Chapter 42

“If loving her is my reckoning,
then let the curse come for me instead.“

Nathan’s POV

I didn’t sleep much, even though she was wrapped in my arms all night long.

Even though the whole purpose of dragging her out here had been to disappear, to escape the noise, to be alone without the world breathing down our necks.

Turns out the world followed anyway.

I had checked the perimeter three times last night, but the snow swallowed every footprint within minutes, as if it was covering up for someone. There were no tire marks, no broken branches, no evidence of anyone lingering too close.

Nothing. Too nothing.

I searched the woods for a while, but I didn’t get very far. I couldn’t, not with Aylin inside, sleeping alone, unaware that someone had gotten close enough to our door to slide a note under a rock, close enough to watch us, to see her.

The same fucking someone who’d been tormenting her all over the past year.

Fuck, just thinking about it makes something violent stretch inside my chest. I should’ve burned the entire forest down to flush the fucker out. Instead, I came back inside. You know, the whole fight your first instinct thing and whatnot…

Then I did what any reasonable, stable boyfriend would do. I kind of snooped through her phone, because if I didn’t monitor threats, who would?

I deleted the new message before she could see it, then scrolled up, reading every single one that came before it, and it only proved what I already suspected, this was the same person behind the creepy notes, the same tone, the same calculated curiosity, the same quiet obsession with her.

The Riley person that I still couldn’t seem to figure out. The one, whose relation to Aylin and to her family was completely unclear, and that uncertainty sat wrong under my skin.

If you get rid of the old man, I will give you the truth.

Riley wanted the old man dead, which only confirmed my theory. Charles had done something bad once upon a time, but apparently Riley wasn’t strong enough to handle it themselves, otherwise they wouldn’t have been nudging me from the shadows.

Hmm. Interesting.

The thought lingered for a moment too long before the quiet of the cabin pressed back in. I blinked, realizing I’d been staring at the tree line without actually seeing it.

I had been standing in the kitchen longer than I realized, barefoot against the cold wood, staring out at the forest through frost-laced glass, lost in my own head while steam curled up from the kettle behind me.

Earlier, while Aylin slept curled against my chest, trusting the world too easily for someone the world had already chewed on, I had sent Adam the phone number to run it. Not long after, he informed me that it was a burner with a dead end.

I didn’t like dead ends; they implied that someone was trying very hard not to be found.

Which meant Riley wasn’t stupid, or Riley wasn’t working alone.

Well, whoever this very unfortunate person was, they didn’t realize it yet, but they had just volunteered to become my newest hobby. They were unaware that I was the worst possible person to play mind games with.

The kettle clicked off with a sharp snap, louder than it had any right to be in the quiet cabin, startling me out of my spiraling thoughts.

I exhaled slowly as I picked it up and poured the steaming water into the bowl, letting it mix with the green powder. I forced my focus onto the present, on the moment, on this little escape, and tried to shelve the rest for later.

Considering we were snowed in, I wouldn’t be able to resume our daily ritual of buying my princess her swamp drink from her favorite shop, which meant I had to try to prepare it myself. So very tragic, I know.

One YouTube video later, and I was whisking the grass-scented powder, grimacing every now and then at the smell and texture. When I was done, I frothed the milk, poured the radioactive sludge into it, and watched the two colors fold into each other, forming a slow, hypnotic swirl.

Huh, it looked annoyingly beautiful. Seriously, I was offended by how competent I was at everything.

The sound of soft footsteps drifting closer made me lift my head, my eyes landing on Aylin as she wandered into the kitchen, glancing around the place like she’d misplaced something important…me.

She rubbed at her eyes, blinking through the haze of sleep, and when she spotted me, she paused to a stop.

Her lips curved slowly into the prettiest smile I’d ever seen, “Morning.”

Involuntarily, I smiled back, “Morning, sleepyhead.”

Her nose scrunched adorably in offense, “I am not a sleepyhead,” she mumbled, even as she rubbed her fist over one eye and yawned into her palm. Yeah, very convincing.

She shuffled closer, blinking a few more times as if the world was still buffering. “What are you doing up so early?” she asked, her voice warm and drowsy.

When she got within reach, instead of answering, I clasped her arm and tugged her into me. She stumbled forward with a tiny, surprised sound, crashing lightly into my chest. Her hands instinctively grabbed my arm to steady herself.

I dipped my head and pressed a slow kiss to the crook of her neck, inhaling her like she was oxygen, and I’d been deprived for years. She melted into me almost instantly, with no resistance, just that soft surrender that made my ego purr.

Her head tilted back slightly, her eyes lifting to mine, still hazy with sleep. Her fingers drifted from my chest upward, brushing near my eye and temple, then my jaw, right over the bruises her dear grandfather had generously donated to my face.

Her expression changed, and guilt creased between her brows.

“Do they hurt?” she asked softly.

I shook my head, sliding my palm down to flatten against her lower back, pulling her closer. “I forgot they were even there.”

Which wasn’t entirely a lie. I had more interesting things to focus on.

Her fingertips brushed over the bruises again, so gently, like she knew she was capable of undoing the violence with her softness alone. It was ridiculous how efficiently it worked.

I turned my head and kissed the inside of her palm, smiling against her skin so she’d stop looking like she personally caused me bodily harm.

Her expression softened just like I intended.

