I writhed beneath him, not out of protest, but instinct. He was testing the strength of my submission—the depth of my depravity.
And I gave in to it, despite the fear crawling up my spine.
I couldn’t deny it. The thrill of watching him kill had seducedme and twisted me. It was wrong—undeniably. But it connected us. The blood on his hands made me want him more. Made me feel like I’d seen a part of him no one else had.
Balthazar had killed that woman with purpose. With power. Without hesitation.
Me? I was never that direct.
When I killed, I made it look like fate had done the work.
A sudden fall. A fire. A freak accident.
I hid behind chaos, pretending I wasn’t the storm, just the breeze that whispered before it.
And afterward, I burned.
Shame, guilt, self-loathing...
They clung to me like smoke. I cried silently, where no one could see the cracks beneath the mask.
But he…
Balthazar simply acted.
No remorse. No hesitation. Just the blade. The blood. The silence.
And I found myself asking, for the thousandth time?—
Who is he, truly? What does he want from me?
After all these years of passion—of obsession, I didn’t know him. Not really. He remained an enigma, too dangerous to touch and yet too irresistible to let go.
He was a predator and a protector. Angel and devil. Fire and ash.
In equal measure, I was drawn to him—and terrified of him.
He always held the power. I knew it. Felt it.
He could take me or leave me.
He could kill me if he wished.
And that truth haunted me. It made my love for him feel like a noose, tightening with every heartbeat.
His eyes burned into mine now, and I couldn’t look away.
They were a furnace, drawing me in, melting my resistance.
My heart thundered with fear, but also with something darker.
A hunger. A wild, primal need to possess him.
To break through his layers and make him mine.
I wanted to taste his love—devour it—burn with it.
He loomed over me, and I lay beneath him, trembling.
