#hes SO interesting i need to study him under a microscope | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

theonottsbxtch · 2 months ago

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ANXIETY FINAL PART | CL16

an: and this series comes to wrap! thank you to all of those who were interested in following it - i hope this end does it justice, thank you for supporting my writing. much love <3 i may have some drabbles in mind lemme know what you guys think

wc: 8.6k

warnings: smut, mdni 18+ hehe written by the beloved @iimplicitt

part one | part two | part three |

SHE WAS DRIVING HIM CRAZY.

This was her form of revenge, it had to be.

Charles sat in his usual chair in the library, the book in his hands long forgotten. He hadn't turned a page in at least twenty minutes. His jaw was tight, his fingers gripping the edges of the paper, but his mind wasn’t with the words. It was on her.

It had only been a day since that conversation—since she'd looked at him with those eyes, seeing through him, picking him apart, laying him bare without even trying.

And now?

Now she was everywhere.

Floating in and out of the room, trailing her fingers along the spines of books, standing too close behind him when she reached for something on a higher shelf. She let her touch linger when she passed by, featherlight, barely there. But he felt it like a brand.

She was testing him.

He wasn't stupid.

He knew she had read those books in his library, knew she had picked apart his weaknesses, dissected his mind the way a scientist would a specimen under a microscope. And now—now she was toying with it.

Because she had realised.

She had realised that he was the one teetering on the edge now. That the dynamic had shifted. That she held all the control.

It terrified him.

And worse?

It thrilled him.

He had spent weeks keeping her in place, watching her movements, calculating her reactions, ensuring she never tipped too far one way or another. But now.

Now she was the one watching him.

Now he was the one bracing himself every time she stepped near, unsure if she would touch him, unsure if he wanted her to or if he’d crumble beneath it.

And she knew.

He could see it in the way her lips curved ever so slightly whenever he tensed. The way her fingers skimmed his sleeve just long enough to make him ache with the need to either pull her closer or bolt from the room entirely.

She was relentless.

And he was losing.

The book snapped shut in his hands, the noise breaking the quiet hush of the library.

She turned from where she stood by the window, blinking at him.

He forced his voice to remain steady. "Do you need something?"

She tilted her head, studying him like she was debating how far to push.

"No," she said eventually, "I was just thinking."

"About?"

Her gaze flickered over him, slow and deliberate.

"You."

His throat went dry.

He stood abruptly, turning away before she could see the effect she was having on him. "I need to—" He didn’t even bother finishing the sentence before striding from the room.

Her quiet laughter followed him down the hall.

It was taunting.

Charles barely made it to his room before closing the door behind him.

His breathing was uneven, his hands shaking as he raked them through his hair.

She was doing this to him. On purpose.

He knew it.

The worst part? He couldn't even blame her. He had stolen her life, caged her like some helpless bird, played mind games with her for weeks. And now?

Now, she was winning.

Because she knew.

She had figured him out, unravelled his layers with every book she had read. She knew about his disorder, knew how his mind worked, knew that deep down, beneath the cold, calculated exterior he had worn for so long—

He was desperate.

He needed.

And she was testing just how far that need ran.

Charles sat on the edge of the bed, gripping his knees, trying to breathe. He had spent years trying to suppress it, trying to push down the unbearable, gut-wrenching fear of being left, of being unwanted, of being a burden.

But she saw it now.

She saw him.

And she wasn’t running.

She wasn’t screaming or fighting or trying to claw her way back to the life she had before.

She was staying.

And worse than that—

She was pulling him in.

Charles squeezed his eyes shut, but it didn’t help.

He felt her everywhere.

In the walls, in the shadows, in the air thickening around him like a noose.

He clawed at his own skin, nails biting into the flesh of his arms as if he could peel her out of him—out of his head, his thoughts, his bones.

His breathing was erratic, chest rising and falling too fast, too sharp, like he couldn’t get enough air no matter how hard he tried.

She knows. She knows. She knows.

The thought was a drumbeat in his skull, relentless, suffocating.

She had seen him. Seen every pathetic, twisted, needy part of him. And she wasn’t running, she wasn’t screaming, she wasn’t even fighting anymore.

She was just watching.

Toying with him like he had once toyed with her.

And he deserved it.

He deserved all of it.

A sob tore its way out of him, raw and broken, and he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, as if he could force the shame back inside. His chest ached with the weight of it, the suffocating, unbearable weight of himself.

He was evil.

He had taken her.

He had played with her mind, broken her down, twisted her into something else just to make her stay.

And now—

Now, she was the one in control.

His fingers fisted in his hair, pulling hard enough to sting.

You’re disgusting.

You’re a monster.

You don’t deserve—

A quiet knock at the door.

His whole body stiffened, breath shuddering to a halt.

She was there.

Right outside.

And she had heard him.

The knock at the door came again, softer this time.

“Charles?”

Her voice.

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to breathe, but it only made it worse. His chest locked up, his throat tightening like a fist was closing around it.

No, no, no—she couldn’t see him like this. Not her.

He pressed himself back against the headboard, his body curled in on itself, hands still tangled in his hair, his skin burning where his nails had dug too deep.

The door creaked open.

