Three weeks passed.
Three weeks of softness. Three weeks of morning tea and burnt toast and promises whispered in the dark. Three weeks of me trying to be the man she said she wanted—gentle, patient, careful.
Three weeks of watching her fade.
I didn't notice at first. Or maybe I didn't want to notice. I was so focused on being good—on proving that I could love her the way she deserved—that I stopped paying attention to the signs.
The way she stared out the window longer each day.
The way her tea went cold before she finished it.
The way she flinched when I touched her gently but leaned in when I held her hard.
The way she looked at me sometimes—like she was searching for someone who wasn't there anymore.
---
It started with a nightmare.
She'd had them before. Woken up gasping, her hands clawing at the sheets, her eyes wild and unfocused. I'd learned to hold her through them. To whisper that she was safe. That I was there. That nothing could hurt her.
But this one was different.
She woke up screaming.
Not loud. Not dramatic. A small, strangled sound, like someone was choking her. She sat up so fast she nearly fell off the bed. Her chest was heaving. Her eyes were darting around the room like she didn't recognize it.
"Christabel." I reached for her. "Christabel, look at me."
She looked.
But she didn't see me.
"You were there," she whispered. "In the dream. You were there, but you weren't you. You were... soft. Kind. You kept asking me what I wanted."
"That doesn't sound like a nightmare."
"It was." She pressed her hand to her chest. Her heart was racing. I could see it pounding beneath her skin. "Because in the dream, I couldn't answer. I didn't know what I wanted. And you just... stood there. Waiting. Being patient. And I hated you for it."
The words hung in the air.
I sat up. Turned on the lamp. The light was harsh and yellow and made her look pale and fragile and nothing like the woman who'd smiled at me like the sun.
"You hated me," I repeated.
"In the dream. Yes."
"And now? In real life?"
She looked at me.
Her eyes were dark. Too dark. Like the pupils had swallowed the color.
"I don't know," she said.
---
I should have let it go.
Should have turned off the light. Held her until she fell back asleep. Pretended the conversation hadn't happened.
But something was clawing at my chest. Something that had been sleeping for weeks and was finally waking up.
"What do you want, Christabel?"
She blinked. "What?"
"You heard me. In the dream, you couldn't answer. So answer now. What do you want?"
"I want... I don't..."
"Yes, you do." I moved closer. Not gently. Not carefully. The way I used to move before I started trying to be someone else. "You know what you want. You've always known. You're just afraid to say it."
Her breath caught.
"I'm not afraid of anything."
"Then say it."
She stared at me.
Her lips parted. Closed. Parted again.
And then, so quietly I almost missed it:
"I want the monster back."
---
The words hit me like a physical blow.
Not because they surprised me.
Because they didn't.
I'd known. Somewhere, in the part of myself I'd been trying to bury, I'd known. The softness wasn't working. The patience wasn't working. The burnt toast and the morning tea and the gentle touches—none of it was what she needed.
She needed the danger.
She needed the man who'd taken her. Who'd forced her into his car. Who'd looked at her like she was prey and meant it.
She needed the monster.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because the monster was honest." Her voice was shaking. Her whole body was shaking. But her eyes were steady. "He didn't pretend to be good. He didn't ask me what I wanted. He just... took. And I didn't have to think. I didn't have to decide. I just had to feel."
"And the man I've been trying to be?"
"He confuses me." She reached out. Touched my face. Her fingers were cold. "He makes me think. He makes me question. He makes me wonder if I'm staying because I want to or because I'm supposed to. The monster didn't make me wonder. The monster just... was."
"He also hurt you."
"You never hurt me."
"I forced you."
"You took me. There's a difference."
---
I didn't understand the difference.
I still don't, not really.
But in that moment, looking at her—at the hunger in her eyes, the need in her voice, the way her body was leaning toward mine like a flower turning toward the sun—I understood one thing.
She wasn't afraid of the dark.
She lived there.
And she was lonely.
"You want me to be dangerous," I said.
"Yes."
"You want me to stop asking and start taking."
"Yes."
"You want me to be the man who doesn't care about your feelings. Who doesn't worry about hurting you. Who doesn't wake up at 3 AM terrified that you're going to leave."
She was quiet for a moment.
Then: "I want you to be the man who loves me so much he doesn't care what it costs him. Even if what it costs is me."
