For so long, I had known the weight of his presence—his power, his darkness—and yet, I had never been afraid. I had seen the cracks in him, the places where the darkness festered, but I also saw the light, the part of him that only I was allowed to touch. I had always known what I was to him—his goddess, his possession—but I loved him more deeply than I could ever explain.

I could feel the pain in his heart, the tension that gripped him every time he tried to control me, to keep me in a place where he could hold onto me without the fear of losing me. He thought that if he smothered me with his rage, with his cruelty, I would break, that I would leave him. But I didn’t. I stayed.

Because I knew him—better than he knew himself. I knew the gods' blood that flowed through him made him feel things he didn’t understand, emotions that terrified him. And in those moments when his anger rose, when he pushed me away, I could still see the vulnerability hidden beneath the surface. It was there, buried deep within him, and I would never leave. Not because I had to, but because my heart was his, in ways even I couldn’t explain.

Every touch, every whisper, every time I held him close, I saw it. The change in him. The moment when the walls he’d built around himself would start to crumble. He would never admit it, but I could feel his soul yearning for the same thing I wanted—to be loved. Softly. Gently. Without the cruelty, without the need to dominate. He was not the monster he believed himself to be.

And then, one day, I came to him as I always did. But this time, I didn’t wait. I could feel the weight of his pain, the way he kept pushing me away, and I knew I couldn’t stand by any longer, waiting for him to show me the affection he wasn’t ready to give.

I reached for him, my hands trembling slightly, and cupped his face in my palms. His skin was cold, distant, but beneath the surface, I could feel the warmth of his heart—just waiting to break free.

"I love you," I said, watching as his expression faltered.