Page 100 of She Who Holds My Wrath

A guttural groan tears from his chest. His rhythm falters for just a heartbeat, then he drives into me even harder, deeper, as if trying to fuse our bodies into one. “Fuuuuuuck.”

He pounds into me a few more times, biting down hard on my shoulder, his canines piercing my skin. I scream out, but he doesn’t let go. He just stays latched onto me, chasing his own release. A growl rumbles from his chest as his thrusting stills, his hot seed pulsing into me, filling me to the point of overflow. He slowly releases his mouth from my shoulder, his tongue licking at the blood that trickles from the wound as our chests heave.

My limbs feel heavy and loose, like I’ve run miles and collapsed somewhere safe at last. He slowly pulls out and lays beside me, chest rising and falling, one arm draped over my waist, holding me close as his fingers trace lacy circles over my skin. For a moment, I let myself believe we’re whole again. Like nothing ever happened, like he wasn’t ripped away.

But then he pulls away. “I need a shower,” he murmurs, voice rough with post-sex satisfaction.

The bed cools instantly when he stands, the cold seeping into my skin. I watch him disappear into the bathroom, the sound of water starting a moment later, too loud in a quiet room. Something twists in my stomach, a feeling of unease settling deep inside.

I sit up slowly, the sheets pooling around my waist. The room feels different now—too big, too quiet. The afterglow drains away, leaving behind a low hum of anxiety that quietly pulses beneath my ribs.

I dress mechanically into a silk nightgown and begin to pace. Back and forth. Once. Twice. Again. Again. Again.

The bond feels… strange. Not broken, not gone. Just heavier. Like something dense has settled between us. It feels right and wrong. Peaceful, yet filled with turmoil.

I pause for a moment, my hearing strained as I hear him muttering. At first, I think I imagined it. The water masks most of the sound, but there’s something wrong with the cadence. It’s too sharp, it’s too fractured. I move towards the bathroom without thinking, pausing at the threshold.

“Korithax?” I call softly, but there’s no answer.

I step inside warily. Steam fills the room, clinging to my skin instantly. He’s sitting on the floor of the shower, knees drawn up with his elbows braced on them, his hands tangled in his ebony hair. Water cascades over his shoulders and down his back, plastering his hair to his forehead, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

He’s shaking violently. Like whatever is holding him together is failing piece by piece.

“—Should’ve been there—” he mutters, the words snagging on broken breaths. His voice so small, so broken, and so unlike him that it slices right through me. “Should’ve stopped him. Should’ve⁠—”

“Kori.” My voice trembles as I take a small step closer.

His head snaps up, and the look in his eyes steals the air from my lungs. He looks exhausted in a way sleep could never fix. He looks hollowed out. Entirely broken, like something inside him is stretched too thin and it’s ready to tear.

“You’ve changed so much,” he says hoarsely.

The words land directly in my chest. Because I know I have. I feel it every time I look in the mirror. Every time I speak without softness or joy. Every time I choose survival over tenderness.

I swallow hard against the ache rising in my throat. “I had to.”

He drags a hand down his face, water dripping from his lashes. “You’re not the sunshine.”

My chest caves at his words. Because he remembers me as light. And I remember what it felt like to be it.

“You died,” I whisper. The truth of it still feels unreal. Silence stretches between us, thick and filled with things neither of us knows how to carry. “I had to survive. For them. For the kingdom. I couldn’t stay who I was and still stand.”

He lets out a weak, humourless laugh and shakes his head. “I couldn’t stay who I was, either.”

The pain in those words is unbearable. I step closer and reach out but hesitate at the last second, my hand suspended in the air as he watches me. He notices instantly and lets out a soft sigh.

“You feel it too,” he says. “The difference.”

I nod, unable to force words through the knot in my throat.

His jaw tightens. “I watched everything. Cinderspine. Marta. Theodus. Aurora’s Veil.”

My breath catches, tears stinging my eyes as memories flash through me of the broken little boy, of Marta and her glasses. Of all the blood and grief and loss stacked so high, I stopped knowing where one ended, and the other began.

“I was there,” he continues, voice cracking wide open. “Every time he touched you. Every time you cried. Knowing I couldn’t stop it. That I couldn’t tear him apart with my own hands.” His fingers curl into the stone flooring, his nails turning white. “It fucking broke me.”

A raw sound leaves him, half-laugh, half-sob, entirely wrecked. He bows his head, shoulders shaking, water and tears dripping from his face and onto the floor.

“I heard you call for me,” he whispers. “And I couldn’t come.”