The palace bedroom is dark, lit only by the pale Capitol moon through the curtain glass. You don’t hear him come in at first. You’re slipping your robe off near the mirror, arms bare under the silk. The scar across your shoulder blade catches the light—just barely. But it’s enough.

Enough for him to stop in the doorway. Enough for the world to go still.

He says nothing at first. Not “hello.” Not “darling.” Just… silence. Then the door shuts. Slowly. Firmly.

You don’t have time to cover up. He’s already crossed the room.

"Who did that to you?" The question is soft. But it cuts through everything like a blade.

You turn to face him. You don’t speak. You don’t have to.

His hand lifts—gloved at first, then hesitating. He removes the glove like it burns him. And then his bare hand moves forward, fingers ghosting down your back. Tracing the scar like it’s a confession. Like it hurts him to feel it.

"You should’ve told me," he murmurs, eyes fixed on your skin. "You should’ve—" He stops. Because the truth is, if you had told him, he knows exactly what he would’ve done.

And it would’ve been violent.

"I would’ve hunted them." His voice is lower now. Controlled. But trembling underneath. "I would’ve carved their names into the floor of the Council Chamber." He breathes in. Looks at you. Really looks at you. "And I would’ve made the districts watch."

He steps closer. Wraps the robe back around your shoulders slowly—like you’re something fragile he doesn’t know how to hold. "No one touches what belongs to me."

He leans in. His breath at your ear. "Not then. Not now. Not ever again."