The raw power of Maëlys's accusations, the unvarnished truth of her remembered complicity, hit Eliott like a physical blow. His face was a mask of shock and agony, his stormy eyes wide with a pain she hadn't seen since his initial confession about Liam. The air in the loft crackled with the raw intensity of their confrontation, the fragile bubble of their rediscovered passion shattered by the brutal honesty of her past.
"Maëlys, please," he rasped, his voice hoarse, reaching out for her. "It wasn't like that. Not entirely. I just wanted to protect you from..."
"From myself?" she scoffed, her voice dripping with bitter irony. "From the truth? You chose what I knew. You curated my existence, Eliott. That's not protection; it's control." Her body trembled, not from fear, but from a desperate, furious need to reclaim her own narrative, her own agency. "I was a part of it! I remember the thrill, the recklessness. The way we pushed each other. The way Liam spiraled because of us. You kept me in the dark while you carried the burden, pretending to be my savior, when you were just as much a part of the fire!"
Eliott flinched, his hand falling to his side. The unspoken truth of her words hung between them, a heavy shroud. He had chosen to be her sole keeper of memory, her tormented guide, perhaps to alleviate his own guilt, to maintain his singular hold on her. His love, fierce and undeniable as it was, was also deeply possessive, fueled by his desperate need to control the narrative of their shared tragedy.
"What do you want?" he asked, his voice low, raw with a mix of despair and a dangerous undercurrent of determination. He seemed to know, instinctively, that this was a turning point.
"Freedom," Maëlys stated, her voice clear and unwavering, despite the tremor in her hands. "Freedom from your secrets. Freedom from this ghost of a past you forced back on me. Freedom to decide who I am, without your version dictating it." She looked around the loft, the space that had become their intimate prison. "I can't be here. Not anymore. I can't be us like this."
Eliott's eyes hardened, a flicker of his old, dominant self returning, mixed with a profound sense of loss. "You can't just walk away, Maëlys," he growled, his voice a warning. "Not after everything. Not after what we just shared. Your body remembers me. Your soul remembers."
"My body remembers pleasure," she countered, her gaze unwavering, "but my mind remembers betrayal. And right now, the betrayal burns hotter." She took a step towards the door, her heart hammering, a desperate need for air, for space.
He moved faster, blocking her path, his body a formidable, unyielding wall. His face was etched with raw agony, but also with an unshakeable resolve. "No," he stated, his voice a low, primal sound. "You're not leaving. Not until we face this. All of it. Together." His hands reached out, grabbing her arms, his grip firm, but not bruising. His eyes, dark and desperate, pleaded with hers. "I won't let you run again, Maëlys. Not from me. Not from yourself."
Maëlys stared at him, torn. Part of her screamed to fight, to tear herself free. But another part, the one that remembered his comfort in her nightmares, the one that craved his touch even now, knew that simply fleeing wouldn't sever the ties. They were bound by more than just shared memories; they were bound by a love, however dark and complex, that had defied death and amnesia.
She looked into his eyes, a silent challenge passing between them. The ultimate test of their dark romance. Could he truly let her choose, or would his possessive grip finally break them both? The taste of freedom was intoxicating, but the chains of their desire were still strong, pulling her back into the storm. The choice was agonizing, and the consequences, for both of them, would be irreversible.