Page 38

M y body refused to yield to the lukewarm water. I huddled with knees pressed to my chest, hands quaking beneath the surface. Every few heartbeats, my gaze darted to the splintered door—a testament to what had nearly become my tomb.

V stood in the doorway, watching me. The phantom sensation of fingers crushing my windpipe made me gasp, water splashing as my body jerked backward. Ghost hands tightened, choking reality from the edges of my vision.

I reached for the shampoo bottle, then froze. Last time we'd been here, his hands had worked across my scalp, taking every inch. I'd never had to reach for anything then. The distance between us stretched like a chasm despite him being mere feet away. Did I miss his touch or just the oblivion of not having to choose? The line between dependency and desire had blurred beyond recognition.

The bathwater lapped against my bruised throat, and suddenly, I was there again—fighting for air, the world shrinking to pinpricks of light. My lungs seized. The comb striking the wall. The door giving way. The fire in my chest as I tried to scream. I clutched the porcelain sides until my knuckles matched their color.

Heat rushed up my neck, burning beneath my skin. My stomach tightened painfully, bile rising in my throat at my weakness. V's image filled my mind, and a sick longing rose within me for the very monster, who owned my terror, to be the one who saved me. Then came the self-loathing. Then hatred for the loathing. My thoughts spiraled, fixating on the razor hitting the floor, the crack of wood surrendering.

V stepped further into the bathroom. His gaze fell on me, huddled in the tub, clothes plastered to my skin. Without hesitation, he knelt beside the tub and reached for the drain plug. The water—a medium shade of pink—began rushing out of sight. All I could do was sit in sodden fabric, teeth chattering.

"Arms up," he commanded quietly. My body obeyed before my mind could object, letting him peel the drenched shirt off me. Goosebumps raced across my chest as the air hit exposed skin. The wet shirt made a sickening slap against the floor. His fingers brushed my hips as he worked the pants down my legs, fabric stubbornly clinging to me. I lifted my hips, making it easier for him to remove them.

With my clothes off, he turned on the faucet, knowing exactly where to turn it for the temperature I liked. Steam rose between us, curling like the tendrils of something alive. His eyes met mine again.

Rising water enveloped me, gradually thawing my limbs. He didn't speak. Didn't need to. The language between us had evolved beyond words into this perverse dance of care and control. As the water reached my chest, he shut it off. He knew what I needed before I did.

He took a cup from the floor and dipped it into the bathwater. He poured it over my head, warm water cascading down my skin, washing away invisible tears trapped deep beneath. His hand reached for the shampoo.

He didn't climb in this time, even though I knew he wanted to.

He lathered slowly, scars vanishing in foam before he applied it to my hair. My mind flashed back to our last time here—his grip sliding over my scalp, gentle yet possessive. His strong hands massaged my scalp, tension unwinding from my body despite myself, treacherous sighs escaping my lips. His movements were meticulous, ensuring every strand received his attention.

Each touch sent electric currents down my spine, activating nerves that screamed contradictions—Run. Stay. Fear him. Need him. My body couldn't reconcile these opposing signals. He poured water over me again to rinse away suds, and for a moment, I thought I might drown—not in the water, but in the crushing weight of everything between us.

When he set the cup down, his stare swept over me again. He reached for the body wash and a sponge. His touch on my shoulder guided me to turn, pressure barely there yet impossible to deny. The exfoliating sponge glided across my back, leaving trails of conflicting sensations. Soap stung unnoticed wounds, tiny burning reminders keeping me present.

He knew exactly how much pressure to apply, which areas needed more care. The sponge traced my spine, lingering at my lower back before ascending again. His free hand steadied me, thumb occasionally brushing my collarbone in what might have been tenderness in another existence. He washed away physical evidence, but memories remained, embedded deeper than bone.

When he finished, he placed the sponge on the tub's edge and stood.The cup filled, water cascaded over me. His gaze remained fixed on me, examining every detail with the focus of someone memorizing what he already owned. The task was complete, but his eyes conveyed the truth—he'd never truly be done with me.

He reached for the drain plug. As water gurgled away, his stare burned through his mask. The muscle in his jaw worked beneath the black barrier, tension radiating from his frame. His forearms flexed as he braced against the tub, veins prominent beneath his skin. The barely contained fury in his posture said everything—someone had dared touch what belonged to him, and only his focus on me prevented immediate retribution.

