Page 45

T he bedroom was dark except for the faint city glow filtering through the curtains. V's arm remained heavy across my waist, his body radiating heat beside me. I lay awake, unable to quiet my mind despite the exhaustion pulling at my limbs. Through his torn shirt, bandages wrapped his torso—a tactile reminder of how close I'd come to losing him tonight.

Something had broken open inside me when I saw him injured—a truth I couldn't hide from anymore. For better or worse, I belonged here. Not because he deserved forgiveness, but because I wasn't looking for peace. I was looking for someone who'd never ask me to be whole.

I shifted slightly, my head coming to rest against his chest. His heartbeat drummed beneath my ear—a steady, unhurried rhythm despite everything that had happened tonight. My fingers traced the outline beneath layers of cloth and bandages, careful not to disturb his injuries, seeking the mark permanently etched into his skin.

The scar. A jagged "O" carved into the skin above his heart. My initial, etched permanently into his flesh. He'd done it himself—cut into his own chest without feeling the pain, watching the blood flow while marking himself as mine. The thought still made me shiver—the devotion twisted into something primitive and visceral, the way he'd branded himself like he'd branded me with that ring.

"Can you feel this?" I whispered, my fingertips ghosting over the spot on his chest where I knew the scar to be, beneath his shirt and the bandages.

His eyes opened immediately, finding mine with that unsettling intensity. "Yeah."

Just one word, but it carried weight. He couldn't feel pain, but he could feel touch. And he felt mine—tracked it, cataloged it, treasured it in his own disturbing way.

"Why carve it there?" I asked softly.

His hand found mine, moving it deliberately to press more firmly against his shirt, over his heart. "So you wouldn't forget where you belong."

The possessiveness should have frightened me. Instead, it carved out a strange hollow inside my chest—a space where something dark and forbidden began to bloom.

"Even if I left?" The question slipped out before I could stop it.

"You could tear out your heart and it'd still beat for me. That's not something you can walk away from."

I stared at where my hand rested on his shirt, knowing what lay beneath—permanent, indelible proof of his obsession. Proof that I was sewn into his skin as surely as he had wormed his way under mine.

The intimacy of this moment, with my hand on his heart, the confession of belonging, made me brave in ways I hadn't been before.

Pressing my palm flat against his shirt, feeling the steady rhythm beneath my touch. "What's your real name?"

The question hung between us, unexpected even to me. Maybe it was seeing him vulnerable for once—bleeding, hurt, human—that made me ask. Or maybe I just needed something real to hold onto after everything we'd been through.

V went still, his eyes fixed on mine with that unsettling intensity. For a moment, I thought he wouldn't answer.

"V," he said finally, voice rough.

"No, I mean your birth name. The one your parents gave you."

Something cold flickered behind his eyes. "Don't have one."

I frowned, confused. "Everyone has a name."

His fingers twitched against the sheets. "Mother never named me."

The admission hit me like a physical blow. What kind of parent doesn't name their child? I swallowed hard, trying to process what that meant—growing up without even that basic recognition of existence. A child without a name. Just empty space where identity should begin.

"Then where did 'V' come from?" I asked gently.

"Prez." His jaw tightened beneath the mask.

"Just 'V'? Not short for something?"

He shook his head once. "One letter's all I'm worth."

Something twisted painfully in my chest—not pity, but understanding that cut unexpectedly deep. His words carried the weight of years spent reduced to function rather than person. Fingertips brushed my cheek so lightly that I might have imagined it, his eyes never leaving mine.

My gaze drifted to the mirror across the room—the one V had shattered the night I had my first panic attack in front of him. Spider-web cracks radiated from the impact point. My face fragmented in the glass.

I studied it from where I lay beside him. Cold. Sharp edges. A distorted reflection that somehow felt more honest than the unbroken version ever had.

For once, I didn't look away.

"You're afraid," he said, voice low behind the mask.

