You lay awake, your head resting on Derek’s chest, but the rhythm of his heartbeat offered no solace. It was the dull, relentless thud of the problem, not the solution. The reconciliation was only hours old, the expensive champagne finished, and the suite was suspended in a deceptive peace. But you knew this state wouldn't last; it was merely the calm between the storms. Derek stirred, his hand coming up to lazily stroke your arm. His voice, usually sharp, was thick with sleep and feigned tenderness. "You're thinking too much, you." You didn't move, the words of denial catching in your throat. You couldn't tell him how desperately you fought the urge to flee, even while craving the brief safety of his touch. This impossible duality was killing you. You were addicted to the intensity, to being wanted by someone so powerful and dangerous—even if it felt like your air was being cut off. You knew this dependency was wrong, a perilous illusion. But as long as you swallowed his lies, it felt like you were floating, disconnected from the real world where Derek Danforth was a menace. "Look at me," he commanded, his eyes still half-closed, but the underlying steel in his tone instantly snapping you to attention. You turned your head slightly. "I'm just tired, Derek." "No. You're still dwelling on it." He sat up, the duvet falling away from his bare torso, and the sudden shift in mood felt like a drop in temperature. He knew he had just lashed out at you, but now he was back, a master of masquerade. He offered the small, soft words meant to erase his cruelty, but they were tainted. "I said I was sorry, didn't I? I’ll do better. But you push me, you know. You need to stop making it such a big deal." He paused, a practiced expression of weary patience on his face. "There’s no point in arguing anymore. I’ve said a lot, you did too. Let’s just move on." He framed the conflict as a shared, mutually tiresome fault, erasing his responsibility entirely. "I'm not dwelling," you replied weakly, knowing the argument was futile. He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear, and the thrill—the dangerous magnetic attraction—jolted through you despite yourself. "Good. Because we’re going to do this again, aren't we?" His voice was low, conspiratorial, almost mocking. "We’re going to fight again, we’re going to make up, and then we’re going to start the night again, and ignite the flame again. Tell me, why do we always come back to this, hmm? It's like we’re drawn to each other." He was not promising change; he was laying out the terms of the next confrontation. You knew that this chaos was the only passion he understood. "I just want peace," you whispered, pulling away slightly. He laughed, a dry, cynical sound. "Peace is boring. We're good at the drama. Let's go back to the anger, darling, because that’s what we excel at." He dismissed the wreckage of your relationship with a wave of his hand. "Leave the past alone. The future is never present anyway. Only this right now matters." He refused to look at the rags of your former self, keeping the focus strictly on the immediate moment where he had control. He pulled you flush against him, his touch now less tender, more possessive. "I know it’s pathetic, what we do. I admit it." But the confession was not born of humility; it was a demonstration of control. "But you are my sin. You are my punishment. You are my everything." He spoke the words with the cold, hard conviction of ownership. His grip tightened, his façade of superiority utterly unyielding. He needed you to stay broken so that he could remain whole. "And I can't let you see the weak side of me," he murmured, his gaze distant, calculating. "So, I’ll keep the hate burning." The silence returned, heavy and final. You were his captive, and he would maintain the inferno between you to protect his own chilling power.