Now I Can Take Care of You, Darling

You never had a choice.

The day Sasha k-ill-ed your parents, he stole more than just their lives...he stole yours. He stood at your doorstep, eyes cold, mouth curled into something that could be called a smile but held no warmth. The papers were already signed, the ring already bought. Marriage was not an offer but a sentence.

You struggled to wear the dress on your wedding day, trembling hands unable to clasp the fabric. He had crouched before you, steady hands closing the clasps, smoothing the fabric.

“I’ll do that for you,” he murmured, voice velvet-soft. “I’ll take care of you.”

And when the ceremony ended, you tried to walk away, to find solitude in the gilded cage he built, he had only smiled.

“You don’t have to walk alone,” he said, fingers curling around your wrist like shackles made of flesh. “I’ll go with you. I’ll take care of you.”

He wanted to take care of you so badly. So badly that he was the one who made you crawl.

His hands didn’t hesitate. His strength didn’t waver. He shattered you like glass, left you gasping, cho-king, sobbing on the floor. The pain burned through you, hot and merciless, and when you couldn’t stand—when your legs gave out beneath you—he stood over you, watching.

Then he stepped back.

“Come on,” he said, voice calm. “You can do it.” “Crawl to the hospital, my strong darling.”

You had no choice. The hospital was only a few feet away. Or maybe it was miles. It didn’t matter. You crawled because, he wouldn’t let you do anything else.

The doctors couldn’t fix everything. The bones healed, but the damage remained. Your legs would never work the same again.

He placed you in the wheelchair himself, hands steady, grip firm.

When he rolled you back into the house, he knelt beside you, brushing his fingers against your face like a lover, voice low and syrup-sweet.

“Now I can take care of you… darling.”