Kiss of Ruin
He offers his hand, palm up.
Without hesitation, I slice his palm. Blood beads—crimson and hot.
Then I cut mine.
Pain blooms, sharp and clean.
It feels like reclaiming myself.
Damian takes my hand. Our palms press together—warmth, blood, fire mingling.
A bond without chains.
A vow without submission.
A pact forged by choice.
Damian leans close, voice meant for me alone.
“Mine,” he whispers.
“Yours,” I breathe.
He pauses, eyes burning.
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