V stepped away briefly, moving to retrieve towels from the linen closet—one for my hair, another for my body. He returned and set the hair towel on the toilet seat within easy reach. His eternal preparedness unsettled me more than spontaneity ever could.

I remained seated, watching the bathwater spiral away, soiled and clouded. Droplets clung to my skin, refusing to be washed away. Like memories. Like fear. Some stains refused to wash away. The water circled the drain hypnotically, making me dizzy. It mirrored how I'd been pulled into V's orbit—circling and circling until the inevitable fall.

When the tub emptied completely, V moved back to my side. He extended his hands, the gesture both command and offering. After hesitating, I placed my trembling hands in his, allowing him to lift me upright. The position change sent my head spinning, heart pounding in my throat. Everything hurt—especially the finger-shaped bruises circling my neck.

The sudden chill prickled my skin, sending waves of shivers down my spine. Vulnerability crashed over me as I stood naked before him, water streaming down in rivulets. His eyes traveled my body, not with desire but something worse—ownership, assessment, calculation.

V lifted me from the bath like I weighed nothing. The transition from warm water to air left me disoriented, hypersensitive to every point where his hands touched bare flesh. He placed me on the bath mat, my feet adhering slightly to its damp surface. He immediately draped the body towel around me, the plush fabric catching along my frame, fibers both comforting and abrasive against my hypersensitive nerves.

The towel around my hair snagged on a knot, jerking my scalp as he adjusted it. His movements had become cautious, as though I might fracture under too much pressure. The irony didn't escape me—how gentle he could be after everything he'd done.

His hand pressed against my lower back, guiding me from bathroom to bedroom. The carpet felt luxurious compared to the tile, briefly keeping me present as we crossed the threshold.

He didn't ask what I wanted to wear. He simply moved to his dresser, retrieving one of his black T-shirts, cotton worn soft from countless washes. My clothes—what had once been mine—hung in the closet untouched. But he didn't reach for them. He knew what I needed better than I did, and right now, I needed to disappear inside something saturated with his scent.

The towel fell away as he guided my arms upward. Icy air clawed across my skin, slicing through nerve endings. His knuckles brushed my ribs. The shirt fell over me. I inhaled the scent—unwilling, automatic.

He ghosted through the motions, fingers retracing ownership like a ritual. His careful touch mocked every violent encounter we'd shared, as if kindness could erase cruelty. If he asked for more, I wouldn't stop him. There was nothing left to fight with.

Standing in the bedroom, it felt like my soul had stepped outside, leaving a vacant shell behind. The places where his fingers brushed my skin burned like frostbite—fire penetrating to the bone. His hands moved across my body, and I watched with detached fascination, as though they belonged to someone else. As though I belonged to someone else.

His gentleness felt crueler, leaving me unsure which version was real. He'd broken parts of me I wasn't sure could be restored.

When he reached toward my waist, I flinched involuntarily. He paused, the muscles in his forearms tensed visibly. I swallowed hard, forcing my body to relax.

He retrieved black leggings from the dresser and knelt before me. He tapped my right leg gently. I lifted it, placing my hand on his shoulder for balance. His muscles coiled beneath my palm, restrained power humming just beneath the surface. He guided my foot into the legging and pulled it to my knee. Tapping my left leg, he repeated the motion. Standing, he pulled the leggings up to my waist, smoothing every wrinkle with possessive hands.

He stepped back, eyes studying me with that unnerving intensity, cataloging every microexpression, every fragment of emotion I couldn't conceal. The T-shirt hung loose on my frame, his scent encasing me completely.

There was a small makeup table positioned between the bedroom and bathroom—a vanity area that served both spaces. V gestured toward it. "Vanity," he said. His hand on my shoulder guided me to the chair facing the mirror.

As I stood there, my hands instinctively covered my eyes—I wasn't ready to confront my reflection.

The mirror would have revealed a bruised throat, a stranger staring back like someone had turned out the lights and left the body behind. Purple fingerprints bloomed across my neck like a macabre necklace. The girl in the mirror wasn't me anymore—she was fractured, rebuilt wrong.

I closed my eyes and forced air into my lungs, holding it before slowly exhaling. The world gradually steadied. When I opened my eyes, the mirror was mercifully hidden beneath V's cut, the bruised reflection concealed.

