She glances around, taking in the peeling paint, the cold fireplace, the broken windows letting in strips of dawn light. “You carried me.”
I nod once.
Her fingers twitch against the blanket. “You saved me.”
“I didn’t save you,” I say, leaning back against the wall. “I took you out of one danger and dropped you into another.”
She tilts her head slightly. “You’re shaking.”
I glance at my hands. They’re steady now, but I can still feel the tremor inside, the echo of the beast pacing under my skin. “It’s nothing.”
“No,” she says softly. “It’s not nothing.”
I close my eyes. The silence in the room stretches until it’s a weight pressing against my ribs. This is the moment. If I don’t tell her now, someone else will tell her later, and it’ll be worse.
“You saw what I am,” I say at last.
Her breath catches. She doesn’t answer.
“I’m not just a man who fights,” I continue. “I’m not just angry or dangerous or… whatever word you’ve been writing in that journal. I’m a bull shifter. Born to it. Bound to it. It’s not a story. It’s blood. My father was one. His father before him. It runs in the Calderon line like a curse.”
Her eyes don’t leave mine.
“There’s more,” I say. “The Crimson Seal. That mark on my chest. It wasn’t just some gang ink or war brand. It’s a bloodoath. One we take when the hunger becomes too strong. When the beast in us stops listening to reason. Shifters like me, we were born with fire under our skin, and it burns too hot when we let ourselves feel too much. So we made a vow. No mates. No attachments. No softness. We sever that part of ourselves, bind it shut so the rage doesn’t spill over and ruin everything.
“It works. For a while. But it makes you hollow. Turns you into a weapon instead of a man. And the worst part is… it doesn’t go away. Not ever. The oath burns deeper the longer you live with it. The more you ignore what you want, the louder it screams.”
My voice cracks at the edge of that last word but I push through it. “That’s the truth. You weren’t supposed to see it. You weren’t supposed to be part of it. But now you are.”
She’s silent for a long time, long enough for me to think she’s about to bolt, or scream, or start praying under her breath. Long enough for the beast in me to brace for rejection like it’s a punch.
“I expect you to run,” I say, quieter now. “That’s what normal people do. That’s what you should do.”
She shifts on the mattress, sitting up fully now, feet tucked beneath her. Her hair falls loose around her face, and her eyes are softer than I’ve ever seen them, but not weak. Not afraid.
“You’re telling me the truth,” she says finally.
“I am.”
“And you thought I wouldn’t believe you?”
“I’ve never given anyone a reason to.”
She exhales slowly. “You have now.”
I blink. “What?”
She leans forward, one hand lifting almost without thought, her fingers brushing my cheek. The touch is light, barely there, but it burns like fire under my skin.
“I believe you,” she whispers.
I don’t move. Can’t. The beast goes still, like it’s listening.
Her hand lingers a heartbeat longer, then falls back to her lap. She doesn’t look away.
“Then you’re not scared,” I say, my voice low.
“Of you?” she asks. “No. Of what’s been done to you? Maybe. But not of you.”
