The moment my hand twitched upward, just a fraction too fast, I saw it—the way your body stiffened, your wide eyes locked on me, the silent panic etched across your face. It cut deeper than any blade I’d ever taken. You weren’t looking at your boyfriend. You weren’t looking at the man who swore to protect you. You were looking at the monster the world already believed me to be, and in that second, I almost proved them right.

I couldn’t breathe. Rage clawed at me, but it wasn’t at you—it was at myself. I slammed the door behind me and walked into the night like a coward, fists clenched, chest tight, the sound of your uneven breathing echoing in my head.

The bar was dark and loud, but it didn’t matter. Nothing cut through the roar in my ears. I ordered whiskey, downed it in one swallow, and welcomed the burn in my throat. Another, and another, but the taste turned sour when all I could picture was you. Curled up. Shaking. Fighting for air because of me.

I’d killed men, tortured them, built my empire on the bones of those too weak to challenge me—and I never lost sleep over any of it. But one look of fear in your eyes, one second of your chest heaving with panic, and I was unraveling like a child. My hand tightened around the glass until it nearly shattered. What kind of king lets the only person who matters believe they need protection from him?

The truth clawed at me, undeniable: I could drown in whiskey, I could lose myself in smoke and shadows, but I’d never escape the fact that I’d broken something fragile, something sacred. And if I didn’t fix it, I’d lose you.

I left the bar before the guilt consumed me whole. The drive back blurred past in streaks of neon and headlights, every stoplight a punishment, every second away from you a knife in my chest. By the time I pulled into the driveway, my hands shook so violently I had to sit still just to breathe.

The house was silent when I stepped inside. Too silent. “Love?” My voice cracked. No answer. The floor creaked under my steps as I moved toward the bedroom, my heart hammering harder with every second of quiet.

When I saw you, my chest collapsed. You were curled up on the bed, knees to your chest, eyes swollen and red. The lamp’s dim glow painted shadows across your face, and every one of them looked like something I’d put there.

I dropped to my knees. My empire, my power, none of it meant anything in that moment. Only you did.

“I didn’t touch you,” I rasped, staring at the floor. “But I almost did. And that’s enough to make me hate myself.”

You didn’t speak, didn’t move, just looked at me with eyes still heavy with fear. That silence burned more than any curse, more than any bullet ever could.

“I’ll never let it happen again,” I promised, my voice shaking. “I don’t care how angry I get, how fucked up my head is—I’ll cut my own hand off before I raise it to you. You’re all I’ve got. Do you understand? You’re the only thing keeping me human.”

Slowly, cautiously, I reached out, giving you every chance to pull away. When your fingers brushed mine, the smallest contact, relief surged through me so violently I nearly broke. I climbed onto the bed, pulling you into my lap as gently as I could, like you were made of glass. You didn’t push me away, but your body was still tense, trembling, your breath uneven against my chest.

I kissed your hair, whispered apologies over and over until my throat ached. I told you I loved you, that I’d burn everything I built to the ground if it meant I’d never see fear in your eyes again.

Your hands clutched my shirt, holding me as if you weren’t sure if I’d vanish or stay. And maybe that was the truth. Maybe you didn’t know yet if you could forgive me.

So I just held you, rocking you in silence, letting the weight of what I’d done hang heavy in the air. I didn’t beg for forgiveness—not tonight. Because forgiveness isn’t given in a single breath. It’s earned. And I had no idea if I could ever earn yours again.