Short enough to be mine.
Then… her hand met mine.
Cool fingers.
Trembling knuckles.
The barest resistance hidden beneath skin that wanted to bolt.
But she didn’t run.
She survived.
And in this story?
That was almost better.
Her warmth bled into me the second we touched.
My control flexed. Bent.
But didn’t break.
I felt the pulse in her wrist.
Felt the truth in it.
She hated me.
Feared me.
Still fought me.
But she held on.
Good girl.
I curled my fingers tighter around hers, just enough for her to feel the promise in my grip.
“Let’s begin,” I said softly—voice low, laced with smoke and steel.
This wasn’t a union.
Not a marriage.
Not a moment to celebrate.
This was a claim.
A crown forged in tension and silence and the slow, exquisite horror of knowing you couldn’t stop what’s coming.
And as she stood beside me, veil fluttering, spine straight, fire still flickering behind her eyes… I realized something simple. Something inevitable.
This wasn’t the end of her freedom.
It was the start of her ruin.
And I would make it beautiful.