---
Something inside me snapped.
Not broke. Snapped. Like a rubber band that had been stretched too far and finally found its breaking point.
I grabbed her.
Not gently. Not carefully.
I grabbed her by the back of the neck and pulled her close and kissed her like I hadn't kissed her in weeks. Like I was trying to devour her. Like I was trying to remind her—and myself—that I wasn't soft. I wasn't safe. I wasn't anything she should want.
She moaned against my mouth.
Not a sound of fear.
A sound of relief.
"Finally," she whispered.
I flipped her onto her back. Pinned her wrists above her head. Looked down at her—at the mess of her hair, the flush on her cheeks, the dark hunger in her eyes.
"This is what you want?" I asked.
"Yes."
"This is what you need?"
"Yes."
"Then say it. Say you want the monster."
She looked up at me.
Her lips curved into a smile.
Not the small, careful smile. Not the real smile that made my chest hurt.
A different smile.
A dangerous one.
"I want the monster," she said. "I want him so badly I can't breathe. I want him to take me. To claim me. To remind me why I got in that car in the first place."
"And the soft man? The one who made you breakfast?"
"He can come back tomorrow. Tonight, I want the monster."
---
I gave her what she wanted.
Not gently. Not carefully.
I gave her teeth and nails and words that weren't kind. I gave her marks she'd have to hide. I gave her bruises that would remind her, for days afterward, exactly who she belonged to.
She gave me everything back.
Bit my shoulder hard enough to draw blood. Scratched my back until I felt the sting. Whispered things in my ear that should have shocked me but didn't—because she was right. The monster was honest. And the monster didn't pretend to be anything other than what he was.
Afterward, we lay tangled together in the dark.
She was breathing hard. Her hair was stuck to her forehead. Her lips were swollen.
"I missed him," she said.
"Who?"
"You. The real you. The one who doesn't apologize for existing."
"I was trying to be what you needed."
"You were trying to be what you thought I needed." She turned her head. Looked at me. "There's a difference."
"Then tell me. What do you actually need?"
She was quiet for a long time.
The city hummed below us. Somewhere in the building, a door opened and closed. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed and faded.
"I need you to stop being afraid of me," she said finally.
"I'm not afraid of you."
"You're afraid of losing me. Which means you're afraid of the power I have over you. Which means you're trying to control me so I can't hurt you."
"That's not—"
"It is." She pressed her hand to my chest. Right over my heart. "You're trying to be good so I'll stay. But I didn't fall for the good version of you. I fell for the dangerous one. The one who took what he wanted and didn't apologize. The one who looked at me like I was already his."
"He's still here."
"I know." She smiled. That dangerous smile. "I can feel him. Under all that softness. Waiting."
"Waiting for what?"
"For me to stop being afraid of wanting him."
---
She fell asleep in my arms.
Her breath evened out. Her body relaxed. Her hand stayed pressed over my heart.
I lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
She was right.
I was afraid. Not of her—of myself. Of the part of me that wanted to be good and the part of me that knew being good would never be enough. Of the monster she wanted and the man I was trying to become.
They couldn't both exist.
One of them had to die.
And lying there, listening to her breathe, feeling her heartbeat against my ribs, I made a decision.
I would stop pretending.
I would stop apologizing.
I would give her what she wanted.
Not because I was afraid of losing her. Because I was finally brave enough to be exactly what I was.
A monster who loved her.
And a man who would burn the world before he let anyone take her away.
---
The next morning, I didn't make breakfast.
I didn't ask her what she wanted.
I pulled her out of bed before the sun was fully up, pressed her against the window, and took her while the city woke up below us.
She didn't complain.
She didn't ask me to be gentle.
She just held on and whispered, Yes, yes, yes, like she'd been waiting her whole life for someone to stop asking permission.
And when it was over, she looked at me with those dark eyes and smiled.
"There he is," she said.
"Who?"
"My monster."
I kissed her forehead. Soft. Almost gentle.
"I'm not yours," I said. "You're mine."
She tilted her head. Considered this.
"Maybe," she said. "Or maybe we're both just... each other's."
I didn't argue.
Because she was right.
And because arguing would have meant pretending we weren't exactly what we were.
Two monsters.
Two souls.
Two people who should never have found each other—and couldn't imagine being found by anyone else.