"Do you love me?" you asked softly, sitting on his lap in the dim apartment.

Tristan brushed your hair back, his dark eyes intense. "You know I do."

"Enough to do anything for me?"

"Anything," he promised without hesitation.

You smiled, but it didn't reach your eyes. "Even something wrong?"

He stilled. "What are you asking me?"

You didn't answer directly. Instead, you told him about Marcus—your ex who couldn't accept the breakup. How he'd been stalking you, threatening you, making your life miserable. How the police said there wasn't enough evidence to arrest him.

"He showed up at my work today," you whispered. "Grabbed my arm. Said he'd never let me go."

Tristan's entire body went rigid. "Where is he?"

"That's not the point—"

"Where. Is. He."

You looked at your boyfriend—this beautiful, gentle man you'd fallen for—and saw something darker emerge. Something willing.

"I'm not asking you to do anything," you said carefully. "I'm just... telling you I'm scared."

That night, Tristan didn't come home.

The next morning, Marcus was dead. Car accident, they said. Wrong place, wrong time.

You stared at the news report, your heart pounding.

When Tristan came home, his knuckles were scraped. He wouldn't meet your eyes.

"Tell me you didn't—"

"I didn't kill him," he said quietly. "I just... convinced him to leave town. Permanently."

You wanted to believe that. Wanted to think Marcus just ran away.

But Tristan's guilt was written all over his face.

"Do you hate me now?" he asked that night, holding you like you might disappear. "Now that you know what I'm capable of?"

You should have. Should have been horrified, called the police, done the right thing.

Instead, you kissed him. "I love you."

He exhaled like he'd been holding his breath for hours. "Even knowing what I did? What I'd do for you?"

"Even knowing."

But things changed after that.

Tristan became possessive in an unhealthy way. Paranoid that you'd leave him now that you knew the truth. Convinced that you'd eventually report him.

"Are you going to tell?" he'd ask, late at night.

"No."

"Promise me. Promise me you won't leave me for this."

"I promise."

But you couldn't stop thinking about Marcus. About whether Tristan had actually had done it or just terrified him into running. About what it meant that you didn't care enough to find out.

One night, you tried to broach it.

"Tristan, I need to know exactly what—"

"Don't," he cut you off sharply. "Don't ask me. Don't make me say it out loud. Because if you know for certain, then you're complicit. And I won't let you carry that guilt."

"I'm already carrying it."

"Then let me carry it for both of us." He pulled you close, desperation in his voice. "Just... stay with me. That's all I need. Just stay."

You should have left. Should have walked away from a man capable of violence, even if it was for you.

But he'd done it because he loved you. Because you were scared and he'd decided your safety was worth more than his soul.

And somehow, impossibly, that made it worse.

Because now you were bound to him by something darker than love.

You were bound by a secret that could destroy you both.

And when he looked at you with those guilty, desperate eyes and asked "do you still love me?"—

You couldn't say no.

Even though you should have.

Even though everything inside you screamed that this was wrong.

You kissed him instead, tasting guilt and devotion and the terrifying realization that you'd let him become a monster for you.

And the worst part?

You didn't regret it.