V opened a vanity drawer and extracted my hair dryer. Plugging it in, he pulled the shirt collar down slightly to access the damp strands clinging to my neck, then began drying my hair with unexpected care. He remembered my hatred for wet hair, especially at bedtime—one of countless small details he'd collected in his obsession. The hot air scorched my scalp, but I welcomed the sensation—an honest form of discomfort, uncomplicated by contradiction.

His breath ghosted over my neck, warmth tracing invisible chains along my spine as he leaned closer, his chest nearly touching my back. Each exhale raised fine hairs there, constant reminders of his proximity, his unwavering attention. It made me want to scream. It made me want to press against him. I did neither, suspended between opposing desires, trapped in the liminal space between revulsion and craving.

The room fell quiet after the hairdryer clicked off, marking a pause between one form of torture and the next. Without warning, he swept me into his arms. My hands instinctively circled his neck as my head rested against his chest, drawn to his warmth despite everything. His heartbeat pounded against my ear—steady, strong, relentless. Just like him.

He carried me to the living room and placed me in the corner of the couch. I curled into the cushions, drawing my knees up instinctively. V sat two cushions away, near the center, reaching for a folded blanket on the armrest. He shook it open and draped it over both of us, the fabric bridging the careful distance I'd created.

I adjusted my position, hands awkwardly curled against my chest, head resting on a decorative pillow. His eyes never wavered from my face, watching with that unnerving intensity.

Part of me wanted to pull away—to scream, to hate him. But another part, quieter and exhausted, didn't want to be alone. My body remembered the comfort of his hands even as my mind recalled their cruelty. Wanting both strangled the air from my lungs.

"Tell me how to fix this," he whispered, his voice fractured, scraping like metal against stone.

The question hit like blunt trauma—I couldn't exhale around it. What would restore my smile? Freedom? His absence? Or—this thought terrified me more than any other—his presence, but transformed. Changed. Real.

"I don't want to stay this broken." I shook my head. My eyes met his, willing him to understand. "I don't want to be miserable in my marriage for the rest of my life. If you want me to be your wife, you're going to have to earn my forgiveness."

He tilted his head. The movement was mechanical, bird-like. I could almost hear his mind processing behind that mask, struggling like it was an alien concept. As I shifted slightly deeper into the corner, he unconsciously leaned forward, maintaining the exact distance between us—desperate to preserve our invisible connection. The concept of earning seemed foreign to him. V took. Owned. He didn't earn.

"What do you need?" he asked stiffly, uncertainty threading through his voice. His posture adjusted again when I pulled my knees closer. "Tell me how, and I'll do it."

"It doesn't work like that, V."

"Then how does it work?" His hands flexed and unflexed, slow and controlled, like he was forcing himself to stay put. As I drew further into myself, he shifted forward slightly, preserving the distance between us.

"You can't build forgiveness like you build doors," I explained quietly. "You can't fix what you broke unless you understand why it shattered." I sat up straighter, creating more space between us. The blanket dragged against my skin as I established boundaries. I needed space to breathe, to think. V's presence consumed all available oxygen. "That's something I can't help you with."

My hand lifted slowly, hesitated mid-air, then rested against his masked cheek. The fabric was warm beneath my palm, damp from his breath. I wondered what his face truly looked like beneath it. I'd never seen him unmasked. Not once. "I've taught you how to feel, now teach yourself how to understand." The word forgiveness felt premature—I wasn't ready to offer it, and he wasn't prepared to receive it.

His hand shot up to cover mine, not gently but with desperate pressure, as though he could force deeper connection through sheer will. He leaned into my touch too eagerly, like a starving man offered sustenance. The desperation in his gesture constricted my throat. "I don't know how."

"If I forgive you," I asked quietly, "would you even know how not to hurt me again?" And I hated that I had to ask. That fear and need could breathe in the same ribcage.

I leaned back and pulled my hand away, aware of his unwavering gaze. He needed time to process this. If he genuinely wanted this marriage, he would find a way.

I shifted further into the corner, and his chest expanded like he was suppressing a scream. His shoulders strained against invisible restraints. He stared at the gap between us like it was a physical wound. He despised this distance—despised anything suggesting I wasn't permanently bound to him. The void between us deepened with each inch I created. His jaw tightened rhythmically. One hand moved toward me instinctively, then stopped, hovering before retreating.

The physical distance between us felt bottomless—simultaneously terrifying and liberating. Curling into myself, back partially turned away, I eventually succumbed to uneasy sleep.

