Third Arc (Fallen Heart) - 415. I Let It Control Me Once
He'd spent his entire rule controlling it. Mastering it. Using it like a sword to carve out peace, even when it burned his fingers to wield.
And now?
Now the idea that it might be someone else's legacy—someone else's scream locked inside a cursed trinket, someone else's fight—gnawed at his chest like a slow fire.
"I didn't ask for it," he murmured, voice low, raw. "I never wanted this."
Rose paused behind him, holding the black robe in her hands.
"I know," she said gently. "But you still chose to carry it."
"Because if I didn't, it would've used me," Angel said, turning to face her now. "I felt it. Back then. Before I understood anything. It wanted out. It wanted control. I barely slept. I couldn't breathe without checking if I was still… me. I let it control me once."
His voice cracked slightly at the edges.
Not from weakness.
But from exhaustion.
"And now?" he continued. "Now there was a woman. Possibly the first. Possibly the source. And I feel like I've been wearing someone else's shadow my whole life."
Rose stepped forward and slipped the robe over his shoulders, smoothing it over his chest with quiet, delicate hands. "Even if that's true… you're still the one who never let it win."
Angel closed his eyes for a long moment. Her touch didn't fix anything. It didn't erase the fire in his veins or the weight in his chest.
But it helped.
"Thank you," he whispered.
"You don't have to thank me for staying," she replied. "This is what staying means."
He opened his eyes, looking down at her—at the way her eyes never wavered, even when his did.
"I'll go to bed soon," he said, more softly now.
Rose gave a small smile and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. "I'll keep the tea warm. Just in case."
She stepped away.
But she didn't make it far.
Not even three steps before his hand shot out and caught her wrist.
His grip wasn't tight. But it was sudden—firm enough that it stopped her clean, fingers wrapping around her like she might vanish if he let her go again.
She turned slowly.
He didn't look up at her at first, his head dipped low, hair falling over his eyes. But when he finally did, the shadows around his irises were darker than usual. Not because of magic. But because of thoughts.
Dark ones. Old ones. Ones he hadn't said aloud in years.
"I don't need tea," Angel said, voice quiet. The kind of quiet that always made people listen harder.
Rose didn't try to pull away.
She just looked at him for a second. Studied the way his shoulders had tensed again.
She knew what he meant.
Tea wouldn't fix this.
Warmth wouldn't fix this.
Words definitely wouldn't fix this.
So she didn't argue.
"Then I guess…" she said softly, "I'll give you something else instead."
And she stepped into him.
No hesitation. No slow glide of hands or dramatic whispers. Just—arms around him.
A hug.
A real one.
Not the kind meant to melt tension or spark intimacy. Not the kind that turned into whispers against the neck or kisses hidden behind hair.
This one was heavier. Still. Solid.
Like she was telling the room, the world, the gods— 'I'm here. I'm staying.'
Angel didn't move at first.
His hand slowly released her wrist, then hovered—uncertain.
He didn't know how to do this. Not without control.
But her arms were around his waist now, and her cheek was pressed lightly against his chest, and he could feel the weight of her breathing—steady, calm, deliberate.
She didn't squeeze him. She didn't tremble.
She held.
And that did more than any spell ever could.
"You know…" he murmured, after a long stretch of silence, "you don't have to do this."
"I know."
"You don't have to pretend I'm still just a king. Or a man."
"I'm not pretending," she replied softly. "You're both."
He exhaled. Not because the tension was gone—but because it cracked just enough to let air in.
"I don't know what I am anymore," he whispered.
Rose's voice was warm and unshaken. "You're still mine."
Angel's throat tightened.
Not from pain.
From something else.
Something worse.
Relief.
Because for a long time, he wasn't sure if he deserved it.
Her.
Any of it.
And now—when everything around him threatened to dig up the pieces he'd spent years burying—she was still here.
Not because of a title.
Not because of duty.
But because she chose to be.
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