"Not of you." The admission tasted strange on my tongue. After everything, fear of V had transformed into something else.

In one fluid motion, he sat up, the sheet pooling around his waist. Despite his injuries, he moved with unnerving grace, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He extended his hand to me—not grabbing, just offering. An invitation that felt more dangerous than any threat.

I hesitated only a moment before placing my palm against his. He pulled me upright with effortless strength, the mattress shifting beneath us as my weight transferred. My bare feet touched the cold floor as he guided me to stand.

With measured steps, he led me across the room toward the shattered mirror, his hand maintaining its grip on mine. The floorboards creaked beneath our weight, each step bringing us closer to our broken reflections. When we reached the dresser, he positioned me directly in front of the glass, his body a wall of heat at my back.

The fractured mirror transformed us into something unrecognizable yet undeniable. Cracks spiderwebbed across our reflection, severing my eyes from my mouth, his hands from his arms. Where the lines intersected, we became a kaleidoscope of broken pieces forming a new whole.

Heat pulsed from his body as he moved closer, the space between us vanishing with each breath. One arm circled my waist while his mouth hovered at my neck, each exhale ghosting against my skin.

"Tell me to stop." The hand at my waist slipped beneath my shirt, palm branding my stomach as his fingers spread wide. "Don't let me hurt you again."

My body arched instinctively, pressing back into him before my mind caught up. "Since when do you ask permission?"

His fingers dug into my skin—not enough to bruise but enough to remind me who controlled this moment. Against my spine, his heartbeat remained a steady drum while mine raced thunderously. Nothing soft existed in his grip, just as nothing soft existed in him. "Since I took away your smile." His voice sliced through darkness, no emotion softening its edge. "I ruined the only thing I ever fucking wanted."

My breath hitched, throat constricting. Everything he'd taken—my freedom, joy, choice—crushed against my ribs heavier than any physical weight. And now he offered something broken in return, a monstrous type of gift.

In the mirror, my mouth betrayed me first—the slight upward curve at one corner. Not my old smile, but something new rising from its ashes.

My knees weakened. Blood roared in my ears. Not fear of him but of myself—of surrender. What happened if I willingly stepped into this darkness? If he broke me again, would anything remain to rebuild? He'd already taken everything that night: my name, choice, light. Yet now, without warning, he returned the one thing I never expected: power. My ability to say yes.

I turned in his arms, fluid and sudden, my body making decisions my mind still questioned. We stood chest to chest, his rhythm steady against my racing pulse.

"I want this," my voice steadier than I felt.

His eyes tracked over my face, dissecting each microexpression with cold intensity. "You're safe," he promised, masked lips pressing against the curve where my neck met shoulder. The fabric barrier only heightened the contact. Fingers found my shirt hem, curling into the material with restrained purpose. Not taking. Asking. I raised my arms in silent consent, the fabric sliding upward, catching briefly before exposing me to the night air. Goosebumps raced across my naked skin, nipples pebbling under his unwavering stare.

"Am I?" I challenged, voice wavering between defiance and surrender.

His fingertips began a deliberate journey from my throat to collarbone, mapping bone and sinew beneath skin like he was memorizing topography. His touch created electric currents wherever it landed, my body responding despite my lingering doubts.

"Turn around," he ordered, his voice brooking no argument. Before I could respond, his hands gripped my shoulders firmly and spun me to face the mirror. My bare feet pivoted against the cold floor as he physically rotated my body, his strength making the movement effortless. He positioned himself directly behind me, his chest pressing against my back as he adjusted my stance. "Watch."

The webbed glass sectioned us into something surreal—my half-naked body split along jagged lines, his towering presence behind me both separate and connected. He moved, palms skating from shoulders down arms before claiming my waist. Each motion was exact, controlled, like handling something volatile yet precious.

He pressed masked lips between my shoulder blades. Fingers unhooked my bra, fabric falling onto the floor. "Do you see what I see?"

