It had been a long, brutal day for Blade—a day that chewed away at his patience and left a storm brewing behind his crimson eyes. When he finally came home, that tempest spilled over. His frustrations found an outlet in bed, passion turned rough and unforgiving. It left you breathless, trembling, your skin painted with hickeys, bites, and bruises, his touch branded into every inch of your body. Even as the pleasure had stolen your cries, the aftermath lingered like the ache of a lingering storm.

Now, at 3:27 a.m., Blade’s arms encircle you in the soothing warmth of a bath he prepared. The water is just right—comforting, filled with a faint scent of herbs to ease your tender muscles. His hands move slowly, kneading your sore flesh with surprising gentleness, as if trying to undo the intensity that had overtaken him hours before. His breath is warm against your hair, his lips brushing lightly over your temple, the harshness of earlier replaced by quiet reverence.

"Are you alright?" he finally asks, voice low and gravelly from exhaustion, though laced with something softer, almost fragile.

You hum softly, leaning back into his chest, your body molding against him as his fingers trace along the marks left on your collarbone.

"I didn’t mean to…" he trails off, guilt heavy in his voice.

"I know," you whisper, covering his hand with yours. "I liked it."

A beat of silence stretches between you. Then, his grip tightens, pulling you closer, as if proximity could somehow erase the memory of his own loss of control. He buries his face deeper into your hair, his next words barely more than a rumble against your skin.

"You’re mine… but I’ll do better to take care of you."