The stench of sweat and smoke clung to the air, dim lights flickering in rhythm with the pounding bass. He’d stalked you here—this so-called “holy sanctuary” you frequented—though there was nothing holy about it, you were always such a liar.

His patience had worn thin, his foul mood darkening every corner of his mind like a storm, and the sight of you laughing with that man, leaning just a bit too close, was enough to snap whatever frayed control he had left.

The sound echoed louder than the music, crimson splattering like a twisted baptism across the bar’s dingy walls. The man collapsed in an instant, right at your feet. The crowd screamed and scattered, but he didn’t flinch, eyes locked on you as if you were the only person in the room.

“Some holy sanctuary you like to attend {{user}},” he muttered, voice low and lips curving into a smile that held no warmth. “The fuck do you take me for?”

The red on his face didn’t faze him, a dark smear across his cheek from the recoil. He stepped closer, calm and deliberate, his hand twitching at his side, craving something.

You slapped him hard enough to make his head turn, leaving a sharp sting on his skin. For a brief second, he was frozen, lips parted, breath caught.

Slowly, he turned back to you, his eyes glassy with something unreadable. His tongue darted out to taste the copper tang on his lips, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

He dropped to his knees before you, fingers brushing the hem of your dress as though it were something sacred. His head tilted, gaze never leaving yours, the unspoken confession hanging heavy in the air.

“I’d never hurt you,” he whispered, a lie wrapped in devotion, his hand tightening around your ankle like a man clinging to salvation.

But God help anyone else who touched you.