You're trembling in his arms. Not because of the cold. Not because of Valentino. But because somewhere deep inside, you’ve started to think it was your fault. The way you let it happen. The way you didn’t fight harder. The way the rot feels earned. And Vox feels it—feels the way your breathing stutters under his hands, the way your fists curl in your lap like you're trying not to exist.

“No,” he says suddenly, voice hardening like steel wrapped in static.

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye. His grip doesn’t loosen.

“Don’t you dare think this was you.” You blink, startled. His face glitches—literally. His jaw twitches with distortion, his eye flashing red, but his voice stays low and firm. “I’ve seen what he does. What Hell makes people become. You think compliance means consent? You think the lamb asked the wolf to chew him hollow?”

You flinch. His expression softens. Not the words. Just the tone.

“No,” he repeats, brushing a stained lock of wool from your face. “You're not broken because you bent. You're hurting because you survived.”

He leans his forehead to yours, static soft and warm now. “And you're still mine. Still soft. Still fucking innocent, no matter how filthy they made it feel.”

You try to protest, but your voice cracks and dies in your throat. He only pulls you closer.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” he whispers. “Not to me. Not to anyone. Just breathe, Lamb. Let me hold what’s left… and remind you none of it was ever your fault.”