I tightened my grip on her waist and turned her around smoothly, caging her lightly against me, my chin resting briefly over her shoulder. “Look what I made for you.”

Her eyes dropped to the counter, widening in astonishment when they landed on the mug. “Wha— how?”

“I was looking around and found the ingredients in the cabinets,” I said casually, as if I hadn’t been the one to buy them beforehand and place them there myself, back when I was planning to kidnap her out here and keep her locked away with me.

Her wide eyes flickered back to mine. “Nathan, you can’t…these are people’s things, we can’t just use them,” she whined, slipping right back into her moral-and-ethical era.

I rolled my eyes, “Ugh, told you I’d leave them a bunch of money before we leave,” I kept up the act that this was someone else’s place that we’d invaded and totally not my own. “They’re not going to collapse financially because I used one scoop of their precious matcha.”

She narrowed her eyes at me, trying very hard to stay stern.

I picked up the mug and inched it closer to her lips, “Now, try it and compliment my hands that could do wonders not only to your sweet body but to everything else they touch.”

Her lips twitched despite herself. She placed her hands over mine, guiding the mug the rest of the way and taking her first sip. She hummed softly in satisfaction, her lids drifting down for a second.

“I hate that you’re right,” she mumbled, clearly addressing my marvellous hands.

I chuckled and dipped my head, brushing a kiss over the bite I’d previously left there, still red and raw against her pale skin. Her back relaxed fully into my chest as she took another sip, savoring it.

She set the mug down on the counter and craned her neck to look up at me. She stared at me for a second too long, a small, fond smile tugging at her edible lips.

“What?” I asked.

She shrugged slightly. “Can’t every morning be peaceful like this?”

I leaned down, nudging her nose lightly with mine. “Careful, princess, I’ll start thinking you prefer captivity.”

She could deny it all she wanted, but she liked this too, just me and her, cut off from the rest of the world.

Out there, people misunderstood us.

In here, alone?

We made perfect sense.

She rolled her eyes, “No, I prefer you.”

My lips tugged upward. That did something inconvenient to my ego, inflating it to dangerous levels.

My hand slid to her waist, my fingers curling there before I lifted her effortlessly. She let out a small yelp as I set her down on the counter, one palm flying to my shoulder to steady herself.

I stepped in without hesitation, placing myself between her knees, crowding her space. My hands rested on either side of her hips, thumbs grazing the curve of her waist as I leaned closer, close enough that she’d have to tilt her chin to keep looking at me.

“You prefer me?”

Her lips twitched. The hand on my shoulder drifted to the collar of my sweatshirt, her fingers toying with the fabric as she nodded.

“Good,” I murmured, “Because I would’ve burned the world down before letting you prefer anyone else.”

Her smile faded slowly, like my words had landed somewhere heavier than I intended. Her fingers lingered near my collar, brushing over the skin, her eyes leaving mine for a second too long.

“Nathan…I know that he hurt you, but…” Her eyes lifted to mine, so soft, too knowing, dangerously aware of how they disarm me. “But you need to promise me you won’t hurt him back. I’ll talk to him. I’ll fix it. I am beyond angry that he hurt you, but he’s still my grandpa. I don’t want you to harm him in any way.”

She chose each word carefully, like she thought I might snap if she leaned too far in his direction.

Usually, that would’ve annoyed me.

Her loyalty to him used to itch under my skin in all the wrong places. Her deep love for him used to make something territorial rise in me, but something had shifted. After that little one-on-one with the old man, after watching the way his anger flared when it came to her, the way his threat wasn’t about pride but protection…

I understood something. I used to think he was covering for whoever hurt her, but now I was almost certain he’d done the opposite.

I’d seen that flicker in his eyes, the same one I feel when someone even looks at her too long.

It wasn’t guilt, but rage, not concealment, but retaliation.

That…I respected.

When her parents proved themselves useless, the old man seemed to be the only one standing on the same battlefield I was on.

The kind who would protect her at any cost.

The kind who wouldn’t hesitate to let the rest of the world burn if it meant she stayed untouched.

Which meant, unfortunately for my ego…

We were alike, in a way.

I exhaled slowly and shook my head.

“I wouldn’t hurt him back, I promise,” I assured her, not willing to indulge whoever thought they could command me. I don’t take orders. The truth they bargained with? I will figure it out on my own. Then, I will find this coward hiding behind words, end him, and finish what the old man once started.

Her shoulders relaxed instantly, and the way relief softened her face awoke something feral inside my chest.

“I don’t want you to think I’m choosing sides,” she rushed out gently, shaking her head. “It’s not like that. You both are so important to me. I really want you to get along. He’s my family, and you’re…” She hesitated. “…you’re you.”

My eyebrow raised, my fingers slipped beneath the hem of her shirt, brushing the warm skin of her waist, just enough to make her inhale. “I am what?” I murmured.

“You know,” she mumbled, cute redness creeping up her neck in that deliciously honest way she can never hide. “You’re my…boyfriend.”

“Just that?”

Her throat bobbed, “Well…yeah, what else?”

“I want to be your family too,” I said lightly, but my eyes didn’t joke. “If I recall correctly…I asked you something yesterday while I was slightly drugged and possibly half-delirious.”

Her entire face flushed.

Oh, there it is.

“And I also recall you not giving me an answer,” I added smoothly.

“Nathan,” she muttered, her voice flustered, that tiny warning tone she used when she was seconds away from combusting. “Don’t talk about it like…this.”

