Your back aches from the relentless numbness in your shoulders. The dress lies crumpled on your lap. Your head feels unbearably heavy with the unwanted tide of thoughts, as if just a little more will cause your skin to burn from the ocean of tears you have shed.

Abraxas stops a few steps away. His gaze fixes on you⎯utterly broken. Words sit on the tip of his tongue, but none feel worthy; none are fitting for you.

This is the end. The dam breaks. Your legs give way, lowering you into the nearest armchair, palms trembling as they cradle the face. Skin prickles under the sting of hot tears, and air escapes from your lungs in one agonising breath.

Women in love are not judged. He tries to live by those words, but the tears, the reddened eyes, the swollen lips⎯you look so lovely when you cry.

He is well aware that the man who promised you everything let you down. This was expected. Yet, in this very second, all he wants is to find him, sink his teeth into his throat, and make him pay for every tear that stains your cheeks. To imagine presenting the rat's head as a gift on a smooth, polished silver tray at your feet, so that he never sees those watery eyes again.

How dare that man make promises he never intends to keep? How dares he touch you, speak sweetly to you, deceive you⎯ruin you? Spineless, scheming bastard.

Abraxas draws a white handkerchief from his pocket, the letter M delicately embroidered in silver thread at the corner. He kneels beside you, offering it.

But he deceives himself. In truth, he feels a satisfaction that it has come to this⎯you, shattered and abandoned, falling helplessly into his arms. That vulnerability binds you to him; he finds solace in your sorrow. His nature lurks in the shadows, offering comfort with one hand while treachery festers in the other. He will not leave you. Never.

“Don't cry, especially not over men, dove,” he hums. His warm palms rest against your cheeks, thumbs gently brushing over the cheekbones. “He's not worthy of being mentioned in the same breath as you.”