He wanted to tell her to go away. Wanted to force out something—a warning, a snarl, leave me alone. But all that came was a wrecked, gasping sound as he struggled against the panic clawing its way through him.

She hesitated in the doorway, then stepped inside, shutting the door quietly behind her.

He couldn’t look at her. He could feel her gaze, though—steady, unreadable.

He turned his face into his knees, but it was too late. She had already seen.

The way his shoulders trembled. The way his whole body was curling in like he was trying to disappear.

Like he had nowhere to run.

And then—

A soft rustle of fabric. A shift of weight on the bed.

She sat down beside him.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

His breaths were short and fast, hitching in his throat, his heart slamming against his ribs like a caged animal.

Then—

“Breathe,” she said quietly.

He let out a sharp, broken laugh, but it only made his chest tighten more.

“Breathe?” he choked. “You—” Another gasping breath. “You’re telling me to—?”

But he couldn’t even finish the sentence.

He felt her move before he saw it—slow, deliberate. A hand, warm and steady, holding his.

He flinched.

She didn’t pull away.

Just kept her hand there, a grounding touch, not demanding, not forcing—just offering.

His mind was spinning.

His body wasn’t used to this—her being the calm one. Her being the steady one.

“Breathe in,” she said again, quieter this time. “Hold for four.”

Her voice was gentle, measured. The same way he had spoken to her that time in the office—when she had been the one gasping for air, when she had been the one drowning in panic.

His chest was tight, painful.

But he listened.

He dragged in a breath—ragged, unsteady—held it.

“Now out,” she murmured.

He let it go, but it shuddered on the way out.

“Again.”

He obeyed.

In. Hold. Out.

Again.

His head was still spinning, but—slowly, slowly—the crushing weight on his chest loosened.

The air started to return.

The trembling in his hands softened.

He swallowed hard, then finally, finally let his head tip back against the headboard, his eyes fluttering shut. His pulse was still too fast, his breathing still uneven—but he wasn’t drowning anymore.

For a long moment, there was silence.

Then, he forced himself to look at her.

She was watching him, her expression unreadable.

The strangest, sickest part was—he had never felt more exposed in his life.

Not even when she had been his prisoner. Not even when he had forced her into submission, played with her mind, made her his.

This—this—was so much worse.

Because she had seen him.

The real him.

The weak, pathetic, broken him.

And she hadn’t run.

She hadn’t screamed.

She had stayed.

And he didn’t know what to do with that.

The silence between them stretched, heavy and charged. His breathing had steadied now, though his hands still trembled faintly at his sides. He felt drained—like something had been ripped out of him, leaving him raw and aching.

And then, out of nowhere—

"Why me?"

His stomach twisted.

He didn’t look at her. He didn’t want to look at her. Not while she pulled her hands away.

Her voice had been quiet, but there was an edge to it—something sharp, something demanding.

He exhaled slowly, pressing the heel of his palm against his temple.

"I don't—" His throat tightened. "Don't do this."

"I need to know."

His jaw clenched. He forced himself to his feet, suddenly desperate to put distance between them.

But she followed.

"Charles," she said, and there was something different in her voice now—something that sent a cold shiver down his spine. Understanding.

He looked down, facing his sheets, but it didn't matter. He could feel her gaze burning into him.

"You planned this," she said, and it wasn’t a question.

He swallowed hard. "I took advantage."

She stilled.

The words hung between them, thick and suffocating.

Her voice, when she spoke again, was barely above a whisper. "Explain."

He let out a low, bitter laugh. Explain? How could he possibly—

But he owed her this much.

His hands curled into fists at his sides. His voice was hollow when he finally answered.

"I saw your meds." His throat was dry. "I saw your emails with your therapist."

A sharp inhale from behind him.

"I knew you were vulnerable," he went on, hating himself with every word. "I knew how to break you."

A pause. Then, she whispered, "You chose me because you knew I’d crumble."

His eyes squeezed shut.

He wanted to tell her no, that she was wrong, that it had never been about that.

But wasn’t that exactly what he had done?

Used her struggles against her. Bent her mind to need him.

And now—

Now she was sitting in front of him, not running, not screaming—just sitting there.

And somehow, that was worse than if she had put a knife through his heart.

The air between them felt razor-sharp, stretched too thin, like it might snap at any moment. Charles kept his gaze down, his eyes focused on the sheets, but he wasn’t seeing them. He could hear her breathing, steady but too quiet, as if she were holding something back.

She should be screaming at him. She should be trying to run.

Instead, she just sat there.

"You knew how to break me," she repeated, softer this time.

His fingers twitched at his sides. "Yes."

"And yet... here we are."

That made him turn. He expected anger, disgust—anything but the look she was giving him. It wasn’t quite pity, but it wasn’t hatred either. It was something else. Something he couldn’t decipher.

His pulse pounded in his ears. "I never wanted you to know."

"But I do."

His breath hitched.

Her eyes scanned his face like she was trying to see inside of him, and he hated how bare he felt beneath her gaze.

"I thought I was going insane," she murmured. "The dreams, the way I started needing you, the way I made excuses for you even when I knew I shouldn’t. You made me this way."

His stomach twisted painfully. "I know."

She inched closer. "And yet you were the one falling apart tonight."