The door closing jolted me awake. My heart launched into my throat, my breath catching sharply—had he left me? Permanently?

I sat up disoriented, blanket falling to my waist. My pulse thundered in my ears, momentarily unable to recognize my surroundings. My throat burned with each breath, a persistent reminder of how close I'd come to never breathing again. The room spun slightly as I attempted to focus.

V was gone from his place on the couch. My stomach plummeted, nausea washing over me. Had he finally abandoned me?

Before I could process my reaction, the front door opened. I straightened, pulse hammering as V entered. He moved deliberately across the room and sat on the edge of the couch near my feet—close enough to touch but maintaining the distance I'd established.

"Where did you go?" My voice emerged hoarse from sleep. He turned toward me.

"Nowhere." His voice was low and absolute. He loomed at the edge like a shadow stitched into the room. His eyes glowed in the dim light from the screen, predatory and vigilant. The thought of him patrolling outside, scanning for threats, sent chills down my spine. His protection felt simultaneously comforting and suffocating.

"When you're here, nothing else can touch me," I admitted quietly, hating the truth of it. Another surrender I wasn't prepared to examine.

Without breaking eye contact, V slowly reached toward where my hand rested on the blanket. I didn't pull away. His palm enclosed mine, the heat overwhelming me, consuming my smaller hand completely. His touch was both prison and sanctuary. He lifted our joined hands, pressing his mask to my skin, his lips pressing against my knuckles through fabric, warmth seeping beneath the barrier. The barrier somehow made the gesture more intimate—an acknowledgment of boundaries, however temporary. Raising his head, his eyes locked with mine, stealing my breath. My heart hammered painfully, reminding me how closely love and terror resided. The intensity behind that gaze could have reduced cities to ash.

Still perched on the couch's edge, he turned my hand palm up. His fingers found the wedding ring, rotating it gently. The metal felt heavier. A weight I wasn't ready to remove—or own. It caught the television's light, mockingly reflective.

V slid from the couch to kneel on the floor directly in front of me. Leaning forward, he pressed his mask against my mouth. Through the fabric, I felt the pressure of his lips, breath hot against my skin. My heart raced treacherously.

I didn't move.

After a moment, he pulled back slightly, eyes locked on mine with breath-stealing intensity. He remained kneeling, studying my face in the dim light before rising and settling back onto the couch, this time only one cushion away.

"I don't get it," he finally said, voice low and rough-edged.

I kept my gaze on the screen. "What?"

"Forgiveness." He pronounced it slowly, as if tasting something foreign.

His pupils constricted, then swelled again—like he couldn't focus through the panic. I'd never witnessed genuine fear in V before. But this—the concept of something he couldn't conquer through force or obsession—terrified him. His breath rasped beneath the fabric, uneven and strained. Sweat beaded at his temple, tracking down his face beneath the mask. His pupils expanded and contracted rapidly, unfocused.

"How do you even do it?" His voice had lost its characteristic certainty, replaced by something raw and unfamiliar. A tremor ran through his words—something I'd never heard from him before.

I didn't answer immediately. My fingers twisted the blanket's edge, feeling soft fabric on my fingertips. The question hung between us, honest in a way V rarely permitted himself to be. In the background, water dripped steadily from the bathroom faucet, marking time in our suspended moment. Each drop echoed like a countdown to something inevitable.

"You learn it," I finally said, voice quiet but steady. "The way you learned how to stalk me. Or tie knots. Or kill people." I glanced at him, and saw his jaw tighten beneath the mask.

"I don't want anyone's forgiveness but yours," V said, words rough as gravel.

My shoulders slumped, each breath feeling heavier than the last. "That's your problem." I looked directly at him now. "You want love to be a cage. Something you force until it surrenders. But forgiveness isn't another blade you wield, V. It's cutting yourself open and letting the poison bleed out."

His hands clenched into fists on his thighs. "I don't want to let go of you."

"I'm not the thing you have to let go of," I said quietly. "It's whatever made you like this."

V remained quiet for so long that I thought he might not speak again. When he did, his voice had lost its edge of certainty.

"Every time someone hurt me, I got even. That was fair. That made sense." He paused, examining his scarred hands. The knotted tissue across his knuckles caught the television's light, mapping a history of violence. His fists clenched and released rhythmically, like strangling ghosts. "I don't know how to do anything else. I don't know how to... not want them to suffer."

