The anchor and black rose tattoo on Maëlys's wrist was not merely a mark on her skin; it was a seal, a silent promise of eternity forged between her and Eliott. The days following the marking were imbued with a new dimension of their intimacy. The tension, once latent, had been replaced by a quiet certainty, a tacit understanding of their indissolubility. They had plunged into the abyss and emerged bound, more deeply than ever.
The loft, a silent witness to their drama and rebirth, had become the center of their universe. They spent hours there, no longer excavating painful memories, but building a present and future anchored in their unique reality. Eliott worked on his tattoo commissions, the familiar hum of his machine filling the air, while Maëlys, often seated beside him, filled sketchbooks, her hands regaining the ease with which she traced lines and shapes, art having become a natural extension of her being.
The art studio project, once an ethereal dream, was now taking concrete form. Eliott had taken her to visit various locations, disused warehouses in industrial districts, raw spaces he already envisioned transformed by ink and creativity. Maëlys found herself enthusiastically visualizing every corner, imagining artworks hanging on the walls, the sound of machines, the laughter of the marginal artists they hoped to attract. It was their future fortress, a place where their dark love could flourish openly, without judgment.
Yet, despite this new harmony, the echo of their origins sometimes lingered, light as a shiver. One afternoon, as they ate lunch in the sun-drenched living area, Maëlys felt her gaze drawn to the large mirror at the far end of the room. Not the bathroom mirror where she had rediscovered her former reflection, but an old, dark-framed, ornate mirror that Eliott had placed there a few months ago.
"This mirror," she began, her voice lower than usual, "it was already here when I woke up. I remember looking at myself, not recognizing anything."
Eliott put down his fork, his eyes fixing on her with immediate intensity. He knew she was talking about what had come before their fusion. "Yes," he said, his voice husky. "It's always been here. It was the mirror from our apartment. Before."
The word "before" hung in the air, laden with all it implied: Liam, Léonie, the life she had shared with Eliott before the tragedy. Maëlys stood up and walked towards the mirror, her reflection facing her. She saw a woman with deep eyes, marked, yet also full of a new determination. She was different from the woman she had been with Liam, different also from the victim she had been after the accident. She was the product of everything, past and present.
Eliott rose too, approaching her, his arms wrapping around her from behind, his powerful chest pressed against her back. He rested his chin on her shoulder, his gaze meeting hers in the reflection. They stood there, side by side, their silhouettes intertwined. Their tattoos were visible: the anchor and black rose on her wrist, the raven and flames on his arm. Indelible marks of their belonging.
"This mirror has seen everything, Maëlys," Eliott murmured, his voice husky, his lips brushing her ear. "It saw our secret beginnings, our fears. It saw Liam's rage. It saw Léonie... It saw everything. But it also sees us now." His gaze grew more intense, almost pleading in the reflection. "It sees us more... complete. Unbroken. Together."
He tightened his embrace, pulling her closer, pressing a lingering kiss to her temple. The weight of his body against hers, the warmth of his skin, the familiar scent of him – it was home. In the mirror's depth, their reflections seemed to solidify, no longer ghosts of a past, but living beings, fiercely present.
"Do you ever regret it?" she asked softly, her voice barely a whisper, looking at their reflections, not his face. "Any of it? The chaos? The choices? Us?"
Eliott's grip tightened, a powerful squeeze that left no room for doubt. "Regret is for the weak, little bird," he murmured, his voice a low rumble against her ear. "And we are anything but. Every choice, every fall, every scar... it led me to you. To this. To us, unburdened by illusions. No, Maëlys. I regret nothing. Not if it means having you, truly having you, like this."
He turned her in his arms, facing him, his hands cupping her face, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones. His eyes, usually dark and unreadable, held a raw, undeniable emotion – a love so fierce it bordered on obsession, a devotion so absolute it was terrifying.
"And you?" he challenged softly, his gaze piercing. "Do you regret remembering? Do you regret what you are now? What we are?"
Maëlys looked into his eyes, truly looked, past the darkness, past the possessiveness, to the raw, wounded heart beneath. She saw the boy who had lived in shadows, the man who had fought tooth and nail for their forbidden love, who had risked everything to reclaim her. And in that moment, she knew her answer with an absolute certainty that resonated through every fiber of her being.
"No," she whispered, her voice firm, resolute. "I don't. This... this is real. This is us. And I wouldn't trade it for anything. Not for a perfect memory. Not for a life that wasn't ours."
A slow, profound smile curved Eliott's lips, a smile that reached his dark eyes, illuminating them with a triumphant, almost predatory joy. He leaned in, his lips finding hers in a deep, consuming kiss that sealed her words, her truth, her complete surrender to their shared destiny. It was a kiss that promised eternity, an eternity lived in the beautiful, dangerous shadows they had always called home. The echo of their origins would always be there, a reminder of the storm from which they had emerged, but now, they faced it together, an unbreakable, indelible force.