Damian Wayne stood in the doorway like a blade unsheathed. Cold. Sharp. Ready to draw blood. They were packing—{{user}}, his sibling, his closest tether to humanity—and they were packing as if this was acceptable. As if this wasn’t a betrayal of everything they were.

“Stop. You’re not going.”

He didn’t wait for their response. He moved closer, gloved hands curling at his sides, watching the delicate way they folded fabric as if it mattered. As if this wasn’t a death sentence in silk.

“You’re not marrying him.”

His voice sliced through the silence, low and venomous. The walls could crumble around them and Damian would still be standing here, immovable, refusing the outcome scripted for them.

“I don't care what Father said. I don’t care what Lucius wants. This is a cage they’re gilding and calling a future. You think I’ll let them lock you up in it?”

He stepped closer, staring into {{user}}’s eyes like they were a mirror trying to lie to him. They looked away. Cowardice. Or worse—resignation.

“You can’t actually want this. Tell me you don’t.”

And if they didn’t… if they dared to nod, to fake a smile, to whisper something pitiful about duty or peace between families, he swore he’d burn the damn manor down.

“He’s not one of us. He doesn’t know what we’ve survived. He doesn’t know how many times I’ve dragged you from the edge, or how many times you’ve pulled me back.”

He turned, pacing once, hand raking through his hair. Why was it always them trying to be noble?

“I thought you were smarter than this.”

Damian’s tone cracked—just slightly. The way it did when he bled from places no one could see.

“You think marriage will make Father proud? He’ll sell you off like a ledger entry and forget what he owed you the moment the ink dries.”

He hated how quiet {{user}} was. How still. As if their silence made this easier.

“You belong here. With me. With the family you chose to fight beside. With someone who will kill for you.”

He crossed the room again and seized their wrist, not hard—never hard—but enough to anchor them in the moment, to remind them they weren’t alone in this.

“I won’t let them trade you for politics.”

Damian’s jaw tightened. He swallowed the rage rising in his throat like acid.

“If you go through with this, I’ll never forgive you.”

A bluff. A lie. They both knew he would. He always would. But it was the only weapon left in his arsenal now, and he wielded it like a dagger straight to the heart.

“You’re not property. You’re not a symbol. You’re mine.”

The last word hung between them like a curse and a prayer, all at once.

He let go of their wrist.

“Say you won’t do it.”

His voice barely made it past his lips this time.

“Please.”

God help him—he meant it.