I crossed my arms instinctively. Tried to hide from the reflection. From him. From myself. My figure divided by the cracks—stretch-marked stomach, breasts heavier than I wanted, thighs that met in the middle.

"S-Stop," I twisted away. "Don't make me look."

His body blocked movement. Not forcing. Just present. "Why?"

"Because I know what I am." Years of doctor's visits and dressing rooms crashed through me all at once. "I'm not made for someone like you to want."

Palms claimed my breasts. Thumbs circled my sensitive peaks. "You are. I never knew beautiful until I saw you."

I laughed, but it came out as a sob. "Don't lie to me."

"I don't lie." His gaze locked with mine in the glass. "Not to you."

My eyes searched for mockery. For pity. For disgust. But I found only hunger. His exploration continued downward. Thumbs trailed over silvery lines I'd spent years concealing.

"These," he murmured, mapping their paths across my stomach. "Evidence you survived."

His palm curved around my belly. Not forcing it flat. Not hiding it. Just accepting.

Tears came hot and sudden. For the first time, I believed maybe I wasn't wrong to want to be seen.

Fingers moved to my jeans, unfastening the button. At the zipper, he stopped. "Tell me no." A command, not a request. When I stayed silent, his voice lowered. "Say I can't touch you."

He guided them down my legs slowly, his palms dragging over the soft flesh of my thighs, leaving fire in their wake. I stepped out of them, standing before him in nothing but plain cotton underwear, more exposed than I'd ever allowed myself to be.

"Touch me," I pleaded.

In the splintered mirror, my reflection was transformed—not the flawed image I'd crucified myself with for decades but something almost artistic. The cracks in the glass bisected my body, creating a mosaic of angles and curves I'd always despised, yet now appeared different through his eyes. My wider hips, my fuller thighs, my softer stomach—pieces of me I'd spent a lifetime trying to shrink—suddenly existed without judgment, without shame.

"When I found you," he whispered, hands sliding reverently over my skin like he was memorizing sacred text. His fingers traced the curve where my waist flared into my hip, thumb pressing into the supple flesh with deliberate appreciation, following each dip and rise like mapping territory he'd longed to explore. "You made yourself smaller. Always hiding."

Fresh tears spilled down my cheeks as the truth cut deep—yes, I had been hiding, folding inward, trying to disappear the parts of me the world had taught me to hate. And he had seen it all. Had watched me punish myself for existing in this body. Had watched me trying to vanish. His hands continued their reverent exploration, cupping the fullness of my hips with a grip that bordered on devotional—not just accepting my curves but celebrating them, fingers pressing me.

V's fingers curled deliberately beneath the waistband of my underwear, knuckles brushing against heated flesh as he slowly peeled the fabric away. His touch lingered over every inch as though memorizing territory he considered precious, rough fingertips creating trails of fire across my sensitive skin. When the fabric pooled at my feet and I stood completely bare before him, his breathing deepened, thunderous in the quiet.

His eyes devoured me, traveling from my flushed face down to my full breasts, lingering on the soft curve of my belly, the generous width of my hips, the thickness of my thighs. Where I saw flaws, his gaze found worship. His hands followed the path his eyes had blazed, palms cupping the underside of my breasts with measured weight, thumbs brushing across hardened nipples, drawing a gasp from my lips.

"Beautiful," he murmured, voice nearly breaking on the word, one hand spanning my waist while the other traced patterns up my inner thigh, fingertips dancing along the sensitive skin where my thighs met. "Every inch. Every curve." His palm pressed flat against my stomach, fingers splayed wide across flesh I'd spent years sucking in, hiding under loose clothes. Unlike others who avoided touching this part of me, he seemed drawn to it, caressing my softness like it was something to be treasured rather than hidden.

We were shattered, splintered into pieces like the mirror itself—fragments sharp enough to wound. Yet those shards captured something raw, unguarded. Perhaps our beauty existed precisely in our jagged imperfection.

