✧˖°.⊹📖⊹.°˖✧
Morning light filters through the blinds, his body still close to mine from yesterday. For the first time in what feels like forever- I wake up to silence, the sound of safety.
Nothing.
Just warmth.
And him.
Dante's arm is draped loosely over my waist, his breath slow and steady against the back of my neck. The world outside could be burning right now- but I don't care.
Without a word, he leans in and kisses me- slow, unhurried.
Then he pulls away, muttering something about cleaning up, disappearing into the bathroom. The sound of running water fills the room.
I reach for the remote on the table beside me and flick on the TV.
Static hums. Then-
A familiar voice cuts through the room.
"She's been struggling for years," my father's voice booms, dripping with practiced sorrow. "She needs help. If anyone has seen her, contact us immediately. Her safety- and yours- depend on it."
The screen shows my father standing at a podium, his hand resting on the microphone, his face arranged perfectly for the cameras.
"She's not well. She's dangerous. Unstable."
My throat tightens. He's painting me as the problem. Again.
I stare at the screen- at the man who called himself my father. The man who locks doors and whispers threats behind smiles.
And suddenly, I'm ten again.
My mother's voice echoes like a ghost:
"Never let him control you."
Her hand, trembling, squeezing mine in the dark.
"If you ever get out, don't look back."
But I did look back. I always do.
And I'm afraid I still might.
I see the night I tried to run- the gates, the guards, his voice calling my name. He caught me before I even made it to the street. Always one step ahead. Always watching.
The memory fades, but the feeling doesn't.