He claimed her tonight.
Marked her.
Made her bleed.
The thought should have made me look away.
Instead, my heart warmed.
I never understood this part of me.
Not fully.
Every time I caught myself watching Kenji like this—his body moving, breath rough, tattoos alive under candlelight—I’d feel something warm uncoil in my chest.
Something almost peaceful.
Something I wasn’t supposed to feel in moments like these.
Comfort.
That was the confusing part.
Comfort didn’t belong here.
Comfort didn’t belong anywhere near the things I’d been taught to fear.
But there it was anyway.
Soft.
Low.
Warm.
Why did watching him with a woman soothe something in me that nothing else could touch?
I tried to trace the feeling back—unravel it, peel the layers like skin off a fruit.
Maybe it was because, when we were young, happiness only existed if Kenji created it.
Our father didn’t smile.
My mother never gave me any warmth.
But Kenji could make a moment feel safe, even in hell.
He’d sit beside me on a cold floor, pull his coat around both of us, and mutter, “It’s fine. We’re still here.”
And I’d believe him. Stupid, blind belief—but belief, nonetheless.
Maybe that wired something in me wrong.
Maybe my brain learned too early that Kenji’s calm was my shelter, and everything else was noise.
So now, when I saw him like this—with a woman he wanted, a woman who wanted him back—it didn’t feel like I was intruding.It felt like I was remembering. Remembering what it was like before the blood. Before the screams. Before the Fox carved obedience into our bones.
Maybe that was why my chest loosened when I saw him trembling beneath someone’s touch. Maybe that was why the dark thoughts quieted. Why the world stopped spinning so fast. Because he was alive, and if he felt safe, then some part of me—some tiny, rusted piece—felt safe too.