He exhaled shakily, shaking his head. "I—"

"You pulled at your hair," she interrupted. "Just like I did, that time in the office."

Charles swallowed hard.

She kept going, her voice quiet but relentless. "You couldn’t breathe. You thought you were being watched. You felt like you were losing yourself."

His jaw clenched.

"That’s what you did to me."

Her words landed like a punch to the ribs. He shut his eyes for a second, as if that might shield him from the weight of them.

But then, before he could say anything, she did something he didn’t expect.

She touched him.

A light press of fingers against his wrist. Not forceful. Not demanding.

Just there.

His entire body went rigid.

Her voice, when it came again, was barely above a whisper. "You knew exactly how to break me, Charles. Because you are just as broken."

His breath hitched.

And she wasn’t wrong.

Charles felt like he was standing on the edge of something—something vast, something dangerous. Her touch on his wrist was barely there, but it burned like a brand. He should move away. He should make her move away.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he let himself look at her, really look at her. The defiance was still there, flickering beneath the surface, but something else had taken root alongside it. A dangerous, quiet understanding.

"You think you’ve figured me out," he murmured. His voice sounded rough, unsteady.

Her fingers twitched against his skin. "Haven’t I?"

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "I don’t know."

It was the truth. He didn’t know anything anymore.

She studied him, her gaze tracing the shadows beneath his eyes, the tightness in his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. And then, in a voice so soft it was almost cruel, she asked, "What happens now?"

Charles stiffened.

She wasn’t asking him to let her go. She wasn’t demanding freedom.

She was asking what happens next—as if she already knew there was no escape.

He should tell her that nothing happens. That she should still hate him. That whatever shift had begun between them was wrong, twisted, sick.

But when he opened his mouth, all that came out was, "I don’t know."

Her head tilted slightly, as though she’d expected that answer.

Then, before he could stop her, she did something that made his stomach flip.

She turned his wrist over, palm up, and pressed her thumb lightly against his pulse.

Charles shuddered.

His heart was pounding.

"You’re scared," she murmured.

He flinched. "I’m not—"

She squeezed his wrist, just enough to make him stop talking. "You are."

She was right. Of course she was right.

Because for all the control he had taken—stolen—from her, for all the ways he had manipulated her, somehow, against all logic and reason, she was slipping through his fingers.

And he was letting her.

No, worse.

He wanted her to.

The silence between them stretched, thick and unsteady, like a fragile thread pulled too tight. She hadn’t let go of his wrist. She hadn’t moved away.

Charles could feel the warmth of her fingers against his skin, the steady press of her thumb against his pulse. It was unbearable. It was intoxicating.

She was still watching him, waiting—though for what, he wasn’t sure.

"You're doing it again," she said quietly.

His brow furrowed. "Doing what?"

"Pulling away."

Charles inhaled sharply, only just realising that he was—not physically, not yet, but in the way he tensed, in the way his breath had caught, like he was bracing himself for something inevitable.

She didn’t let him.

Instead, she shifted, closing the space between them, her legs tucked beneath her as she faced him fully. Her presence was overwhelming, a quiet force pressing against every carefully built wall he had left.

"You’re not supposed to be this close," he murmured, though he didn’t move.

"Neither are you," she countered.

His mouth went dry.

Charles had always been the one in control. From the very beginning, he had dictated how close she was allowed to get, how much she was allowed to see. But now—now—the balance was shifting, tilting wildly in a way that made his chest ache.

She was letting him see her.

Worse still, she was choosing to see him.

Her touch trailed from his wrist to his forearm, fingertips barely grazing the fabric of his sleeve. It sent a shiver up his spine.

She noticed.

Charles swallowed hard, his breath coming a little faster now, a little less steady. "You should stop."

Her lips parted slightly. "Do you want me to?"

No.

God, no.

But he didn’t say it. He couldn’t say it.

Her touch moved again, fingertips ghosting over the back of his hand before curling lightly around his fingers.

He closed his eyes for half a second, and when he opened them, she was even closer.

"Tell me to stop, Charles."

His pulse thundered.

He couldn’t.

His free hand lifted of its own accord, trembling slightly as his fingers brushed against the curve of her jaw.

She exhaled, her breath warm against his skin.

It was maddening. It was inevitable.

She leaned in first.

And then he closed the distance.

The second their lips met, it was like something broke. The tension that had been simmering beneath the surface for weeks—months—finally cracked open, spilling over in a way neither of them could control.

Charles barely had time to process the heat of it, the way her mouth moved against his, before panic clawed at his chest.

He tore himself away, breath ragged, heart hammering.

"This is—" His voice was hoarse, like he had been drowning in her and had only just come up for air. "This is wrong."

She didn’t even hesitate.

Her fingers curled into the front of his shirt, gripping tight, and before he could talk himself out of it, she pulled him back in.

The second kiss was nothing like the first.

It was desperate, heated, intentional.

She felt him stiffen for a split second before he gave in with a low, shuddering whimper, his hand coming up to cup the side of her face, fingers slipping into her hair as though he had wanted to do it for far too long.

She kissed him harder.

A noise escaped him—something between a gasp and a groan—and then suddenly, he was the one pulling her closer, pressing her down against the bed until she was beneath him.

He was shaking.

She could feel it in the way his hands hovered, in the way his breath hitched when she parted her lips against his.