I tilted my head innocently. “Like what?”

Her hands pushed lightly at my chest, like she needed distance, or was contemplating running away from me again, in her dreams by the way, “It’s way too early for that type of talk, just stop.”

“But you didn’t say no,” I added, because pushing her to the edge was one of my finer talents.

She tried to glare at me, but the blush crawling up her cheeks betrayed her completely. “I am not answering that. Not now, and definitely not like this.”

“So that’s a maybe?” I concluded.

“That is not a maybe!” She shot back.

“It wasn’t a no either,” I countered.

She groaned softly and folded forward, hiding her face in my shoulder for a long second, mortified.

I chuckled low in my throat and pressed a kiss to her hair. God, I loved it when I cornered her like this.

“You’re insane,” she grumbled into my shoulder.

I brushed the back of her head, my fingers playing with the soft strands. “So I’ve been told.”

She pulled back and shot me a glare, the kind that was supposed to be threatening, but only made her look devastatingly adorable.

Then her eyes flickered downward. Her brows pulled together as her gaze moved from my clothes to hers. She grabbed the hem of her pink pajama top and looked at it, ever so confused.

Her eyes widened in slow realization, “Did you change my clothes?”

I nodded, the corner of my lip pulling upward, “Sure. You know my second favorite thing after having sex with you is undressing and dressing you up.”

Her fingers froze on the fabric, and she looked at me from head to toe, “You changed and showered too,” she shot back, scandalized. “How could you use other people’s clothes? That’s so wrong!”

I let out an exaggerated, long-suffering breath. “Look, if you’re going to marry me, you might have to lower those morally ethical standards just a notch,” I tapped my chest lightly. “You already know I lack in that department.”

Her nostrils flared, “You need to stop undressing me whenever I fall asleep.”

I shrugged, “It’s not my fault you are a heavy sleeper.”

“Creep.”

I leaned closer, resting my hands on the counter on either side of her thighs. “As your honorary future husband—”

“I did not agree to that title.”

“—I have certain domestic privileges,” I carried on, completely ignoring her interruption.

She narrowed her eyes at me.

“Very official legal ones,” I continued. “Clause one, I can undress you whenever I want. Clause two, unlimited access to sex. Clause three—”

I swear even her ears were red now, “That’s not—ugh, you’re just so damn infuriating!”

I smiled slowly at her cutely flustered expression and lifted my hand to her face, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

My thumb lingered there, for too long, because it hit me all at once.

She was here.

Here.

Warm under my hands. Breathing the same air. Her scent, that faint mix of something soft, of jasmine and vanilla, wrapped around my suffocating lungs.

I hadn’t realized how quiet my world had become without her in it, how gray, how hollow.

How I only felt fully alive when she was near.

“I missed mornings like these,” I muttered. “My mornings were rather dull this past month,” I added, brushing my thumb along her cheek again, “I always want you to be the first thing I see when I wake up.”

My words fully disarmed her, and her lips twitched faintly, “My mornings weren’t so dull, to be honest,” she said, looking down to hide the warmth in her eyes as she picked up her drink and took a sip.

“Some asshole made it his mission to send me my favorite drink and write me uncharacteristically sweet notes every single morning.”

My eyebrow raised, my hand still near her cheek, “He is a keeper.”

Involuntarily, she leaned into my touch, cradling the cup between her palms, and nodded. “Unfortunately, he is.”

I decided to push her buttons one last time, “So, that’s finally a yes?”

Her smile dropped, and she pushed her head away from my touch, groaning in annoyance, “You are an asshole, indeed.”

I chuckled and took the mug from her, setting it away before I cupped the side of her neck, my other hand on her waist, pulling her fully to me as I leaned down, my lips hovering near hers, “This asshole owes you a proper kiss,” I muttered, recalling her sleepy words from when I climbed into her room.

“Nathan—” she breathed, as if to say more, but I closed the distance before she could finish.

The kiss wasn’t rushed like we usually kissed. No, it was slow, savoring. I took my sweet time, claiming back what was mine all along, tasting every little bit of her mouth.

My lips moved against hers with intention, with devotion, with too many unnamed things pressing against my ribs, demanding language I refuse to give them.

My hand slid from her neck into her hair, fingers threading through silk as I angled her exactly how I wanted.

She melted into me, always surrendering,  trusting the hands that could ruin the world to hold her gently instead. Her own hands climbed up my shoulders, her fingers gripping the fabric, clinging to me.

She always did that, like I was the very ground beneath her, the gravity and the oxygen. Fuck, I reveled in it.

I deepened the kiss, slowly parting her lips, tasting the faint sweetness of her drink and her. God help me, but it only tasted good coming from her.

She could make hell feel like heaven if she wanted to, and she did. She took this brutal, sharp-edged life I’ve built from ashes and endurance, and turned it into somewhere I didn’t just survive…into somewhere I wanted to stay.

In her orbit, this hell bends, it softens, and becomes livable.

A low sound escaped her, and it did illegal things to my bloodstream as I swallowed it down.

I was fully aware how dangerous this had become, how she turned a man like me, a man built for damage, into something dangerously close to…happy.

And that terrified me more than any enemy ever could.

⊹˚₊‧────────────‧₊˚⊹

Aylin’s POV

Today was so peaceful.

The earned kind, the kind we bled for first.

