When his mask cracks Novels & Stories

" The corners of his mouth turn upwards as though he is swallowing his own words because he does not want to utter them. “The ones that want you. The ones that want to take you from me.” “Ezra.” “That’s not real.” “That’s not real,” There is a faint smile that crosses his face. "You didn't think the man with the mask was real, did you? But he was," he says. He gets up, and the air moves for him, like a wave. "He is near now," I think. He must be close enough that I can smell the metal on his skin. It has a biting, almost awkward smell that conflicts with the warmth of his body.

His heart was beating as fast as mine was. “You’re shaking,” I whispered without thinking. He didn’t deny it. He slowly let out his breath, as if he were trying to keep himself in check. “I never expected this,” he said, voice low and rough. “Not like this.” I blinked at him, not understanding what he meant at first. His eyes met mine, and the mask he had worn around me for months cracked—splintering around the edges. His arrogance, his coldness, the stone wall he used to shield himself all rippled for one second, revealing fear. Not fear of death.

My stomach didn't just drop, it fucking plummeted through the earth's core. "I'm not built for it," he continued, voice going quiet and deadly. "I wasn't made for picket fences or anniversary dinners or any of that domestic bliss bullshit. I destroy everything I touch." "You're breaking me," I whispered. His breath hitched. For the first time since I'd known him, I saw something crack in that perfectly controlled facade—regret flickering behind his guarded stare like a dying lightbulb. "I know." "Then stop." "I can't."

“Can you?” Alessio’s mouth found him again. “Not tonight.” The light flickered once more. And when it came back fully the mirror was cracked. A single line through the center. Like a warning. Like a countdown.

And deep down, beneath the denial and the fear, a dark, unwanted part of him was already counting down the days until that boardroom meeting. This is what Sophia has caused me. I don’t know how to find another replacement. Please come back, Sophia,he said to the empty room. This is my only wish. I’m scared I’m heading to the wrong part of life. The mask was cracking faster than either of them could control. And the real war was only just beginning.

“I will leave you so you can think about your options.” A moment later, he was gone, and my mask finally cracked. I curled up in the bed, and my tears began to fall.

It distorted her features, breaking her face into two versions of herself. The one she was expected to be. And the one she was becoming. Her throat tightened painfully. Because she knew—deep in the marrow of her bones—that the crack was a warning. A fracture in the world she’d been forced to live in. A signal that the mask she had worn for so long was starting to break. Tears welled, blurring the broken image further. She pressed her palms to the window as if she could hold herself together with sheer will. But she couldn’t.

"Do you take this woman to be your wife, to stand by her through thick and thin?" "I do," the man said, his voice muffled by the mask. The guests whispered in awe. Howard Larson, the Larson family's big shot, was so in love with me that he would not let a bad cold stop our big day. He did not want to disappoint me. "Wait a second." The man's eyes darted around, and his forehead was dotted with sweat. I smiled and asked, "Howard, you're looking a bit pale. Too busy with the wedding to remember your medicine?"

Above us, the sky had a crack, as if from an earthquake. It was the first time I’d seen Sven since we had returned to London, and he seemed less dazed, now—more focused. His eyes had sharpened, and he spoke more comfortably, though his voice remained a grit-soaked growl. His mask never left his face; I still saw bloody wounds spiraling out from its ends like red rivers.

“You don’t have to prove anything to them.” He looked up sharply, and for a heartbeat, I thought he might lash out. But his expression cracked—just slightly. The edges of the mask he wore every day, every hour, every breath, were beginning to fall apart. “You shouldn’t be speaking to me,” he said suddenly. I blinked, caught off guard. The words made me step back a bit. My breath hitched. I didn’t answer right away. My mind raced for meaning, for explanation. Was this some kind of defence mechanism? A push to drive me away before I got too close?