Charles had spent so long controlling everything—controlling her—and yet here he was, completely at her mercy.

And she knew it.

Her fingers skimmed the nape of his neck, feeling the slight tremor there, the way he whimpered at the contact.

He broke away for a second, forehead pressing against hers as he tried to steady himself.

"You're not afraid," he murmured, half-disbelieving, half-dazed.

She could feel his breath on her lips, still uneven, still wrecked.

"Should I be?"

His grip on her tightened.

"Yes."

But he didn’t move away.

She wasn’t sure she had ever seen such unadulterated longing before. It was an odd thing to try and come to terms with.

“I want you in a way I’m not sure either of us can handle,” his voice was rough and gravelly. A rasp dancing up from the back of his throat.

When his grip tightened on her, perhaps to ground himself, the sound that left her made them both freeze.

Only a moment. A tick of the clock.

Charles was all over her.

His hands slid from her face, down and down, dancing over her throat as his mouth collided with hers harshly. Two stars crashing into one another and lighting up the night sky in diamonds.

Charles twisted them around, guiding her as if they were in a pas de deux. Her mind was spinning and rationality was cut right off her shoulders. All she felt was him. All she could think about was him. How he was touching her. How wonderful it felt.

Stumbling through space, she wasn’t scared as she fell because she knew Charles had her. The way his rough hands held her as he laid her down on the sheets beneath them, making sure she knew she wasn’t going to get hurt.

Her breath was coming out hot and heavy, erratic as her fingers dug into his hair and pulled slightly. Delighting in the way he moaned into her mouth,

tongue sliding against hers. Exploring and greedy.

Charles climbed over her, slowly, giving her time so she didn’t think she was being trapped. She felt the mattress dipping with each adjustment and it made her heart stumble over itself. Not in fear. But in anticipation. Closer and closer.

She could still tell between the kisses and needy hands. He was still hesitating. Terrified he’d frighten her. Scared she’ll change her mind and leave.

“Charles,” she spoke his name softly, her own hands trailing down from his unruly brown hair to his face. Taking in how truly stunning he was and the technicolor that were his eyes.

She brushed her thumbs over his cheekbones, watching him as he watched her. His shoulders slightly coiled in tension.

For the first time in what felt like ages she smiled, “I want all of you. Every piece.” She could physically see the relief pulse through his veins at her words. His eyes glowing as he pressed his forehead against hers, her heart beat thrumming in her ears as she felt the weight of his hips settle against hers.

The hardness of him. How warm he was. The comfort of his body so close to hers.

“Give me everything,” she whispered.

He kissed her again, a little bit harder. His fingers pressed a little bit further into her neck. Inching but not quite. Being treated so delicately while knowing he was trying to hold back was driving her crazy. She wanted to know. Needed to know. What he was like.

Sudden determination slammed into her, making her lose her breath for a moment before it caught up again.

Her hand danced up into his hair again, and then she yanked. Hard.

A wince left him but something else lingered. Darker. More sinful.

“Charles,” she practically bit out the plea. “Everything. Please.”

His eyes flicked between hers, his pupils blown wide with desire. “I don’t want to hurt you, mon ange.”

“You won’t.” She didn’t hesitate in her response.

So neither did he.

She cried out into his mouth as he ground his hips into her. One hand tight on her throat and she immediately felt dazed. His other hand snaked down to her knee,

hiking it up around his waist so he could grind into her harder. A better angle. His cock running directly over where she needed it most and the sounds that we’re leaving her didn’t seem real.

Her head was spinning. Her mouth falling open on its own accord as he explored every inch of her mouth with tongue. His hand still squeezing. Applying the perfect amount of pressure to cut off blood flow but not

air.

Charles’ mouth found her jaw, danced down her throat, teeth grazing against her skin. Wanting to take in all of her. Terrified this was some dream he might wake up from. His breathing was unsteady, frenzied. Hungry.

Her own breathing came out in stuttered gasps, her hands everywhere. All over him. Dancing over his back, shoulders, his face. His wild hair. Her fingers tugged at his roots as he sucked on a space just below her jaw, getting carried away. A clear bruise being left by his mouth.

It was clear she wanted him to be rough with her. The trust she was handing him made his heart stutter.

He could. Be rough. It’s what he was good at. What he was familiar with. But with her… his heart was aching. Feeling as though it was lodged in his throat as he explored her sweet skin with his mouth. He wanted this to last.

Charles’ fingers danced under her shirt, feeling her gasp and responding to his touch. Arching as he slowly pushed the fabric up and out of the way. His tongue slowly ran a line up from her navel to her throat. She tasted heavenly. Sweet.

He was unraveling. Her soul pulling at the threads of his own, yanking and yanking.

He wanted to kiss more of her but her stupid fucking clothes were in the way and before his brain could catch up with what he was doing he had torn her skirt off, ripping her underwear in the process and the threads of cotton were frayed in his hands.

His eyes met hers, wild and glittering.

Her chest was heaving. “Please.”

Charles leaned down, tossing the torn fabric aside and brought her bottom lip between his teeth, tugging gently. Eyes glowing. A dragon unfurling at the sight of gold.

“Beg me to.”

She inhaled sharply, her pupils blown wide and lips swollen.

