This is mine. My choice. My violence. My reclamation.
"You let our baby die," I whisper, dragging my nails lower, past his ribs, watching his stomach muscles contract. The shadows at his throat pulse darker.
"Yes." No excuse. No armor. No cowardice. The word comes out choked, strained.
"You chose me over him."
"Yes," he says again, and this time there's a fracture in his voice that the shadows can't quite muffle.
"You trapped me here. You broke me."
Another "Yes," but this one is barely sound, more breath than word, strangled by shadow and truth.
He's unraveling under me—but not in submission. In hunger. In grief. In fury at himself.
I feel his control slipping like frayed rope. The shadows at his throat flicker, loosening slightly as his focus wavers.
"Keep them tight," I snap. "I didn't say you could breathe easier."
His eyes flash—surprise, arousal, something darker—and the shadows obey, constricting until I see genuine strain in his face. His hands grip my thighs with bruising force, the only outlet for the violence he's restraining.
"And you think letting me hurt you makes it better?" I press my palm against his chest, feeling his heart slam against his ribs.
"No." The word breaks. "But I will take every cut you carve into me until your hands stop shaking."
Something inside me cracks. Not forgiveness—never that. But something shifts, some recognition of what this costs him. To be the monster who destroyed me while simultaneously offering himself up for my vengeance.
I kiss him again—violent, bruising, tasting his blood and my rage. He answers with ferocity barely leashed, his hands trembling where they grip me, desperate to do more but forbidden.
When I pull back, he's panting—or trying to, with shadows wrapped around his windpipe. His composure is slipping further with every heartbeat.
"Touch me," I say at last.
He doesn't touch me gently. Even restrained, even with his own darkness choking him, his hands claim my waist with iron intensity. Heat radiates through my clothes. His breath is ragged, his composure splintering.
I can feel it—like standing beside a volcano moments before an eruption.
"I'm not doing this because anything is forgiven," I warn, even as my body responds to his touch with traitorous heat.
"I know," he growls, the sound guttural. "Say what you need. Do what you need. I won't break."
For the first time, I believe it.
I undress slowly, deliberately, watching his eyes track every inch of exposed skin. The hunger in his gaze sharpens into something dangerous, something that makes the shadows around his throat writhe with barely suppressed need.
When he sees the scar on my abdomen—the physical reminder of what we lost—something in him buckles. His shadows surge, reaching for me without permission.
"Don't," I snap, and they retreat immediately, but I see the cost. See how close he is to losing control entirely.
"You look at me like I'm something precious," I hiss, straddling him again, my bare skin finally against his. The contact sends electricity racing through my nerves. "Something you destroyed."
"You are," he says, voice stripped raw, barely escaping past the shadows. "Both."
And that's when I feel it—the exact moment his control begins to fracture. The shadows at his throat pulse erratically. His hands grip my hips harder. His entire body vibrates with need, grief, possessive fury.
"Nesilhan," he growls, voice deepening, roughening, barely human. "If you want control, take it now. Because I am losing mine."
The air crackles. Power shifts—wild, unstable. I feel his hunger rising like a tide, feel how close he is to dispelling the shadows and taking back everything I've claimed tonight.