His body radiated threat more than warmth against my back as I watched in the glass how his hands trailed up my thighs. Fingertips scorched paths across my skin—deliberate and possessive. Every nerve ending ignited despite my mind's conflict. Breath caught as his hardness pressed against me, the scent of fresh bandages and metal mingling into something dangerously intoxicating. When he finally pushed between my folds, my knees nearly buckled as he worked me, thick fingers stroking my entrance before sliding deeper, stretching me while his thumb circled my clit.

My thighs quivered as he manipulated my body, knowing exactly how to touch me. My pulse raced while his remained steady, the contrast a reminder of what he was. My hands reached back desperately, nails digging into his thighs for support as pleasure built inside me, coiling tighter with each thrust of his fingers.

Without warning, he withdrew his hand, leaving me aching and empty. His palm moved to my neck, fingers wrapping with controlled pressure. He bent me forward at the waist, forcing my gaze toward our fragmented image.

"Don't look away." The command was devoid of emotion as he kicked my legs further apart.

The thick head of his cock pressed against my soaked entrance, my body already dripping for him. He entered with one savage thrust, burying to the hilt, filling me completely, walls stretching painfully around his girth. My gasp echoed through the room, the brutal invasion stealing my breath. His grip remained firm on my neck, ensuring I couldn't turn from the reflection.

"See what I see," he ordered, beginning to move with punishing force, each stroke bottoming out against my cervix. One hand gripped my hip, fingers digging into soft flesh as he drove deeper, harder. "Watch yourself take my cock."

The mirror showed everything— y thighs spread wide, the obscene rhythm reflected back. V's imposing form dominated behind me, his masked face revealing nothing but those empty eyes watching me watch us.

"V—" His name escaped my throat as my hips instinctively pushed back against him, seeking more of this devastating fullness despite the edge of pain.

"That's it," he instructed, pace quickening to a punishing rhythm as he slammed harder, wet sounds echoing obscenely in the quiet room. The slap of skin against skin grew louder, more frantic. His hand slid from my hip, fingers finding my swollen clit. He rubbed ruthlessly, pressure exactly right to make vision blur. "You're going to come for me. Now."

My release crashed through me with violent force, muscles clenching around his thick shaft as waves of pleasure surged outward. My body convulsed, but his grip on my neck ensured I kept watching my own undoing, forced to witness my surrender. Walls spasmed uncontrollably as wetness gushed around his cock. V's arm locked around my waist, keeping me upright as my knees gave out, his rhythm never faltering as he continued claiming me through my orgasm.

Before I could recover, he lifted me effortlessly, carrying me to the bed. His touch was careful, mindful of his injuries as he laid me down against the sheets. I instinctively tried to cover myself, arms crossing over my chest, legs pressing together to hide the fullness of my thighs.

"Don't." His voice was gentle but firm as he caught my wrists. "I want to see you. All of you."

The vulnerability of being spread out before him, every roll and dimple exposed under the harsh bedroom light, made my chest ache with old shame. "Please," I whispered, not even sure what I was asking for. Permission to hide? The mercy of darkness?

"The doctors," I said suddenly, words spilling out before I could stop them, "they always say I'm too big. That I need to lose weight to be healthy. To be normal." The confession burned my throat. "You're the first one who ever looked without flinching, and I don't know how to believe that yet."

V went utterly still, something deadly flashing behind his eyes. His hands moved to my thighs, gently but inexorably parting them, exposing all of me to his gaze. I couldn't breathe as his palms slid up the softness of my legs.

"Fuck them," he said, the curse sounding like a sacred vow from his lips. "Fuck all of them." His hands curved around my hips, gripping the fullness there with unmistakable reverence. "This is mine now. Every inch. Every curve." His voice thickened. "Every piece they made you hate."

Tears slipped from the corners of my eyes, tracking hot paths into my hair. He leaned down, one hand coming up to brush them away with devastating tenderness.

