself.
Maybe I wanted to be ruined.
Maybe I wanted to give in, just once, and make the monster bleed with me.
And maybe… if I surrendered now, I could drag him into the abyss I’d been drowning in for weeks.
He cupped my face again, thumb brushing my jaw, and it angered me more than his brutality. “Get on your knees, Dolcezza.”
I didn’t want to. I stared at him with every ounce of courage. Hoping he’d see the things swirling in my head.
He stepped back, watching me with a cruel, expectant glare. When I hesitated, he reached out and grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back.
“Don't make me fucking tell you twice, wife,” he growled. “You want to mourn for that bastard? You want to remember his name? Then you fucking do it on my cock.”
He let go of my hair, shoving me forward. I stumbled, catching myself on the edge of the tombstone. Zagreus watched me like a hawk as his eyes gleamed with dark pleasure.