It was twisted. Fucked up. A horrible, awful thing to ask her.

She did it anyway, words tumbling out and greedy hands reaching, nails digging into his skin and he practically shattered in her palms. Her fingers hooked into the belt loop of his trousers, yanking him closer. Desperate.

When he freed himself, he took in her face as she stared down at him. Her hair falling over her shoulders, eyes glazed, swallowing. Looking like an angel.

He took hold of her chin, making her look at him as positioned himself before sinking into her, shuddering and a moan left him as his forehead fell against hers. Always watching, taking in how her lips fell apart, her brows furrowed, the sharp intake of breath as he bottomed out.

She was warm. Tight. Hot velvet and he felt like he was slipping under an opium induced haze as he slowly pulled back out. Finally he looked down at where he was connected to her, gripping her chin to tilt her head. He needed her to see.

“Look at you.” Charles sank his cock back into her. “You take me so well.”

“Charles,” his name left her lungs in a trembling breath, her nails raking down his back. Leaving red streaks he wanted imprinted into his flesh for forever.

He leaned back, taking hold of her hips in a bruising grip. He wanted her to feel everything. Every touch. Wanted her to remember everywhere he had touched her. The thought of marking her up would’ve terrified him, but when he looked at her and she nodded, he snapped.

His fingers dug into the flesh and bone of her hips, his own nails digging crescents into her skin as he pulled out and thrust back in. Setting a brutal pace. Each roll of his hips was barely tempered, dancing on the edge of violence.

She clenched down hard around him, throwing her head back into the sheets and crying out. His name dancing out into the heated air.

The lewd sound of skin hitting and how wet she was, was echoing around the room. Sounding like the bells of heaven in his ears.

“Fuck, you’re perfect.” He pressed one hand down just below her navel to feel his cock as he fucked her, his other hand rubbing circles into her clit and the combined sensations made her hips buck into him.

“Oh my god—“

He laughed lightly, drowning in her. “Not quite.” He pressed down a bit harder, feeling the way his cock dragged in and out of her. “But you can pray to me, if you’d like.”

frewffgghjfdx

Her own laugh left her, but it was cut off by a choking cry of pleasure. “I’m going to—“ her hips rose to meet his.

Charles snapped into her harder, leaning down on his elbows to drive his hips forward, rolling, dizzying. Pressing his forehead into hers as he caught her mouth in a kiss, breathing in her moan with his own as he felt her come undone beneath him. Stars danced behind her eyes as she came.

Her cunt squeezed him and he shut his eyes, shuddering. “Fuck me,” he lowered his head and bit into her neck, his pace now sloppy and erratic. Messy. Sweat coating their bodies.

Her nails dragged against his scalp, trembling beneath him. Her voice shaky, delicate. “I’ve got you, my love.”

He came with a cry of his own, teeth sinking even further into her throat and her wince turned into a near mewl as he rode through his high. His stomach clenching as he buried himself as deep as he could.

Their panting breaths danced in the air and he felt light headed as he lifted himself with his arms, his eyes taking in the marks he left, scattered constellations of bruises and broken blood vessels.

His eyes danced down, down, hissing as he slowly pulled out and watched as his cum spilled out of her.

Charles’ body acted on its own accord, his conscious on the back burner as his fingers danced down her stomach, grazing over her clit and gathering what had spilled out, fucking it back into her pussy with two fingers.

“Charles,” her moan was guttural.

He seemed to snap out of it, rationality catching back up to him and he only just realised what he was doing. He flinched back, trepidation crawling up his spine. Too much, too much—

“Don’t you dare,” her hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, bringing his hand back to her scorching skin.

God, how he had gotten so lucky?

Charles let his body guide itself again, his fingers trailing up.

“Open.”

Her lips parted, her eyes glazed over as she did as told.

His breath hitched as his fingers slid into her mouth, dragging against her warm tongue and he felt like he could come again as she sucked on his fingers.

He dragged the digits back out, the pads hooking on her teeth to pull her towards him and he kissed her. Tasting a mixture of them both and he groaned.

His hand slipped around her neck, hands twining in the hair at the nape of her neck. His other arm snaked under her waist, flipping them around so she straddled him and his hands fell to her hips, gently tracing the bruises that were starting to develop and the crescents of his nails he had left. Marks of greed.

Charles looked up at her, stars in his eyes.

And they started again.

Charles lay awake.

The room was silent, save for the steady rhythm of her breathing beside him. The sheets were tangled around their bodies, clinging to sweat-dampened skin, but he barely noticed. His mind was elsewhere—fractured, spiraling, unable to settle.

She had undone him.

Not just physically—though the memory of her hands, her mouth, the way she had taken control still burned through his nerves like a brand—but something deeper than that. Something irreversible.

His fingers twitched against the sheets.

She was asleep, or at least pretending to be. He didn’t dare turn to look. If he saw her eyes, saw the quiet calculation in them, he didn’t know what he would do.

Because she had him now. Completely.

Charles swallowed against the tightness in his throat. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was the one who had taken her, manipulated her, crafted every careful thread of her dependency. He was the one who had made her need him.

So how had it come to this?

Why was he the one who felt like he was unravelling?

