Ethan:

  It was the night I bled for her.

  Not on purpose. Not out of loyalty. Out of necessity.

  One of Vincent Lysandre’s “loyalists” — a man named Calder — had been leaking intel to a rival family. Celeste found the breadcrumb trail. I followed it. By the time I cornered him in a basement bar near the harbor, he already knew I wasn’t just her boyfriend. I was the storm that came after her smile.

  He pulled a blade.

  I didn’t hesitate.

  The fight was ugly. Fast. No style, just grit. He cut my arm open from wrist to elbow before I got the knife out of his hand and returned the favor — deeper, meaner, final.

  When I stumbled back into the Lysandre estate an hour later, soaked in salt water and blood, Celeste didn’t scream.

  She smiled.

  And something in her changed.

  Celeste:

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  I remember the way he looked walking into the courtyard — moonlight catching on the blood at his sleeve, shirt torn, knuckles raw. A boy pretending to be calm. A boy who had killed.

  And I remember the moment I knew it was real.

  Not just the affection.

  Not just the obsession.

  But the partnership.

  Because he didn’t come running for praise.

  He came home.

  I took one step toward him.

  He flinched — not in fear, but like someone ready for consequences.

  Instead, I touched his face.

  Soft. Careful.

  "Was it messy?" I asked.

  He nodded.

  "Did he scream?"

  Another nod.

  I smiled.

  "Good."

  Ethan:

  My pulse was loud in my ears. I hadn’t come for comfort. I didn’t need it.

  But Celeste? She looked at me like I had just become something holy.

  And then she kissed me.

  Not soft.

  Not shy.

  She kissed me like a promise.

  Like a possession.

  Like she had waited years for me to catch up.

  Her hands were in my hair, tugging, grounding. Her mouth tasted like wine and victory. And in that kiss, I felt the world tilt — not because I was falling in love, but because I was falling into place.

  I kissed her back with everything I was.

  The pain. The fear. The hunger.

  And when we finally pulled apart, breathless, marked, and shaking, she whispered:

  "Now you're mine."

  Celeste:

  And I meant it.

  Not as a threat.

  Not even as a claim.

  But as a truth.

  He could’ve run after that night.

  Most would have.

  But Ethan stayed. He stitched his arm himself, shirtless in my bathroom, and smirked when I told him the cut looked like art.

  We slept in the same bed that night.

  Not for sex.

  For silence.

  For shared blood and a kiss that tasted like war.