บททั้งหมดของ His Poisoned Rose: บทที่ 71 - บทที่ 80

Her Pov:"I have only ever cooked for you."The words roll off his tongue so smoothly, so effortlessly, yet their weight settles thick in the space between us, heavy like the scent of something simmering too long on the stove—rich, intoxicating, impossible to ignore.He doesn’t look at me, but he doesn’t have to. He knows I’m staring. Knows my lips have parted just slightly, knows my breath has hitched in my throat.He can feel it—the shift in the air, the way the room seems to shrink around us, pulling us into something close, something intimate. The way my fingers tighten around the edge of the counter, as if bracing myself for the impact of something I don’t quite understand.Because there is something here. Something unspoken, something undeniable. It coils between us like the heat from the stove, like the scent of charred sugar and slow-burning longing. My pulse hammers against my ribs, and still, he doesn’t look at me.But I know he feels it, too.And for the first time in what

His Pov:And I’m still paying her back.Even now.But here’s the truth I’ve been avoiding—the truth that stings like a blade pressed against my throat.I didn’t remember Aunt Rachel.I only remembered the debt.I buried her somewhere deep, in the same place I shoved all the emotions I refused to feel, all the memories too painful to hold. She was lost in the graveyard of everything I had to kill inside myself just to survive.But then—I look at her.At the woman sleeping just a few feet away. At the slow rise and fall of her chest, at the softness in her face now that she isn’t watching me with those sharp, searching eyes.And suddenly, she’s there.Aunt Rachel.Because of her.Because of the words she murmured so carelessly, not realizing they were pulling something out of me, I thought it was long dead. Not realizing how easily she’s stripping away the armour I’ve spent years building.She doesn’t even know.She has no fucking idea what she’s doing to me.She shifts restlessly, her

Her Pov:The glass slips from my fingers.Time slows as it falls, spinning through the air before crashing against the marble floor. The sound of shattering fills the room—a sharp, piercing noise. But I don’t hear it. Not really. Not over the deafening silence that rings in my ears, the blood roaring through my veins. I don’t even feel the icy droplets of water splattering against my bare skin, the tiny shards slicing against my ankles.Because all I can see is them.She is draped against him, her body moulded to his like she was made to fit there. A short red dress clings to every soft curve, vibrant against her golden skin, her blonde hair cascading in waves over her shoulders. She is stunning. Effortless. Everything I am not. And her hands—those delicate, manicured fingers—are cradling his face with a familiarity that makes my stomach churn. Like she belongs there.And him?His lips.His lips are on hers.The breath in my lungs vanishes, like I’ve been punched in the chest, hard en

His Pov: When the bell rang, I exhaled slowly, rolling my shoulders back, forcing the tension from my muscles. But it was still there. That feeling. That goddamn feeling I hadn't been able to shake since earlier tonight. Since her. She had cooked for me. And I’d fucking stood there, frozen, watching her shift nervously under my gaze, her fingers fidgeting, her cheeks flushed like she wasn’t sure if what she’d done was right. Like she was afraid I’d dismiss it. Dismiss her. That softness in her voice, the unspoken need in her eyes—it did something to me. Twisted something deep in my gut. No one had ever done that before. Not for me. People feared me. Respected me. Needed me. But no one… cared. No one gave without expecting something in return. No one saw me as a man—just a force, a means to an end. But she did. And it was fucking unsettling. Because I didn’t do softness. Didn’t do warmth. Those things made a man weak. Made him vulnerable. And yet, standing there, listening to

Her Pov:When I open my eyes, the golden light of morning is already spilling through the curtains, painting the room in soft hues. I blink, my body heavy, sore. My gaze drifts around the room, searching for him, but he's nowhere to be seen. The sheets beside me are cold.I shift, trying to sit up, but a sharp ache between my legs makes me freeze. A whimper escapes my lips. Last night… he didn’t hold back. Not even a little. He took me as if restraint was a foreign concept, as if I belonged to him in a way that denied the need for gentleness. And now, I can still feel him—his presence lingering inside me, on me, all around me.I exhale shakily, dragging my body up against the headboard, each movement a reminder of his merciless touch. That’s when I noticed the bedside table. A plate of buttered toast, a cup of coffee still warm, a glass of water, and… painkillers.My throat tightens. He thought of this. He knew. A contradiction wrapped in flesh and bone—that’s what he is. One moment,