Nathan told me in the morning that we were snowed in, that the roads were closed, and that we had no way out until the storm calmed down.

If I’m being honest…I didn’t want the storm to end.

I wanted to be stuck here for more than a day, a week, a month, maybe even a year.

Life felt simpler like this.

Here, my grandpa wasn’t trying to hurt Nathan. Here, my mother wasn’t forced to tolerate my presence. Here, there were no reminders of my disease, no whispers about my fractured brain, no ticking clock that sometimes felt lodged inside my skull.

Here, Nathan’s chaos wasn’t threatening to swallow everything whole.

He wasn’t sharp edges and dark plans and controlled destruction.

He was just…him, the soft, gentle version, unarmored in ways he didn’t even realize.

And somehow, here, we fit, like two mismatched pieces that only made sense when forced together in one confined space.

The morning unfolded softly. We made breakfast together, which mostly meant him showing off while I complained about using other people’s food just to annoy him a little more. At some point, he turned on music from my phone, and before I could protest, he grabbed my wrist and spun me into him.

I squealed when he twirled me in the middle of the kitchen, nearly knocking me into a chair.

“Nathan!” I laughed, half-scolding.

“Relax,” he murmured with his signature crooked smile, one hand firm at my waist, the other lifting mine like we were in some black-and-white film instead of a being trapped in a cabin.

He dipped me slightly just to make me laugh, and we swayed to the music, clumsily and lazily, but we both felt so light, like the outside world didn’t exist.

We talked about everything and nothing while we ate, then we kissed more than we spoke. At one point, he carried me to the couch. “I have legs,” I reminded him.

“I have arms,” he replied simply before he dropped me down and devoured me wholly.

Now, the day had folded into evening.

The fireplace crackled softly in front of us. The world outside was coated in serene whiteness. The TV was on, some random movie playing, but I had barely followed the plot.

I was leaning into Nathan’s side, my legs tucked under a blanket, my head resting against his chest.

He wasn’t watching the movie. He was rather distracted, a pen in his hand and a notebook of sorts resting on his thigh, and he was scribbling something with an intensity that made me smile.

His brows were slightly furrowed, completely focused, and even then, his other arm remained around me, lazily moving over my arm, my thigh, my waist, my chest, almost unconsciously, like touching me was the way he recharged.

My gaze kept drifting from the screen to him. He looked different when he concentrated, younger somehow, less sharp, and almost adorable.

The firelight flickered across his face, catching in his eyes.

God, Nathan’s eyes were never just one thing.

Sometimes they were dark, unreadable, storm-heavy, and dangerous, but when he concentrated like this, when the world narrowed down to ink and paper and quiet thought, they shifted. The bit of green in them deepened, flecks of gold catching the firelight, almost molten…like something fierce had been tempered just enough to glow instead of burn.

The asshole was effortlessly handsome.

Annoyingly so.

I studied the way his fingers moved. The way his lips pressed together when he thought. The faint line forming between his brows when he paused, then wrote some more.

There was something intoxicating and addictive about watching him like this.

My gaze drifted down to the paper. I leaned slightly, peeking, pretending to adjust the blanket, squinting my eyes in a pathetic attempt to decipher the slanted lines of his handwriting.

I really wanted to crawl inside his head somehow, to understand the architecture of his thoughts, to see the world the way he did.

Because I knew there were pieces of him I hadn’t uncovered yet.

Secrets, many of them.

A history, with dark corners he kept neatly folded away from me.

Just as I leaned in a little more, he stopped writing. Without looking at me at first, he moved the notebook out of reach and out of sight.

I huffed out loudly as I lifted my head to him. His eyes slid to mine, one brow lifting lazily.

“Curiosity is a dangerous trait, princess,” he murmured, his fingers drifting to the side of my neck, brushing slowly over my skin.

I pouted, tilting my chin up slightly. “Why won’t you let me read what you write?”

His thumb traced the line of my jaw, “If I let you read this one, what will you give me in return?”

I narrowed my eyes at him, “You never miss a chance, do you?”

His smile tilted, that unfair, devastating curve of his lips. The one that makes him look almost innocent, boyish, like he isn’t fully aware of the damage he’s capable of.

It rendered me embarrassingly helpless.

I shifted in his arms, twisting slightly so my chest brushed against his as I moved higher on the couch. The movement wasn’t accidental by any means, nor was the way his breath changed.

My hands traveled up his chest slowly, my fingers grazing over fabric and warmth before settling on his shoulders. I dipped my head, my lips brushing his, but barely there, never fully giving in, a whisper of a kiss, just enough to tempt him.

His jaw tightened, that small muscle near his temple flexing as his eyes locked onto mine.

“That’s not a payment,” he murmured, and his voice had dropped, threaded with something restrained.

I hummed softly against his mouth. “Maybe it’s a down payment.”

His hand tightened at my waist instantly, and I knew he was about to flip me over, take full control, reclaim, and dominate because he just hated it when I held the reins. It was almost like he couldn’t handle it.

I shifted slightly, my knees pressing into the couch near his waist until I was practically straddling him.

“If you flip me over,” I warned lightly, though my pulse was betraying me, “I will scream my safe word and stop you from doing anything to me, I mean it.”

I really did mean it, because sometimes, it annoyed me. His tight grip on control felt like mistrust, like he’d never fully surrender to me, and that was so unfair because I was fully under his mercy all the damn time. I trusted him more than anyone, so why didn’t he trust me back?