The truth settled between us. I reached out, not quite touching him. My hand hovered above his arm, neither connecting nor retreating—suspended in the space between desire and fear.

"Then I guess you'll never forgive yourself either."

He flinched as though struck. The realization rippled through him visibly, a physical blow that made his shoulders jerk backward. His entire body convulsed slightly, then went unnaturally quiet. Beneath the mask, his breath caught—a tiny, fractured sound that pierced deeper than any scream.

"I know how to protect you from everything but me," he admitted, barely audible. The confession hung between us, brutal in its honesty. Each word seemed torn from somewhere vital, leaving raw wounds behind.

The words built in my chest, heavy with truth. "You need to become someone who wouldn't do it again."

Breath wouldn't come. Just the pressure. Just the math of survival. Forgiveness felt impossibly heavy—like choosing to trust him not just today, but every day hereafter. The weight of that choice compressed my lungs.

V nodded, barely perceptible. His eyes met mine, and for once, I couldn't decipher them. The usual intensity had been replaced by something unfamiliar—something almost human. Uncertainty. Vulnerability. Fear.

"If you want a future with me," I whispered, uncertainty creeping into my voice, "maybe... maybe it starts by forgiving the boy who never got to be one."

He didn't respond verbally. Just absorbed my words quietly. The silence wasn't comfortable, but it wasn't hostile. Just necessary. Like the space between lightning and thunder—inevitable, measured by the distance still separating us.

I studied his face, trying to read beyond the mask. His eyes—usually so certain—looked lost, haunted. His desperation tonight mirrored the violent despair I'd seen in his eyes before—only now, tempered by something terrifyingly vulnerable. I'd given him an impossible task, and we both recognized it. But impossible was all we had left.

V's hand moved across the couch toward mine, fingers extending slowly. I stared at his scarred knuckles, hands that had both protected and imprisoned me. Each ridge of scar tissue told stories of violence, discomfort inflicted and endured. These hands had broken bones and lives without hesitation. These hands had also dried my tears, held me through panic attacks, washed my hair with unexpected tenderness. The contradiction made my head spin.

My hand didn't reach for his—but my fingers curled anyway, betraying me, instinctively wanting connection even as my mind screamed warnings. I couldn't move beyond that small rebellion. Just left it there, useless in the space between us. V wanted to force it. Just once. Just grab and hold until I remembered I was his. A shadow of pure violence crossed his face, almost imperceptible had I not been watching closely. The struggle played out across his masked features—the need to assert ownership warring against his desperate attempt to mimic patience.

His stare branded my skin, raw and possessive. His hand hovered, frozen mid-air, before retreating, leaving empty space between us. The quietness swelled like a bruise.

"I can't lose you," he whispered fiercely, though I hadn't threatened departure. "I won't survive losing you."

The credits from the movie continued rolling, casting blue light across his mask—the mask that simultaneously concealed everything and revealed all. The black fabric moved subtly with each breath, the only indication something human existed beneath it. His obsession with me had been his compass. Now I'd removed it, leaving him to navigate a world where possession wasn't equivalent to love.

"I'll stay," I said quietly. "That's all I have left to give."

And I hated that even that wasn't a no.

I deliberately shifted deeper into my corner, tucking my legs underneath me and angling slightly away—creating physical distance to match the emotional divide. The space on the couch stretched between us—both an insignificant gap and an endless chasm.

He didn't reach for me. For once, he didn't. But I saw what it cost him. The rigid line of his shoulders, hands clenching against his thighs—how excruciating it was to remain quiet, not to eliminate the distance. His knuckles splayed against his thigh, then curled into a white-knuckled fist. Every muscle strained against my unspoken boundary. Sweat beaded at his temple, trailing down his face.

His eyes narrowed, possessive even in restraint. "I don't understand forgiveness," he rasped. "You belong to me. Even if you hate me, you're my wife. Even if you bury me. Even if you forget me. You're my wife."

The certainty in his voice chilled me—not because it was new, but because it was the truest thing he'd said all night. Yet beneath the possessiveness, something flickered in his eyes—a momentary bewilderment, genuine confusion from a man who'd never learned how to feel without breaking what he touched. For a heartbeat, the lost boy flickered behind the monster's mask, before the predator reclaimed its territory.

But he stayed where he was, learning to exist in the unbearable space of my uncertainty, even as everything within him rebelled against it.

He was learning patience the way I was learning fear—as something you live with long enough it starts to resemble love.