Of course she doesn’t.
As I clean her wounds, the truth digs deeper beneath my ribs. This should not matter.
She is human.
She is temporary.
The curse has not lifted.
Yet, my body burns with a possessiveness that has nothing to do with fate.
She is mine, but not because of some celestial bond.
Because I want her.
The realization is sharp, unwelcome.
My grip tightens around the cloth.
If she were my mate, it would be simple. Expected. A connection ordained by the gods, something written into my very existence.
But this is worse.
This is choosing.
I do not choose.
Not since the day I was cursed, not since I lost control of my own fate. Not since I learned that longing was a weakness.
Yet here she is.
A fragile human, a survivor, a storm wrapped in trembling limbs and bloodied fists.
I cannot let her go.
Her breath shifts, a small, unconscious murmur escaping her lips.
My gaze drops to her hand.
Fingers twitch slightly, curling around nothing. A small motion, but it locks something deep in my chest.
She fights even in her sleep.
She fights even after everything.
A slow breath drags into my lungs.
I cannot let her go.
But I will never say it aloud.
Instead, I press the cloth against the final wound, lingering just long enough that my fingers brush against hers.
She does not wake.
But her body relaxes, just slightly.
I allow myself to believe that she knows she is safe.
