> "He taught me love with a knife in my back and a kiss on my lips."
The bedroom is dark. The same one you carried me into on our wedding night.
Except now, it feels like a crime scene.
You're watching me from the doorway. No gun. No threat. Just eyes that know every part of me. You don't speak. Neither do I. The silence between us has turned into a weapon.
I place my gun on the bed. You smirk.
"You going to shoot me, bella?"
"Would you bleed?"
"I've bled for less."
"Not for me."
---
You step inside. I don't move.
You reach for my wrist, slow, like I'm a stray animal. I let you touch me. Let your fingers trace the scar you gave me near my elbow. It's faded now, but I still remember how it stung when you shoved me against the glass.
You kiss it.
And I slap you.
Hard.
You don't flinch. You smile.
"There she is."
"Don't romanticize the rage you created."
"You were always meant to burn."
"And you were always the match."
---
I push you against the wall.
"You lied to me. Made me marry a ghost."
"I made you a queen."
"You made me a widow."
---
You pull me into you. Your hand grips the back of my neck.
"I should break you," I whisper.
"You already did."
I kiss you.
And it tastes like blood and betrayal.
---
You lift me onto the bed. The gun's still there. Inches from us. Watching.
I run my fingers over the trigger.
You press your lips to my throat.
"I never stopped wanting you," you whisper.
"And I never stopped planning your funeral."
---
The storm outside breaks. Thunder rolls.
We fuck like war.
Hard. Fast. Regretful.
And when it's over, I cry.
Not because I regret it.
But because I don't.
"You're still mine," you say.
And I hate how much it feels like the truth.
---