Her sob breaks silent against my shoulder. Her body shudders around me, weak, destroyed, but still alive. Still mine.
I press a kiss to her temple—mocking, gentle, cruel—and whisper the only words that matter:
“Lesson learned.”
And I stay buried inside her, hook resting against her throat, until her trembling finally stills into sleep.
Tahlia
The first thing I feel is the weight.
Not of his body—though he’s still inside me, heavy, filling, anchoring me to the bed—but of everything else. The silence that follows screams. The sting of blood drying on my skin. The papers sticking to my chest like a second skin, ink smeared red where he pressed them into me.
I don’t move.
I don’t dare.
Movement means choice, and I don’t know which choice would be worse: to shove him off me, or to hold him there.
The hook still rests against my throat, not pressing now, just waiting. I can feel the faint tremor of it when his breath shifts, the steel rising and falling with each inhale like a promise that hasn’t been broken yet.
My wrists ache from where he pinned me. My thighs burn. My pussy throbs with a brutal ache that doesn’t know if it’s pleasure or punishment.
And still—still—I feel myself clenching around him, weak, ruined, but wanting.
Tears sting my eyes, hot and furious. I blink them back, refusing to let them fall, because I won’t give him that. Not now. Not when he’s already stolen everything else.
My body betrays me again. A shudder runs through me, my hips twitching, grinding against him even in exhaustion. My face twists, shame and hunger tangled so tight I can’t tell one from the other anymore.
He shifts then. Just slightly. Enough to remind me he’s still hard inside me. Enough to remind me he doesn’t need to move for me to feel owned.
“Lesson learned,” he whispers, voice rough against my skin, and the words crawl down my spine like a brand.
I want to spit in his face.
I want to claw my name out of the paper, out of my chest, out of the blood he smeared into me.
I want to forget.
But when I close my eyes, all I see is him. All I feel is him.
And that’s when I understand.
The shatter wasn’t the mirror.
It wasn’t the papers.
It wasn’t my wrists or my throat or my cunt.
It was me.
I’m not whole anymore. I’m shards. Splinters. A girl scattered across a bed of glass, rebuilt into something I don’t recognise.
And the worst part?
I don’t want to be put back together.
I want to burn.