I had shared with him things I never thought I would let anyone see, let alone touch. I had let him into the parts of me I used to guard with steel, yet there was still this quiet question of whether he would ever let himself give me the same kind of vulnerability in return.

His jaw ticked, and his fingers dug into my waist, like he was holding himself in place, and he refrained from doing what he did best.

I watched him closely, my gaze moving over every subtle shift in his expression. My hand traveled from his chest to the side of his neck, up along his jaw, to his cheek as I lowered my head again, my lips brushing his.

His lids slid shut, and so did mine as I kissed him, not to tempt this time or provoke, but to explore. My thumb brushed the corner of his mouth, tracing the edge of his control. My body shifted subtly against his, testing the line.

My other hand slipped down, curling over the hem of his sweatshirt.

I felt it again, that hesitation, that tension coiling beneath his skin, one second away from stopping me, from rearing up and pushing me down, flipping us over, reclaiming the upper hand, stripping the moment back into something he could command.

God, it left me bewildered, the way he hated taking his clothes off during sex.

It wasn’t insecurity. God knew he had nothing to be insecure about. The asshole had a body sculpted from arrogance and effort. Besides, Nathan was too full of himself for insecurity. His confidence was overbearing, almost aggressive. It made me want to punch him half the time.

So this wasn’t vanity.

It was something else, something I didn’t fully understand.

Still, he didn’t stop me this time around.

So I edged back slightly, my eyes locking onto his, softening a notch, hoping he’d trust me for once. His eyes had darkened another shade, burning so deep I almost felt them scorching my skin.

Slowly, I dragged the fabric upward, and he lifted his upper body to help me. The sweatshirt slid over his head, and I tossed it somewhere behind me.

The firelight traced the planes of his chest, carving gold along rigid muscle and shadow, painting him in something almost unreal.

I leaned down and kissed his mouth again, slower now, deeper. My lips drifted to the corner of his mouth, then down along his jaw, tracing the edge there. I felt the shift in his breathing, that controlled sharp inhale, like he was holding something back.

Like he was fighting himself to let me do this.

My body moved on instinct, brushing his with every shift. My hand slid over the hard edges of muscle beneath my palm, down the slope of his chest. His skin was warm, almost too hot, and alive in a way that made my own pulse stutter.

My lips brushed down the side of his neck, slower now. I pressed a soft kiss just beneath his collarbone before trailing lower, over the faint ridges of scar tissue.

When my mouth brushed softly over the long, pale one from his surgery, his entire body reacted. I felt the tremor that surged through him.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, his head pressing back into the cushion like he was fighting something I couldn’t see.

His hand came to the back of my head, his fingers threading into my hair, so tightly, twisting the strands to pull my head back just enough to make me look up at him.

“Aylin,” he said, and his voice was strained in a way I’d never heard before.

I edged closer instead of retreating, brushing another soft kiss to his lips.

“Let me,” I whispered.

His jaw flexed.

“This is fucking torture,” he grumbled, like it was…painful.

My hand moved over his chest again, slower now, down over his abdomen, hovering near the edge of his sweatpants. I wasn’t trying to take control anymore. I wasn’t trying to win. I was trying to understand, trying to feel where the line was and why it existed…but he didn’t let me go further, that was his breaking point.

He moved fast.

One second, I was above him, over him, the next, the world shifted. His hands were on me, stopping me, flipping the balance in a single, fluid motion.

The couch pressed into my back as he hovered over me, his chest heaving up and down like he just returned from a war.

He couldn’t give me an inch of control, not even a sliver. We weren’t there yet.

Not going to lie, that realization hit somewhere ugly inside me, and I felt myself sink into the cushion, my gaze falling further down, disappointed, mainly at myself, I think.

Way to ruin a moment, Aylin. Good job.

His hand came to my jaw, tilting my head up, forcing my eyes into his, and he looked at me like he was angry. Why would this anger him?

“Don’t do this again, okay?” he muttered, his voice low, carrying a harsh edge he had never used with me before, “Our relationship has a certain dynamic. Don’t ruin it, Aylin, and don’t attempt to change it.”

I nodded my head, feeling stupid tears threatening to gather in my eyes, but I held them back.

He edged backward, his body fully leaving mine as he stood up, his trembling fingers on the side curling into a fist as he looked around for his sweatshirt. I pushed myself up slowly, backing into the cushions, not sure whether it was me who ruined this peaceful day, or him.

He picked up his sweatshirt, and when he turned around, when his eyes fell on my face, on the shine in my eyes I was trying to hide, his expression shifted, instinctively softening a bit.

His shoulders fell, and he released a low, defeated breath. He walked closer, dropping the shirt over the couch before he bent down, his hand reaching my face, cupping my cheek, “Aylin,” He said, much softer now.

“I just kissed you, what’s so bad about that?” I murmured, the stupid hurt slipping through despite my effort to swallow it down.

It wasn’t really about the kiss itself. It felt like…rejection, like I had reached for him and hit a locked door, and that was a feeling I despised.

His thumb brushed under my eye, catching the tear I hadn’t meant to let gather.

“It’s not that, it’s just…” He tried to explain, his fingers flexing against my cheek, “It’s that I’ve never had the luxury of not being in control, I don’t know how to turn that off.”