She shifted beside him, just slightly, and his pulse spiked. The movement was small, barely noticeable, but he felt it like a ripple in his bloodstream.

For a terrifying moment, he thought about reaching for her. Pulling her closer. Burying his face in her hair and breathing her in until his mind stopped racing.

But he didn’t.

Because he knew—he knew—if he touched her now, it wouldn’t be him holding her in place.

It would be her letting him.

And that was worse. So much worse.

Charles exhaled shakily and closed his eyes. But even in the darkness, he felt her presence pressing in on him, inescapable.

She wasn’t running.

She wasn’t screaming.

She was staying.

And for the first time, he wasn’t sure whether that was his victory—

Or his downfall.

He lay rigid, staring at the ceiling, his mind an endless loop of static.

The room was too quiet. Too still.

He could hear the faintest sounds—the whisper of her breath, the rustle of fabric when she shifted in her sleep—but it wasn’t enough to anchor him. It only made the thoughts spiral faster.

His body ached, not from exertion but from something deeper, something he refused to name.

He had given in.

He had let her pull him under, let her take control, let her do to him what he had once done to her.

And he had wanted it.

That was the part that unsettled him the most.

He had wanted it.

Needed it.

Somewhere between her lips on his skin and her voice in his ear, he had stopped being the one holding her in place. And now, lying here in the aftermath, he felt something curdling inside him, something dangerously close to desperation.

Because she could leave.

She had always been able to leave, he knew that now. The locks, the walls, the carefully constructed prison—it had never been those things keeping her here. It had been him.

And if she ever decided she no longer wanted to stay, he would have nothing left to hold her.

A slow exhale.

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to steady, but then—

A shift.

A quiet inhale.

And then the subtle change in her breathing that told him she was awake.

He felt it before she moved, before she even opened her eyes. The weight of her awareness pressing against the space between them.

He didn’t turn to look at her.

Didn’t dare.

But then—softly, tentatively—

"Are you awake?"

Her voice. Groggy with sleep but clear enough to cut through the silence like a blade.

His fingers twitched.

"Yes."

A pause.

He could feel her looking at him. Studying him in that unnerving way of hers, peeling him open with nothing but silence.

"Charles."

The sound of his name sent something sharp through his chest. He exhaled carefully, measuring his voice before he spoke.

"What?"

Another pause.

And then, quieter—

"What now?"

The words settled heavily between them.

He swallowed. What now? As if he had an answer.

For months, he had dictated the course of things. Had controlled every moment, every breath between them. But now, in the aftermath, it wasn’t his decision to make.

He didn’t know what was worse—the uncertainty or the fact that he was waiting for her to decide.

After a moment, he finally turned to face her.

She was watching him, eyes unreadable, her hair a tangle against the pillow. She looked different. Not softer—no, she had never been soft—but something had shifted.

She looked like she knew.

Like she had all along.

His throat tightened.

"What do you want it to be?" he asked, the words tasting foreign in his mouth.

Her gaze flickered, something unreadable passing through it. She was silent for so long he thought she wouldn’t answer.

But then—

"I don’t know," she admitted.

Something in his chest twisted.

Neither of them knew.

For the first time, they were on even ground.

And that terrified him.

The silence between them stretched, taut and expectant.

Charles felt the weight of it pressing down on his ribs, making it harder to breathe. He had spent so long crafting their dynamic, pulling her strings, manipulating every interaction to keep her where he wanted her. But now…

Now she was the one leading.

"You never answered me," she said at last.

His brows pulled together. "About what?"

She studied him, head tilting slightly against the pillow.

"What now."

Charles exhaled through his nose, glancing towards the ceiling as if it might have the answer.

"I don't know," he admitted. The words felt foreign. He wasn’t used to not knowing.

"Liar," she murmured.

His jaw tensed.

Of course he knew. Of course he had spent the past hour running through every possibility, every outcome, every way this could all fall apart. He had been raised to plan ahead, to anticipate, to always have control.

And yet, here he was, utterly at her mercy.

He turned his head slightly, looking at her properly now. Her gaze was steady, unnervingly perceptive.

"Tell me about them," she said suddenly.

His stomach twisted.

"Who?" he asked, though he knew exactly who she meant.

"Your family."

Charles stilled. His fingers curled slightly against the sheets.

"Why?"

She shrugged, but there was intent behind it. "I just… want to know."

His throat felt tight. He had spent so long keeping her separate from that world, keeping everything controlled. His family was expectation, obligation, duty. She was chaos, unpredictability, something that he had slipped through the cracks of his carefully constructed life.

He shouldn’t let the two overlap.

And yet—

"They expect things from me," he found himself saying.

Her brows lifted slightly. "Like?"

He swallowed, forcing himself to keep his voice steady. "Like a wife. An heir. A life that fits into the perfect little box they’ve built for me."

She blinked. "And do you want that?"

He hesitated. Then— "I want the inheritance."

A humourless huff of laughter left her. "Honest, at least."

Charles shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. He wasn’t used to talking about this, not in any real way. Not with someone who actually wanted to listen.

"My father left conditions in place," he went on, voice tight. "If I want my inheritance, I have to be married before I turn thirty."

Her expression didn’t change, but something in her posture did. A slight shift. A subtle awareness.

