She ran.
Of course, she did.
After that night, I waited — every damn hour — for a message. A word. Something.
Nothing.
She didn't come to the next dinner. Or the next.
She was hiding.
Avoiding.
Pretending I didn't exist when I'd just pulled every single breath from her body with my mouth, my hands, my name. My Luna. My chaos. My storm.
So I reminded her.
I didn't threaten her to be cruel.
I threatened her because I had to. Because when you find something that makes your blood burn and your bones ache, you don't let it walk away.
I sent her the photos.
Not to humiliate her.
God no.
The thought of anyone else seeing her like that — her body bare, lips parted, flushed and trembling — made my chest seize with a kind of fury I couldn't tame.
Those photos? They belonged to me.
Just like she does.
But I needed her scared enough to listen. To come back.
And she did.
Dressed in black. Eyes downcast. Sitting beside Lila like her skin wasn't still mine.
Lila.
The friend who kept calling me mysterious. Kept talking too loud. Laughing too hard. She's not the problem. But she's in the way.
Every time Luna's eyes flicker to her, she remembers who she's supposed to be.
And I need her to forget.
Forget who she was.
Forget who she thought she should love.
Forget that she ever thought she could walk away from me.
At dinner, I didn't speak much. I didn't have to. My eyes were on her. Only her.
She didn't look at me once.
But I saw the tremble in her hand when she reached for her glass.
I saw her swallow too hard when Lila spoke about how "kind" I was.
I almost laughed.
If only she knew what I looked like with Luna's thighs around my waist.
What I sounded like when I told her not to scream.
I watched. Waited.
Because she'll come again.
And this time, I won't let her leave.
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