Sleep becomes invasion—I dream of corridors carved from flesh and stone, of red marble halls breathing slowly, like lungs. My own name etched into the walls in every language and burned. I try to run but I always end up in the same place.
He’s there shaped like a man but wrong in the ways that count. A body like sculpture wrapped in shadow, wings too large to belong to anything merciful, eyes like stars collapsing—beauty sharpened into cruelty.
His gaze strips me bare—more intimate than fingers. I burn under it. My body betrays me, every nerve tuned to his attention, aching for more.
My mind whispers, no. But my body hums yes.
“You were carved from the marrow of obedience,” he breathes against my mind, velvet-wicked. “Every part of you was shaped to fit inside my will. You were never yours. You were made for me.”
I try to pull away, but he follows, always just behind—a breath on my neck, a hand inside my heartbeat. He never forces. He invites. And somehow that makes it worse.
“You were mine before you had a name,” he murmurs, voice seductively weaving a spell over me. “Even inside her—squirming, blind, unfinished—I marked you. She ran. Bled. Prayed. It changed nothing.”
“Her womb was just the first altar. But you, angelica, you were always meant to crawl back to me.”
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