"How old are you?" she asked.

"Twenty-eight."

Another pause. She sat with that for a moment, then—

"So you're running out of time."

He didn’t answer.

Because she was right.

Another silence settled between them, thicker than before. But then—she moved.

She sat up slowly, the sheets pooling around her waist, bare skin catching in the dim light.

Charles stilled.

He looked—just for a second—before guilt curled through his chest like something rotten.

He shouldn’t. He had already taken too much from her.

His gaze dropped away, jaw tightening.

But then—fingertips, warm and soft, trailing over his cheek.

He flinched, just slightly, but didn’t pull away.

Her thumb brushed over the sharp edge of his cheekbone, slow and deliberate, and when she spoke, her voice was quiet. Measured.

"Why don’t we then?"

His breath caught.

His eyes snapped to hers, searching, desperate, trying to figure out if she was toying with him again, if this was just another way to tip the scales back in her favour.

But her gaze was steady.

Unwavering.

His pulse hammered in his throat.

He had wanted control over her. Had wanted to make her his.

But now, looking at her, watching the way her lips curved just slightly, the way she ran her thumb over his skin like she was memorising him—

He realised she had already won.

And he wasn’t sure he wanted to stop her.

Charles swallowed, his throat tight, his mind caught between a dozen conflicting instincts.

Her words hung between them, weighty and deliberate. Why don’t we then?

He should have laughed. Scoffed. Told her she was insane.

Instead, all he could feel was the unbearable pressure of his own pulse.

His fingers curled into the sheets.

"I’m scared," he admitted.

It was barely a whisper, but it felt like a confession, like something ripped from the darkest part of him.

Her gaze didn’t waver. She was still close, still watching him like she could see straight through his skin.

"Why?" she asked, voice soft.

Charles forced out a breath. His thoughts tangled, chaotic, but she was waiting. Expecting.

"Because," he said, voice strained, "you already have too much of me."

A flicker of something passed through her expression. Not triumph, not cruelty—just something knowing.

She didn’t move her hand from his cheek. Instead, her thumb traced over the skin again, slow and deliberate.

"You know how I work better than I do," she murmured. "I know how you do. It’s perfect almost, no?"

His chest tightened.

Perfect.

The word lodged itself inside him, curling in the spaces between his ribs.

She wasn’t wrong.

He had built this. Had shaped her mind to fit against his own, had twisted and moulded her fears until she couldn’t breathe without thinking of him.

And now—

Now she had done the same.

Not by force, not by manipulation.

By knowing him.

By understanding him in a way no one else ever had.

His stomach twisted painfully.

It should have terrified him.

Maybe it still did.

But as he looked at her, bare and unflinching before him, something else stirred beneath the fear.

Something far, far worse.

He wanted it.

He wanted her.

And perhaps, in some strange, awful way—

She wanted him too.

What Charles hadn’t expected was for things to go the way they did.

For the shift to be so seamless.

For her to stay.

And yet, here they were.

She slept in his room now. Not because he made her, not because of some unspoken rule, but simply because she did. Because she climbed into his bed at the end of the day, settled against the pillows like she had always belonged there.

She moved around the house with familiarity, no longer stepping carefully, no longer treating it like a place she was trapped in. It unnerved him.

Because it wasn’t control keeping her here anymore.

It was something else.

Something he didn’t know how to name.

He still caught himself slipping. The disorder was a living, breathing thing, curled in the depths of his chest, waiting for a reason to claw its way out.

Every time she left the room for too long, every time she didn’t respond to something he said, the thoughts would creep in—She’s leaving. She’s changing her mind. She’s going to realise what you are and run.

But then—her hand on his arm, her voice pulling him back.

"I’m here, Charles."

"I’m not going anywhere."

"Breathe."

It was unnatural, this thing between them.

It shouldn’t have worked.

And yet, it did.

Somehow, it did.

He stood in the doorway of the kitchen now, watching as she stirred sugar into her tea. She was still in her nightdress, her hair loose, her bare feet silent against the tiled floor. She looked soft in the morning light, nothing like the girl he had taken all those months ago.

She caught him watching.

Her lips twitched slightly. "What?"

Charles shook his head, exhaling. "Nothing."

But it wasn’t nothing.

It was this.

The domesticity of it. The ease. The way his world had been rearranged without him even noticing.

And the strangest part?

He wasn’t sure he minded.

He had never thought this would be his life.

Not because he hadn’t wanted something like it—not because he hadn’t craved the warmth of another body in his bed, the certainty of knowing someone was there—but because he had always known he was broken.

He had known it since childhood, since he first realised that his love felt different from other people’s, that his need for closeness was something raw, something desperate, something people recoiled from when they saw it too clearly.

He had never imagined there would be someone who stayed even after seeing the worst of him.

Yet she had.

She had stayed through every manipulation, every cruel game, every attempt he had made to own her, to keep her.

And now, somehow, impossibly—she wanted to stay.

This time he watched her across the room, curled in the corner of the sofa with a book in her lap, one leg tucked beneath the other. She looked so at ease, as if this had always been her place.

It still startled him sometimes, how quickly things had shifted.

How easily she had taken control of him.

And when his parents next came unannounced, he wasn’t forcing her to play a role.