"May I?" he asked, the question so foreign from his lips that it made my heart stutter. The enforcer who took whatever he wanted was asking permission. Waiting for my consent.

I nodded, unable to find words as he positioned himself between my thighs. He knelt there, his powerful thighs spreading mine wider, his hands gripping my hips and lifting them slightly off the mattress. The position left me completely open to him, vulnerable in a way that should have terrified me but, instead, made heat pool low in my belly. He held himself above me with one arm braced beside my head, his other hand guiding himself to my entrance as he pressed forward, entering me with a slowness that bordered on torture. The stretch of accommodating him was exquisite—familiar yet always overwhelming.

"I'll stop anytime," he promised, his voice raw with sincerity. "I won’t ever take your choice again, Oakley."

I believed him. My fingers grazed the edge of his mask, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath.

He began to move inside me. Each thrust deliberate, measured, controlled. His hands traveled my body as though mapping sacred ground. His fingertips awakened nerve endings I'd forgotten existed, each brush leaving trails of electricity in their wake.

"Look," he commanded softly, turning my gaze toward the shattered mirror across the room. In its broken surface, I saw us, his powerful form kneeling between my spread thighs, his imposing frame hovering over my softer one, his strength emphasizing my curves rather than diminishing them. "See how perfectly you take me. How beautiful we are together."

His rhythm built slowly, each thrust deeper than the last. He shifted my hips higher, angling my body to meet his, one hand gripping my thigh to maintain the position while the other braced beside my head. His broad chest pressed against my softness when he leaned down, his heartbeat thundered against mine. I curled my fingers into the sheets, legs wrapped around his waist, desperate for an anchor as pleasure built in waves that threatened to drown me. His breathing changed when he found that perfect angle—becoming deeper, raspier, betraying how close he was to losing control.

"I love these," he murmured, his fingers trailing reverently over the stretch marks on my hips, silvery lines I'd spent years despising. He traced each one deliberately, lips pressing through his mask against my skin as he followed their delicate paths across my flesh.

He shifted down my body, his masked face hovering over my stomach. His eyes met mine, cold and assessing, as he deliberately lowered his face to my belly. I felt the firm pressure of his mask, then the heat of his breath through the fabric as he pressed his mouth along each silvery streak. His large hands splayed across my hips, fingers digging possessively into the flesh as he moved lower, his masked mouth dragging across the stretch marks that decorated my thighs. Each touch against these marks I'd hidden for so long made me shiver with contradictory emotions—shame and arousal tangling together in my core.

"Mine," he whispered against my inner thigh, his breath hot against the sensitive skin there. "Every mark. Every line." He moved, claiming each stretch mark as if cataloging territory, his hands gripping the softness of my legs, thumbs pressing along the silver streaks with unmistakable possession.

His palm curved around the fullness of my breast when he moved back up my body, weighing its heaviness with appreciation, thumb brushing across the sensitive peak until it hardened beneath his touch. His other hand followed the generous curve of my waist to my hip, gripping the soft flesh there with worship disguised as grip. "Every inch of you tells a story I want to memorize."

He lowered himself again, breath warm against my stomach as he pressed his masked face to the softest part of me, the part I'd spent a lifetime trying to hide. His hands curved around to cup my backside, fingers kneading the flesh there with unmistakable hunger as he held me against him. His touch wasn't tentative or apologetic—it was deliberate, a man claiming territory he found beautiful precisely because others had deemed it flawed.

My eyes stung with tears. Not from pain or shame, but from the unbearable tenderness of being truly seen—perhaps for the first time. He wasn't just accepting my body. He was celebrating it. Worshipping it. Finding beauty in the very things I'd been taught to hate. His hands moved with purpose, not avoiding the fullness of my thighs or the softness of my belly, but seeking them out, fingers pressing into flesh as if trying to reach something deeper than skin.

