The silence between them crackled like static—sharp, invisible, everywhere.
Ana stared at the photo on the table. Her father's face was almost unrecognizable. Blood dried at his temple, his eye swollen shut. The shadows in the photograph weren't just physical—they clung to her like chains.
She didn't ask where he was being held.
She knew Hayden wouldn't tell her.
And that terrified her more than the image itself.
Across the room, Hayden poured a glass of whiskey with his usual precision. The amber liquid caught the light, like fire trapped in crystal.
"I told you I'd take my revenge," he said, voice flat, eyes unreadable.
"I know." Her voice was soft, almost brittle. "I just didn't think you'd… enjoy it this much."
That made him pause.
He turned slowly, glass in hand, and walked toward her. Each step echoed like a warning across the marble floor.
"I don't enjoy this, Ana," he said. "I need it."
"That's not better."
"No," he agreed, kneeling in front of her. "But it's honest."
His free hand slid to her thigh, curling possessively around it. "Everything I do now, I do with full awareness. No lies. No pretense."
Her eyes searched his, and something flickered in her chest—fear and desire, tangled so tightly she couldn't tell them apart anymore.
"What happens next?" she asked.
He leaned in. "You stay here. You're protected. I finish what I started."
"And if I want to stop you?"
A dangerous smile curled his lips. "Then you'd have to stop loving me first."
She couldn't answer that.
Because she couldn't lie.
Not when he already knew the truth.
---
That night, Ana couldn't sleep. The shadows in the penthouse felt heavier. Thicker. Like the walls were closing in around her.
She wandered into the library—a room she had barely touched. It smelled like old leather and secrets. The rain had returned, tapping against the windows like soft fingertips.
She curled up on the chaise, clutching a book she couldn't focus on.
Hayden found her an hour later, silent in the doorway. He was shirtless, his tattoos stark in the dim light, sweat glistening along his chest. His hair was damp. He'd been training—fighting something invisible again.
"You're avoiding me," he said.
"No," she replied. "I'm avoiding myself."
He stepped inside, slowly, like approaching a wild animal.
"I don't regret what I've done to your father," he said quietly. "But I regret hurting you."
She looked up at him. "You can't separate the two, Hayden. That's what makes this so twisted."
"I don't want perfect," he said. "I want real. I want the version of you who cries and fights and claws at me when she's angry. I want the woman who moans my name like a prayer and curses me like a devil."
"You want to own me."
"I do own you," he said, kneeling beside the chaise, cupping her jaw. "Just like you own me."
His kiss was slow this time—no fire, no fury. Just raw, aching desperation.
When he lifted her into his arms and carried her back to bed, it wasn't to claim her again. It was to hold her like a man terrified of losing the only thing that ever made him human.
They lay tangled together under the sheets, her head on his chest, his heart beating unevenly beneath her ear.
"Promise me something," she whispered.
"Anything."
"If this ends badly… if I can't forgive you—"
"You will."
"But if I can't," she continued, "promise me you won't become him."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then:
"I don't know who I am without this war, Ana."
"Then maybe," she whispered, "you need to learn."
---
The next morning, she woke up alone.
Again.
But this time, it wasn't silence that greeted her.
It was a single white rose on the pillow beside her.
A message.
A warning.
A promise.
All at once.
Hayden was spiraling, and Ana wasn't sure if love would be enough to catch him.
Or if she wanted to try.