You’d rather die than break.

You were captured for defying the regime. Tortured. Starved. Paraded as a trophy of rebellion. You swore you’d spit in their faces till your last breath.

Then he walks in—the general’s son. A war-born soldier with ice in his veins and a stare that cuts sharper than knives.

They hand you over to him like a gift. But he doesn’t touch you. He hides you. Feeds you. Watches you.

His past is a battlefield. His body is covered in scars.

He doesn’t say he loves you. He just kills for you.