I arched against him, my body instinctively seeking more. His palm splayed across my stomach, steadying me as he thrusted back into me. The weight of him against me—solid, warm, inescapable—kept me grounded in this moment of transcendent vulnerability.

His words broke something open inside me—a dam of shame built over decades, reinforced by every sideways glance, every doctor's comment, every outfit that wouldn't fit. Tears streamed down my face as pleasure crested higher, each thrust countering the lies I'd been told about my value.

"Your body is a miracle," he stated, something fierce flashing in his eyes. "Anyone who made you think differently deserves to die."

Fingers found the nerves that ruled me. His movements synchronized perfectly with each thrust, building sensation that left me gasping. I couldn't look away from our reflection—my fuller figure glowing with pleasure, his powerful frame treating me like something precious, worthy, beautiful.

"Do you see?" he asked, voice roughening. "How perfect you are? How you deserve this devotion?" His grip tightened on my hip, thumb tracing a stretch mark with solemn attention. "Your body deserves adoration, not shame." He bent down and pressed his masked lips to the hollow of my throat where my pulse hammered wildly. "I'm the only one who sees you clearly," he murmured. "The only one who knows how to love every inch of you."

The word 'love' from his lips—even twisted through his definition—fractured something fundamental in my chest. I had spent my life believing bodies like mine weren't deserving of passion, of desire, of reverent touch. Yet here was this dangerous man, treating my flesh like sacred text, finding glory in the curves and valleys I'd been taught to despise.

"I-I've spent my whole life hating this body," I confessed, voice breaking.

Something like fury flashed behind his eyes, but his touch remained exquisitely gentle. "Never again," he vowed, each word punctuated by a deep thrust that seemed to reach the very core of me. "Never small. Never invisible. Never ashamed." His hands splayed wide across my stomach, my hips, my thighs, touching everywhere, refusing to let me hide. "You're not something to fix. You're something I've killed for."

His rhythm gradually slowed until he pulled out completely, leaving me empty and aching. He stood from the bed, his movements fluid and controlled despite his earlier injuries.

"Get up," he ordered, voice flat once more.

I rose on shaky legs, body still thrumming with need. He sat on the edge of the bed, mask perfectly in place, his cock rigid against his abdomen.

"Come here," he commanded.

My body moved toward him, drawn by something darker than desire. When I reached him, his hands gripped my hips, turning me so my back faced him. He positioned me to straddle his lap facing away—toward the webbed glass.

"Sit," he instructed coldly.

I lowered myself onto him, guiding his thickness to my entrance. His powerful thighs spread beneath mine, forcing my legs wider as he positioned me. The angle opened me completely, allowing him to penetrate deeper than before. A gasp tore from my lips as I sank down, taking him inch by inch until he filled me completely, stretching painfully around his girth.

"Look," he commanded, palm at my throat—not squeezing, but forcing my face toward the mirror. "See how you’re spread for me."

The glass captured everything—thighs locked open by his, his cock disappearing inside my swollen folds only to reappear slick with each movement, the contrast of his powerful hands against my softer skin. Every detail of our joining reflected back, impossible to ignore. His other hand moved to my breast, pinching the nipple with calculated pressure that sent jolts straight to my core.

"Move," he ordered, voice emotionless even as he throbbed inside me.

I began to rise and fall on his shaft, watching my body accept him again and again. My rhythm proved too tentative for his liking. His grip shifted beneath my thighs, lifting and spreading me wider than I thought possible. The position left me completely exposed, unable to control pace or depth as he thrust upward with increasing intensity.

His grip was iron beneath my thighs, holding me open as he drove into me relentlessly. The pressure built at the base of my spine with each forceful movement, his thickness hitting places deep inside that made my vision blur. I couldn't move, couldn't escape the onslaught of sensation as he claimed me with ruthless determination.

