You know who you are, little viper.
Roman’s shadow stretches over me. He steps through the blood, doesn’t flinch or hesitate. He kneels beside me, my ruined hands in his and lifts them like they’re sacred. He laces our fingers together.
It’s a perfect fit.
“You did well,” he says, voice so soft it barely stirs the air. I feel like I’m fucking dying. Can’t get enough air. Cells shriveling up, moisture sucked out of my body, writhing as pain sluices through me like acid. I want to slam my forehead into the concrete until everything juststops.
This is a new kind of grief, a strange and tormenting strain. And it’s not for anyone but myself.
I want to scream at him, to tell him that he turned me into this.
That’s a lie, and you both know it. He just brought it out of you. It was always there.
I hate this. I hate myself, sick and shaking as I feel cold blood rushing through my veins, hot blood clinging to my clothes. I sob. My legs won’t work. I try to push myself up, but the blood makes the floor slick. Roman stands, loops his arms under my shoulders, and hauls me up like I weigh nothing.
Roman carries me up the stairs. My head is ringing, but the world feels far away.
He takes me to the bathroom at the end of the hall, all glass and tile and cold white light. He puts me back on my feet and I’m surprised when I don’t crumble right away.
He peels off his shirt, tosses it in the sink, and turns the water on. I just stand there, arms limp at my sides, blood running down to my wrists like handcuffs.
Roman lifts my shirt, and I raise my arms so he can peel it off. The blood makes the fabric heavy. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror: more blood, all over my face.
He kneels in front of me, unzips my jeans, and slides them down over my hips. His hands are steady, clinical. When I step out, my knees buckle, but he’s already there, catching me before I fall. He helps me into the shower, and the first rush of water stings like acid.
I am bursting apart. This is the worst thing I’ve ever done, and I already want to do it again.
Blood ribbons down my arms, mixes with the water, stains the tile pink. It pools at my feet, then spins away into the drain, swallowed like a secret.
Roman steps in behind me, closing the glass door with a soft click. We’re sealed in now. Just him. Just me. Just the heat.
He soaps his hands, then lifts my arms and starts to scrub, slow and patient. He works every finger, every nail, peeling the blood away in layers. The touch is tender, reverent.
I am his to shape into whatever pleases him most.
It’s a relief.
I am his.
He finds the thin cut where I sliced myself on the blade and washes it gently, like a prayer.
He lathers my shoulders, my back, my neck. It’s like he’s scrubbing away a layer of my soul until he washes away the brittle scaffolding of the woman I used to be.
The water swirls down like judgment. The sharpest edges of my heart melt under it. Every breath I take feels like the first one I’ve ever drawn.
The way my heart beats now like it never really did before.
There may not be a heaven, or a hell, but this is as close as I’ve ever felt to salvation.
And when I turn and look at the man who brought me here, I don’t see a monster.
I see a prophet.
Someone I’ll follow until the earth gives way beneath us, swallowing us whole.
His hair is wet, eyes bluer than ever. This is the first time I’ve seen him naked. He’s so huge, standing over me, looking down with something like admiration.
The scars on his chest and arms catch the light—some are puckered white, others a darker, angry red. His tattoos, ornate and jagged, warp under the water.