I didn’t buy it, but I nodded my head nevertheless, desperately wanting to put an end to this moment.

“Princess, I didn’t mean to hurt you, you know that, right?” He muttered again, searching my eyes for assurance.

I nodded my head, “Me neither.”

He leaned closer and pressed a gentle kiss to my cheek, almost apologetic, before stepping back and pulling the sweatshirt over his head. The fabric dragged down his torso, and my eyes followed the motion instinctively.

My brows pulled together, and I edged forward without thinking.

My fingers reached for him, brushing the warm skin of his abdomen. “Where did this one come from?”

I knew that what we just went through wasn’t about my touch. God, I knew every inch of him. He let me touch him, but only when he controlled the rhythm of it. I’d memorized his scars like scripture, every and each one of them.

But this one…

This one wasn’t in my memory.

Nathan’s gaze dropped to where my fingers hovered.

“It’s from when I hurt myself, remember?” he muttered, tugging the hem down to cover it. “When I wanted you to give me answers. Good memories, you know,” he added, sarcastically, deflecting.

I shook my head and pushed myself up to my feet, “No.”

My fingers curled into the fabric and pulled it up again, “This is from when you hurt yourself,” I said quietly, tracing the older scar. “I remember that one.”

My hand shifted slightly to the right. “This…this one is different.”

I lifted my eyes to his, questioning. Nathan’s eyes searched mine right back, and he shook his head, “It’s an old one, Aylin.”

It wasn’t. I could feel it in my bones.

“It’s not,” I insisted, “Why are you lying to me?”

My gaze flickered back to it, my fingertips tracing the rugged edges again. It was still faintly raised, newly acquired, and still in the process of fading away.

My heart clenched so violently it felt like something inside me was trying to claw its way out, because it was familiar…in a way. My body recognized it, my fingers did too, but not my defective brain.

That strange, nauseating pull in my chest knew the truth before my mind did.

Then, it happened again…the white violent flashes detonated behind my eyes like lightning striking bone. I staggered back, my vision splitting down the middle, the room tilting wrong.

The kitchen, his house.

Blood.

My…my hand.

His knife.

My brain didn’t just remember, it ruptured. I squeezed my eyes shut as if I could force it back into the dark, shove it behind whatever door my mind had sealed it behind for months…but the door was already broken.

The images didn’t trickle in.

They stormed.

They ripped.

“Aylin?”

It was…

God. It was…me. My own hand pushed that…knife into his skin. He was bleeding. I was hysterical. He tried to calm me down. I remember crying so hard I couldn’t breathe. I remember shaking so violently that my teeth hurt.

I remember my hands covered in red.

I remember him holding me close, even while bleeding. He reached for something. He…he pushed it into my neck, he wrapped me so tightly in his arms. He had whispered words like ‘I’ve got you’, like ‘it’s okay’…

It was me. I did it.

“What’s wrong? Aylin, look at me…”

I…I hurt him.

My hands began to shake.

I looked up at him through a haze of tears and memory, and something inside my chest cracked wide open.

“I…” My voice splintered, “I did that…I hurt you.”

“I hurt you,” I whispered again.

I barely got a second to register that thought, barely cleared my mind of those images as more pushed and pulled, invading my head, tearing through…god, it felt like I was reliving it all again, like being dragged backward through time by the throat.

I was young, so young, a kitchen knife in my hand. There was blood on it, blood on mom’s clothes, on her hands, and she pushed me away, she pushed me away so hard I stumbled backward and fell.

The knife slipped from my grip, scraping my arm on the way down. I remember the sting. I remember staring at the thin red line blooming across my skin, but…but there was more blood on her.

She was crying, tears rolling down her face, she was in pain…I must’ve hurt her, too.

“Why were you born?!” She screamed at me, crying out loud.

“Layla!” Dad’s voice thundered from somewhere behind her, so furious and frantic.

His footsteps pounded toward me. He dropped to his knees beside me, his hands on my shoulders, then my arm, pressing down where I was bleeding.

I couldn’t stop crying.

“I hate her, I hate her so much! Get her out of here!” Mom cried out, her voice bellowing into the house, her face got blurrier as tears fell furiously down my face, “I don’t want to see her!”

Dad scooped me up quickly. I wrapped my arms around his neck, buried my face in his shoulder, “Daddy,” I mumbled lowly, brokenly, so very terrified.

He ran his hand over the back of my head as he carried me out of the kitchen. “It’s okay, sweetie, it’s gonna be okay. I’ve got you,” He muttered, kissing my head.

I remember clinging to him, my small fingers digging into his shirt.

As he walked away, the last thing I saw was red…blood everywhere. Blood on mom, blood smeared on the tiles, blood on my hands…

Always my hands.

Always just…blood.

I felt like I was dragged from the memory by force, like someone had plunged their hand into deep water and yanked me upward by the throat. Air slammed into my lungs so hard it hurt. I choked on it, gasping loudly, a broken sound tearing out of me.

My chest heaved like I’d been drowning.

Nathan’s hands were over my face, his voice was saying my name over and over, his expression frantic, and I was shaking uncontrollably, my whole body trembling, wet tears sliding down my cheeks, over my lips, dripping from my chin.

I didn’t need a mirror to see how pale I looked. I could see it reflected in Nathan’s gaze, in his fearful eyes as he watched me unravel inside an old memory.

“I hurt you,” I mumbled again, unable to come to terms with that painful fact.