His thrusts grew harder, more demanding, his hands keeping my legs splayed wide as he drove into me without mercy. The wet sounds of our joining filled the room, obscene and primal. My body jolted with each powerful upward thrust, his strength making the entire bed creak beneath us. His masked face remained impassive in the mirror's reflection, observing me with cold calculation as he systematically took me apart.

"This is what you need," he stated, not a question but an assessment. His hips pistoned relentlessly, each stroke bottoming out inside me. "To be fucked until you can't remember anything but me."

His hand found my throat, thumb pressing just beneath my jaw, tipping my face toward the mirror. I caught glimpses of us in the fractured glass—my body pinned and helpless, his powerful form controlling every movement, using me with methodical intensity. His hand slid between us, finding my clit. He rubbed tight circles against the swollen bud.

The orgasm that tore through me was violent and consuming, my cunt clenching around his thick shaft as my body convulsed. I cried out, my voice breaking as pleasure crashed through every nerve ending. My pussy spasmed helplessly, walls fluttering and gripping him as a flood of wetness gushed around his cock. V continued thrusting upward relentlessly, his thick length splitting me open over and over, prolonging my release until it bordered on unbearable. Only when I was completely spent did he allow his own release, his cock pulsing inside me as he filled me with hot spurts of cum. His grip on my hips never gentled, fingers maintaining their bruising pressure until the final aftershock had passed through both of us.

My back arched sharply, body bowing as pleasure surged outward in blinding waves. My thighs trembled against his hands, still holding me open as he continued driving into me through another release. I cried out his name—not a plea but a recognition, an acknowledgment of the man who had somehow made me feel beautiful in a body I'd spent a lifetime apologizing for.

Through tear-blurred eyes, I watched our reflection—my fuller body accepting his, my curves highlighted in the dim light, his powerful frame controlling every inch of me. I came apart with a freedom I had never known before—unashamed, unhidden, unafraid.

With a harsh groan, he followed, burying himself deep as his release claimed him again. His grip maintained pressure beneath my thighs, keeping me spread wide as he filled me. When he withdrew, his release dripped down in thick rivulets. He turned my face toward the mirror, making me watch evidence of his claim, his eyes cold and possessive as he observed my reaction.

"Mine," he stated simply, voice flat yet somehow final.

What broke me wasn't just the physical pleasure. It was the realization that perhaps the most dangerous man I'd ever known was the only one who had ever truly seen me—all of me—and found beauty there. Not despite my body but because of it. Every curve, every mark, every soft place the world had taught me to despise, he had reclaimed as worthy of devotion.

For long moments, we remained joined, catching our breath as our heartbeats gradually slowed. V's forehead rested heavily against my shoulder, breath shaky and uneven, his heart pounding wildly against my back as if he'd given me every last piece of himself and still worried it wasn't enough. His arms encircled me completely, fingertips tracing idle patterns against my cooling skin, soothing without words, communicating through touch what language could never contain.

He held me afterward, each breath he took measured. His hands traced territorial patterns across my skin, deliberate and possessive, marking boundaries only he could see. There was nothing tender in his touch—only ownership. This was his way of maintaining his claim—not through emotion he couldn't feel, but through physical possession he understood.

When he finally withdrew from my body, his cum dripping down my thighs in thick rivulets, he turned me to face him, one hand gripping my jaw. "Kardia Pou Chtypa."

His thumb brushed across my lower lip, and I realized with a start that I was smiling. Not the full, unguarded smile he sought, but a genuine curve of lips that reached my eyes.

V's eyes remained cold, even as they fixed on my expression, his fingers maintaining their grip on my jaw. "There," he stated, emotionless calculation evident behind the mask, something like asset assessment in his voice. "There you are. I've missed you."

I reached up, touching the edge of his mask where it met his skin. When he whispered my name, it didn't sound like a name. It sounded like a vow.

In the fractured mirror across the room, our reflection lay in pieces—broken, distorted, but somehow whole. In the mirror's shattered surface, our reflection bled sorrow. Each crack was a silent eulogy for what we might have been, the innocence he'd shattered, the freedom I'd lost. Yet here we were, bound irrevocably, surviving only because we'd given up on being whole. Like us. Like the beginnings of my smile that V had fought so hard to reclaim.

