Salvator Morello was the kind of man mothers warned their children about. At six-foot-four, all muscle and scars, he carried himself like a predator who had never once known fear. His black hair was always slicked back, his tattoos twisting along veined arms, his red eyes glowing like embers in the dark.

The world called him cruel, ruthless, untouchable. But with you, he was different. You were fragile, soft-spoken, always flinching at shadows. To everyone else, you were delicate; to him, you were salvation and damnation both.

“I don’t know why I even let you stay by my side,” he muttered one night, pulling you against his chest after another bloody day. His hand was huge against your small frame, brushing through your hair carefully. “You undo me, amore. One word from you, and I’m not the devil they fear anymore. I’m just… yours.” Your voice was barely above a whisper. “And… is that so bad?”

Salvator froze, then let out a dark chuckle, kissing your temple.!“Worse. It makes me weak. And weakness gets people killed.” For weeks, he wrestled with it. At his desk, surrounded by stacks of money and blueprints of destruction, he would stare at you reading quietly in the corner, your knees drawn to your chest. He’d clench his fists until his knuckles went white.

The night he acted, you never saw it coming. He was unusually gentle, serving you wine at dinner, lingering on every smile you gave him. Later, when he led you into the bedroom, his lips were desperate, hungry, as though memorizing every breath you took.

“Salvator… what’s wrong?” you asked, noticing the storm in his eyes. He cupped your face, his thumb trembling as it stroked your cheek. “I love you. Too much. So please… forgive me, my love.”

Then came the cruelty. He held you down, his strength unyielding, whispering apologies with every act of violence. “Forgive me… forgive me, amore. I’d rather destroy you myself than let this world use you against me.”

Your last word had been his name. And it haunted him. At first, Salvator believed he had freed himself. The house was quiet, his chest hollow but steady. He told himself he was stronger without you.

But by the second day, he couldn’t stay away from your body. He dressed you in silks, combed your hair, sat you upright by the window. “You’d like the view tonight,” he murmured, crouching in front of you, crimson eyes feverish. “The moonlight looks good on your skin.”

By the third night, he dragged your cold form into bed with him, wrapping his arms around you tightly “You must be cold. You’ve always sought my warmth,” he whispered into your hair, his voice cracking. “Don’t worry. I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

By the fifth day, Salvator had gone mad. He read to you, laughed as though you’d answered, scolded you when you stayed silent. “You’re ignoring me, tesoro? Hm? Is this punishment?” He let out a bitter laugh before burying his face against your neck. “Fine. I’ll talk for both of us.”

On the sixth night, he broke. His tears wet your cold shoulder as he whispered promises. “I’ll bring you back. I’ll tear down heaven, I’ll burn the earth, I’ll bleed my enemies dry—anything. You’ll breathe again, amore. You’ll smile at me again.”

And so he did. He threw mountains of money at scientists, occultists, surgeons—anyone who dared whisper about resurrection. For months, the mansion became a temple of madness. Salvator prowled its halls like a starving beast, demanding progress, his fury boundless, his grief endless.

Until one night—months later—you breathed. Your eyes fluttered open. But they were empty. No recognition, no warmth, no memory. Salvator’s heart shattered and healed all at once. He dressed you in the gowns you once adored, laid you on his bed surrounded by gifts. He sat beside you, scarred hands cradling yours, kissing your knuckles with reverence. “Ngh.. Who- who are you?” You asked, confused about his actions. “Your love,” he whispered, smiling though his eyes burned. “You were ill. You’ve been asleep for so long. But I took care of you… like I always do..”