He shook his head immediately, thumbs brushing frantically at my tears, “It doesn’t matter, baby. It’s okay. It was nothing, I swear—”

“It wasn’t nothing!” My voice cracked. “I stabbed you—”

“I stabbed you,” I repeated, hitting my fist weakly against my chest as if I could punish myself for it, as if I could bruise the guilt out of my ribs.

My head shook over and over, helpless, disoriented. “I hurt mom, too, I hurt her,” I muttered, more tears falling, “No wonder she hates me,” I heaved out a strangled breath, “Why don’t you…why don’t you hate me too?”

“I could never hate you,” he shot back immediately.

His hand brushed the damp strands stuck to my temple. I was sweating now, my skin cold and clammy all at once.

“You didn’t mean to,” he said, his voice low, steady, forcing calm into it. “And even if you did, I’d never hate you. Do you hear me? Never. You can hurt me all you want, princess, consciously or not.”

I shook my head violently.

“I really didn’t mean to, I really didn’t…I am so sorry, I am…sorry,” I cried, pressing my palm over my face as if I could hide from what I’d done. “I am sorry…so sor—”

He gently pulled my hand away from my face, prying my fingers open one by one.

“Shush,” he murmured, softer now, brushing my knuckles with his lips as if I was the wounded one. “You don’t have anything to apologize for. It wasn’t your fault.”

“It was,” I choked. “It was me. Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you make me remember? Why aren’t you mad at me?”

“Mad?” His brows pulled together like the idea genuinely offended him. “Why would I be mad at you?”

His hand slid to the back of my neck, “Aylin,” he said quietly, like he needed me to understand this down to my bones, “you could carve me open a thousand times, and I’d still come back walking to you, every single time,” His eyebrow raised, resolute, “And if I can’t walk, then I’ll crawl, believe me.”

A sob tore out of me so violently it hurt my ribs.

I shook my head, “I don’t want to be this person, I don’t want to hurt the people I love, I don’t want to be a burden,” My breath hitched painfully. “God…how many times did I do this? How many times did I—”

He tipped my head up before I could finish, forcing my wavering gaze into his.

His fingers kept wiping my tears away, refusing to let them stay on my skin.

“None of it was your fault,” he said. “Whatever you think you’ve done, none of it was your fault, you get me? I won’t ever let you blame yourself for anything. You didn’t choose this, Aylin,” He explained, his voice hardening, “it was forced on you, and if your mother can’t see that, it’s her fucking problem, it’s her failure. Not yours.”

I sniffled, bringing my hand and wiping under my eyes, “She hates me,” I whispered, the realization felt so painful. “I thought she just…couldn’t love me properly. I thought I was too much for her, but she hates me.”

Nathan’s jaw ticked again. I could see it in his eyes, that violent urge in him, like he wanted to walk back into my childhood and tear it apart with his bare hands.

“And you don’t need her love,” he said, shaking his head, “You don’t need her, I won’t ever let you need her.”

Something inside me flailed at that, some broken, starving part that still wanted a mother.

He felt it and pulled me into him, crushing me against his chest, one hand at the back of my head like he could shield my thoughts from the inside. I clutched onto him, my fingers curling tightly into his sweatshirt, grounding myself in the only solid thing left.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered again.

“Stop saying that,” he breathed into my hair.

No matter how fiercely he defended me, no matter how many times he told me it wasn’t my fault, I couldn’t see myself as anything but dangerous. I hurt him, I hurt mom, and those were just the memories that had clawed their way to the surface.

There were more. I could feel them.

Locked doors. Sealed rooms. Blood-stained corners of my mind waiting to be torn open.

The fragile hope I had been building, that maybe I wasn’t broken beyond repair, shattered in the span of a heartbeat.

Maybe I was cursed.

Maybe this was something stitched into my bloodline, my grandmother’s fate echoing forward into mine. Maybe I was built to ruin the people who loved me most. Maybe this would end the same way all tragedies did.

With me standing in the middle of the wreckage.

And one day…maybe I wouldn’t survive what I’d done.

I tightened my grip on Nathan, and for the first time, I wondered if caring for me would be the thing that finally destroyed him.

I held into him and watched as the fire crackled softly behind us.

Outside, the snow fell in perfect silence.

Inside me, something far darker had begun to thaw.

⊹˚₊‧────────────‧₊˚⊹

Nathan’s POV

This was supposed to be an escape, right?

Yeah, how painfully adorable of me to believe that.

People like us don’t get escapes. We get pauses. Intermissions before the next act of violence.

It was nearly midnight when Aylin finally fell asleep after taking her meds. Exhaustion knocked her out more than rest did. Her lashes were still damp. The skin beneath her eyes was red and swollen, her breathing uneven, like even in sleep her body didn’t trust the quiet.

Watching her cry like that nearly wrecked me, in a way that made my hands shake because I couldn’t punch a fucking memory.

I knew all the doctor’s reassurances were half-comforts at best. I knew this was coming. You don’t bury trauma that deep without it clawing back up eventually. I knew I couldn’t rest as long as there wasn’t a definitive cure.

Management, stabilization, and coping mechanisms were just cute words for living with a landmine in your skull. I didn’t believe in them.

I tucked the blanket tighter around her, brushing my thumb once over her temple, pecking her cheek before I stood up.