He thought of the time he had put a knife to her throat and forced her to be his fiancée. The way he had held her so tightly, whispering threats in her ear, making sure she played along.

And now?

Now she did it willingly.

He hadn’t even had to ask.

She had smoothed down her dress, glanced at him once, and slipped into the part as though she had always belonged in it.

His mother kissed her cheek. His father nodded in approval. The conversation flowed.

Charles sat beside her, his fingers twitching slightly against his knee, his mind caught between past and present.

He had made her into this.

But she had remade him in return.

It was late. The kind of late where the house felt like it existed in its own pocket of time, separate from the rest of the world.

The fire had burned low, the glow casting flickering shadows along the walls. She was sitting at the foot of the bed, her legs crossed beneath her, watching him.

"When was the last time you left the house?"

Charles blinked. The question was so unexpected, so out of place in the quiet, that it took him a moment to process it.

His fingers flexed against his knee. "I went into the garden last week."

She gave him a flat look. "Out, Charles."

His jaw clenched slightly. "Since the day at the office."

Her expression didn’t change, but he saw the flicker of understanding behind her eyes.

"Because of me."

It wasn’t a question.

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "Because I was scared that if I left, you’d be gone when I came back."

Silence settled between them. Not heavy, not uncomfortable. Just there.

Then, after a moment, she tilted her head. "We should go out."

Charles tensed. "Out?"

"To celebrate our engagement."

His stomach twisted.

It’s a trick.

That was his first thought. His immediate, panicked, irrational thought. That she would get him out of the house, that she would leave—slip away, disappear into a crowd, and he’d come back to an empty home, to silence, to nothing.

She must have seen it on his face, because she sighed, lifting her left hand, holding it up between them.

Her ring finger was bare.

"I won’t leave," she murmured. "And anyway—" she glanced towards the door, then back at him—"the front door has been unlocked for far too long. I would have done it earlier."

His breath hitched.

She wasn’t lying. He knew she wasn’t lying.

She had seen the worst of him, and she was still here.

And now, she was asking him to trust her.

He swallowed hard.

Maybe it was time to see what happened when he did.

Charles stood, dousing the last of the fire with the poker, watching as the embers faded into darkness. The warmth in the room dulled, but the air between them remained thick with something unspoken.

She was waiting for him. Already beneath the sheets, watching as he moved through the motions of closing the house for the night. It was strange, how natural this had become. How effortless.

He slid into bed beside her, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling.

Then, as he did every night, his fingers reached for her hand.

And, as she did every night, she placed it on his chest.

The tension in him melted—just enough. Just enough to let sleep take him.

Morning came gently. Light filtered through the curtains, spilling golden across the room. Charles stirred, feeling the absence of warmth beside him before he heard the soft shuffle of movement.

He blinked up at her.

She was standing near the dresser, pulling her hair away from her face, already dressed.

In the clothes he had bought her.

A simple dress. Modest. Nice. Something unassuming, something she had never objected to, never even commented on.

And yet, seeing her in it now, he felt something shift inside him.

Because she had chosen to wear it.

Not because she had to.

Because she wanted to.

His throat felt tight as he sat up, watching her.

"You’re staring," she murmured.

"It suits you."

She glanced at him in the mirror, eyes unreadable. Then, after a pause—"Good."

Charles watched her move around the room, the quiet rustling of fabric filling the space as she finishing taming her hair. She didn’t need to ask for help, didn’t need his input. She simply got ready, as though it was something so ordinary, so simple. Yet for him, it was another reminder of how much had changed.

He sat up slowly, still watching her from the bed, the sunlight streaming in through the gap in the curtains. The golden light made her skin glow, made everything in the room feel warmer, more familiar. Her movements were so natural now, and it unsettled him—this—the way she seemed to fit, like a puzzle piece finally snapping into place.

When she finished adjusting the dress and her hair, she turned to him, meeting his gaze. There was something different in her eyes now, something more certain.

She wasn’t running. She wasn’t pretending.

He cleared his throat, his voice suddenly thick. "You look…"

She raised an eyebrow, a quiet smile tugging at her lips. "I know."

He couldn’t help but chuckle, even if it was a small, dry sound. There was no need for words anymore, was there? They had learned each other so well, learned how to communicate in the silences between their sentences.

She walked towards him, the hem of her dress brushing the floor with each step, and paused just before him. Her eyes flickered to his hand, then back to his face.

"Do you think we’re ready?" Her voice was soft, steady.

He didn’t know what he was ready for—what they were ready for—but he reached for her, his hand trembling slightly. When she placed her fingers in his, there was an unspoken understanding between them, something that hadn’t been there before.

"I think so," he replied, his voice low. "But I’m still scared."

She didn’t answer with words. Instead, she placed her hand gently over his, holding him as if to steady him, as if she were the one in control now.

"We’re both scared," she whispered. "But that doesn’t mean we have to stop."

The front door loomed before them.

Charles hesitated. He hadn’t stepped beyond it in months.

But then—her fingers in his, firm, grounding.

"Come on," she murmured.

And so, together, they stepped outside.

The air was sharp, cool against his skin. The world stretched out before them, vast and open.

And for the first time, Charles didn’t feel like he was losing her.

Not as long as she was still holding his hand.

the end.

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