His fingers curl slightly under mine, not pulling away but flexing as if the memory of claws still sits under his skin. “You don’t understand the weight of this,” he says. “You’ve been here a minute and you think you do, but you don’t. People like Roman don’t stop. They don’t negotiate. They take what they want until there’s nothing left standing.”
I look up at him then, cloth poised just above his wrist. “I understand more than you think. I grew up with men who smiled in public and broke things in private. I learned early how to read a room, how to see the shape of danger before it had a name. This isn’t new to me, Rafe. It’s just bigger.”
He shifts, his jaw tightening. “Bigger will kill you faster.”
I press the cloth a little harder into a cut on his forearm and he doesn’t flinch but his eyes darken. “You think you get todecide where I stand,” I say quietly. “You think you’re the only one who’s allowed to choose who you fight for. That’s not how it works.”
He starts to speak but I cut him off before the words form. “Don’t you get it? I chose this. I chose you.”
The words hang between us like smoke. He goes still, completely still, as if the air in the room has been pulled out. The lamp flickers once, throwing a brief gold across his face, and I can see the storm behind his eyes—the disbelief, the anger, the hunger, the fear all tangled together like barbed wire.
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he murmurs, but it’s softer now, almost pleading. “You don’t know what that means.”
“I know exactly what it means,” I reply. “It means I’m not a pawn you can move off the board to protect your conscience. It means I’m here because I want to be, not because you dragged me into it. You don’t get to decide I’m too fragile to stand next to you just because it makes you feel less guilty.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely but his knuckles whitening anyway. “You think this is about guilt?”
“I think it’s about control,” I say. “You’ve spent your whole life controlling when the beast comes out, who gets close, who stays far enough away that you don’t have to watch them get hurt. But I’m not them. I’m not going to run just because you think you’re the monster in the story.”
His breath comes out slow, heavy, like he’s been holding it for hours. “You should run.”
“I won’t.”
“You don’t know what it’s like,” he says, voice low but gaining an edge. “You don’t know what it feels like to wake up with blood on your hands and no memory of how it got there. You don’t know what it’s like to hear the Seal in your head, telling you who you are and who you’ll never stop being.”
“I don’t,” I admit, setting the cloth aside. “But I know what it is like to live with pain you didn’t ask for. What it’s like to have people decide who you are before you even open your mouth. I know what it feels like to build armor so thick you can’t breathe inside it. You’re not the only one who’s been fighting to stay human.”
His eyes lift to mine again, slower this time, like he’s afraid of what he’ll see. “Why would you choose this?”
“Because the world doesn’t get better if we only choose what’s safe,” I say. “Because you’re not what they made you. Because even when you’re standing in blood you look at me like you’re terrified of hurting me instead of like you’re proud of what you’ve done.”
He laughs then, but it’s not amusing. It’s a sound pulled from somewhere deep, cracked at the edges. “You think I’m worth saving?”
“I think you already saved yourself,” I say softly. “I think you just don’t believe it yet.”
His head dips, shadowing his face. For a heartbeat there’s only the sound of water dripping from the cloth back into the basin, the faint hiss of the lamp, and our breathing. Then he moves.
It’s not a careful move. It’s not a calculated move. It’s sudden, like a dam breaking, like something in him gave up trying to hold. His hands come up to my face, rough palms against my cheeks, and before I can speak he kisses me.
It’s not gentle. It’s not violent either. It’s desperate. He kisses me like he’s drowning and I’m the only air left, like if he lets go the sea will close over his head and take everything with it. His mouth tastes like iron and salt and something that feels like surrender.
I press my hands against his shoulders, not to push him away but to steady him, to keep him from shaking. The undulatingglow under my skin pulses once, bright enough to light the space between us, but it doesn’t burn. It wraps around both of us, a soft gold heat that makes the room feel smaller, quieter, as if the villa itself is holding its breath.
When he pulls back his forehead rests against mine, his hands still framing my face. His eyes are closed, his breath uneven. “You should hate me,” he murmurs.
“I don’t,” I say.
“You should be scared.”
“I’m not.”
He exhales, a tremor running through it. “You’re going to get hurt.”
“Maybe,” I whisper. “But at least it will be my choice.”
We stay like that for a long time, breathing the same air, neither of us moving except for the small shifts our bodies make when they finally start to calm. His hands drop from my face and slide to my shoulders, fingers curling gently against the fabric of my shirt like he’s anchoring himself.
“Lie down,” I tell him softly. “Let me finish cleaning you up.”
