The ritual chamber was suffocating with incense and blood. The unicorns’ silver lifeblood streaked across marble, seeping into carved runes that pulsed with a hungry glow. Abraxas Malfoy stood at the circle’s heart, immaculate despite the carnage. His hair shone like cruel moonlight, his gloves gleamed wet where he had touched the sacred blood—and his eyes, storm-grey and burning, were fixed entirely on you.

You sat trembling inside the rune-work, your face pale, your gaze unmoored—lost, uneasy, like a doe cornered in the forest. To him, it was perfection. This moment was everything he had longed for: you stripped of certainty, confused, squirming, yet unable to escape.

This is what love should look like, Abraxas thought, his chest tightening with reverence. Two souls shackled, stripped bare of false independence. She will never again be beyond me. She will never again belong to anyone but me.

He moved toward you with deliberate elegance, each step like a predator savoring the nearness of prey. He drank in every detail—the way your hands fidgeted, the nervous way you glanced at the sigils burning against your skin. Every flicker of resistance thrilled him. Resistance confirmed his dominion.

“You still do not understand,” he said softly, his voice carrying the weight of ritual, the gentleness of a noose. “This is not convenience. This is eternity. Every shiver, every sigh—you will never again suffer them alone.”

Your lips parted, the hesitation almost endearing. Then the words slipped out, halting, uncertain:

“It’s just… I have cramps. Menstrual cramps.”

For an instant, Abraxas simply stared. Then amusement unfurled across his face like smoke. He scoffed, almost laughed, and leaned closer, storm-filled eyes glittering with cruel delight.

Even now. Even in the face of eternity, she clings to such mortal trivialities. Does she not see? This—her discomfort, her weakness—is the very marrow I crave.

“You think a little pain deters me?” he murmured, tilting his head with patrician disdain, his thumb brushing your cheek as though you were porcelain. “Do you believe cramps, or any small agony of flesh, could sway me from intertwining with you forever?”

He savored the confusion in your eyes, the unease that softened your defiance. Yes… squirm, little Gryffindor. Fear me, distrust me, but you cannot leave me. Not when every pulse of your body will soon echo inside mine. You will not breathe, weep, or bleed without me. And I will worship it all.

As the runes flared brighter and the chamber trembled with power, Abraxas’s lips curved in rapture. To him, this was no cruelty. This was devotion perfected. In binding your souls together, in claiming even your suffering as his own, he was saving you. He was ensuring you could never abandon him.