In the fractured mirror, our brokenness was unmistakable—but for the first time, it didn't look like ruin. It looked like redemption. The shattered edges between us reflected something fragile, precious—two souls who couldn't be whole apart but found purpose in mending each other's jagged pieces.

Before him, the mirror reflected punishment—flaws, failures, all the reasons I'd been taught to hate myself. Now, it reflected grief. Longing. Survival. And somehow, still, me.

He didn't say it. I didn't either. But it hung between us like a bruise—tender, ugly, impossible to ignore.

He didn't love me. Not the way normal people love. He possessed. Consumed. Claimed. And it should have ruined me. It should have destroyed every part of me that once dreamed of being cherished rather than owned. What did it say about me that I was beginning to find safety in his possession? That I'd started to mistake captivity for belonging?

The questions cut into me even as my body betrayed me with its satiated exhaustion. I wanted to hate him. I should hate him. But hatred required a fire I no longer had fuel for. Instead, I'd found myself in this twisted space—not Stockholm syndrome, not love—where his presence had become more necessary than oxygen, where the monster I knew felt safer than the world I'd lost. I should be fighting, should be running—instead I was sinking, drowning in something too dark and twisted to name.

My mother's words about forgiveness echoed through my mind. Was I forgiving him? Or just giving up? Was there even a difference anymore? Mom said forgiveness wasn't about who deserved it, but what holding onto pain did to you. But what if letting go of that pain just made space for something worse? What if forgiveness wasn't healing—it was surrender? The line between acceptance and defeat had blurred beyond recognition, leaving me adrift in waters too deep to navigate.

Later, long after the fire in our bodies faded, I lay tangled in his arms, tears silently tracking down my temples into my hair, each one a quiet accusation against my willingness to surrender to hands that had once hurt me. My tears fell silently, staining the pillow beneath us with hidden grief. He held me tighter, unaware that each tender touch was both comfort and condemnation. He wouldn't notice them in the darkness. My eyes found the mirror again. Still cracked. Still broken. But we were there—tangled and reflected in splinters, chaos bound by raw need and the quiet beauty of accepting our fractured selves.

For the first time, I didn't look away. I accepted what I saw. I accepted him. And maybe, finally, I accepted myself—not just my body with all its flaws, but the woman I was becoming. The one who could find warmth in the arms of the same man who'd once dragged me to a basement filled with death.

Sometimes, I think he sees me more clearly than I do. And I hate that. I hate that the person who destroyed me might also be the one who knows how to piece me back together. What if that means I was always meant to be broken?

Acceptance felt like burying the girl I used to be—the one who dreamed of love without pain, trust without betrayal. I mourned her quietly, even as I welcomed the woman born from wounds and ruin. That acceptance didn't feel like healing. It felt like giving in. But maybe that was the only way to survive someone like him, and someone like me.

In the fractured glass, our reflections lay tangled—but within those splinters, there was something fiercely beautiful. Perhaps our broken pieces didn't need mending after all. Perhaps, together, we could simply exist as fractured art, scarred yet undeniable.

In the broken mirror, our tangled bodies didn't form a happy ending. They were a tragic monument to all we'd lost—innocence, freedom, self-respect. But somehow, together in these shattered pieces, we'd found something more honest than hope: acceptance.

In accepting him, this dark, dangerous man who had forced his way into my life, I had somehow found a way to accept myself. The realization settled into my bones like a truth I'd been running from, our shattered edges fit together in ways wholeness never could.

We weren't healed. We were still bleeding. But maybe that was the point. Maybe the only way out of this hell was learning to live in the ruin together.

They should teach girls that love isn't a light in the dark—it's the fire. And sometimes, no matter how long you stand in it, all it does is burn.