If I stayed inside, I was going to punch a hole through the wall, so I stepped outside into the cold. I stood on the porch, kicked at the snow, and let the air freeze the searing heat out of my lungs.

After a couple of minutes, I pulled out my phone and texted Natalie.

Thankfully, she was awake, and we went back and forth while I summarized everything that happened.

She explained it carefully to me, how she expected this to happen, that when repressed trauma resurfaces, especially in cases tied to neurological injury, it can feel destabilizing at first.

The memory surfacing is painful, yes, but this is the healthy way. She wrote. Long-term, this is progress. Short-term, it will feel like a collapse.

Progress, she called it.

Progress my ass.

She told me that they already had a session tomorrow and that it would be better for us to come back. That grounding her immediately after this would prevent her from spiraling further. That we shouldn’t let her sit alone with the narrative her brain is trying to rewrite.

I knew she was right. I hated it when she was right. I called Adam afterward, told him to come here first thing in the morning to pick us up.

When I stepped back inside, I shut the door softly, expecting to find her fast asleep, still curled under the blanket.

Instead, she was awake, not just that…she was near the fireplace, slightly leaning forward, her arm extended toward the flames.

“Aylin!” I barked, already moving, faster than I ever did my whole life.

Her fingers were inches from the fire, no, not inches…inside it. The flames licked over her skin, and she didn’t flinch, didn’t recoil, and didn’t react.

My heart slammed so hard it felt like it cracked a fucking rib on the way out.

I crossed the room in two strides and grabbed her wrist, yanking her back so fast she stumbled into me. The smell hit me first, not burnt flesh, thank fucking god, just heat.

Her fingertips were red, angry red, but not blistered yet.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I breathed out, already dragging her toward the sink.

She didn’t resist me, didn’t help either. She just…moved, like a puppet with its strings cut.

I didn’t let myself think about that. I turned the faucet on and shoved her hand under cool running water. My hands were shaking, for god’s sake, frantic even, while hers weren’t.

“Aylin,” I said, firmer now, leaning slightly to get into her line of sight. “Look at me.”

Nothing.

Her pupils were distant, unfocused, like she wasn’t inside her body.

My jaw ticked, and I lifted her hand gently from the stream and inspected it, turning it carefully under the light. I brought her fingers to my mouth, blowing softly over the irritated skin like that could undo what almost happened.

She blinked, her gaze drifted from the water to her hand, then to me.

“Why did you do this?” I whispered, my mind going feral at the thought that I could’ve walked in a minute later.

A minute, a second, even.

That’s all it would’ve taken.

She kept silent, unreactive, lost in her head. I thought the episodes stopped at least, that the medications worked on that part, apparently, they didn’t…nothing fucking did.

“Sit over here,” I said gently, guiding her toward the couch.

She obeyed like a little child.

I hated that. I hated how small she looked when she dissociated, how breakable.

I rummaged through the cabinet for ointment, knocking something over in the process. My patience was threadbare.

I came back with the burn cream and crouched in front of her. I took her hand again, applying the ointment carefully, my thumb smoothing it over her fingertips.

When I was done, she lifted her hand closer to her face and stared at it as if it belonged to someone else.

“Does it hurt?” I asked.

She shook her head without looking at me. That scared me more than if she’d cried and screamed.

She lowered her hand down, then looked at me, still halfway gone in her head, “Can we leave?”

I nodded my head slowly, still trying to assess her current state, “In the morning, we will.”

She nodded her head, “Okay,” she mumbled before she looked around her. Then, she laid down, curling onto the pillow and slipping under the blanket like a child who’d been told the storm would pass by morning.

I moved closer and tucked the blanket beneath her chin. She kept staring at me, but this time, it was different…almost like she knew me. Usually, when she gets lost in her episodes, she doesn’t recognize me.

Now she looked like she knew exactly who I was.

“I saw Riley,” She whispered, out of the blue, her words tilting my fucking world upside down.

My spine went rigid. “Wha…where?”

She lifted her injured hand and pointed behind me at the window. I followed the direction, but the window was dark, reflecting nothing but night.

I looked back at Aylin, “When?”

She kept silent.

I moved closer, my hand resting gently over her cheek, brushing her hair away, “Princess, who is Riley?”

She lifted her other hand slowly, bringing her fingers to my mouth. She brushed them over my lower lip, then pressed gently. “Shush,” she whispered. “Riley isn’t real. That’s what Grandpa always said.” Her voice dropped even lower. “So don’t tell him I told you.”

What the—

What the fuck did that mean?

My eyebrows pulled closer, “Did Riley hurt you?”

At that, her brows tightened. Her lips curved downward into a small, wounded pout and she nodded.

Something cold and lethal slid into my bloodstream.

My jaw ticked, and my fingers tightened slightly against her cheek. “What did he do?”

Her sad expression melted away, she smiled, then giggled softly, “You’re so silly.”

“What?”

“Riley isn’t a he.”

She looked at me like I’d missed the obvious.

“Riley is a girl.”

⊹˚₊‧──────────────────‧₊˚⊹

Author’s Note:

Hey!

To be honest if I had a gf like Aylin, I’d be creeped out, lol, Nathan is strong xD

Anyway, I hope you liked the chapter.
It felt both happy and sad as these two keep struggling to come to terms with who they are, their past, and hoping for a softer future.
Well, let’s see if they’ll get it…

See ya soon 🩶