Continues....

He swallowed, throat tight.

"You're inside my head. You're under my skin, like a disease I can't shake."

She just stared at him—wide eyes, parted lips—as he bared words he never wanted to say aloud.

"And it's driving me insane," he muttered, eyes burning into hers. "I keep wanting to touch you. Hold you. Put my mouth against yours and claim every inch of you as mine."

He shifted slightly, muscles tensing beneath the sheets.

"And I hate it. The way you make me feel. The way I can't stay away from you."

He clenched his jaw.

"I thought you wanted me to beg, but here you are falling apart." She said with something different in her eyes.

His breath caught at her sharp words, cutting straight to his core. A dry, fractured laugh escaped him.

"Beg?" He echoed, his voice rough and laced with anguish. "I needed you to admit your feelings... because I couldn't stand being the only one losing control."

He leaned in slightly—close enough that his breath brushed her lips.

"You think I wanted you on your knees?" A bitter smirk tugged at his mouth. "No. I wanted you awake. Aware. Feeling what I feel every time you look at me."

His hand lifted—slowly—to cradle her jaw.

"And now look at us." His thumb traced her bottom lip. "You haven't begged me once... and yet, here I am... unravelling like a fool who never stood a chance."

She had no words to say; she was just looking at him blankly.

He let out a humourless laugh—a bitter sound.

"No clever comeback?" he murmured, fingers still tracing her jaw. "Where's that usual fire, hm? Where are your sharp retorts, your witty one-liners? The defiance that makes me want to strangle you one minute and kiss you the next?"

His thumb skimmed her bottom lip again, pulling it gently.

"What happened to the girl who never backed down? Who fought me every damn day?"

"I can still fight, but I don't fight those who have already given up. You gave up," she said absent-mindedly.

His breath stilled. "Give up?" he repeated, voice suddenly low—dangerous. "You think this is giving up?"

He shifted in one swift motion, pressing her beneath him—blankets tangled, rain still drumming against the windows.

His hands framed her face, eyes blazing into hers.

"I haven't given up. I'm fighting. Every damn day. Fighting not to touch you. Not to beg you. To stay away from a woman who looks at me like I'm nothing."

His voice cracked—just slightly.

"And tonight... I lost."

He leaned down until his forehead touched hers—breath mingling, hearts pounding too loud in the silence.

"So don't you dare say I gave up."

"But you did. You once said I must obey, that I'm your property and should know my place. I eventually accepted being your wife and taking care of you, even with the burden it brings. Yet now, you say all this," she snapped, fighting to keep her emotions in check.

He flinched as if an unseen force had just hit him.

The words hit him like a blade—sharp, precise, cutting through every defence he'd built.

His breath came unevenly. His hands, still framing her face, trembled slightly.

"You remember that?" he asked, his voice thick and raw—teetering on the edge of breaking. "Do you recall what I said... when I was still wrestling with my hatred for you?"

He shut his eyes for a fleeting moment, as if the memory itself was a sharp, unwelcome wound.

"I did say those things," he admitted, his tone barely above a whisper. The weight of his words hung in the air, heavy with regret. "I convinced myself you were nothing more than duty. Just politics—a marriage of convenience to be gritted through."

His eyes opened again—dark with something close to shame.

"But somewhere... I stopped believing it."

"I don't want a wife who obeys because she has to." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I want one who stays because she chooses me—even if it's madness. Even if we're at war every damn day."

He pressed his forehead harder against hers—voice breaking now.

"So no... I haven't given up."

"For me, it's always going to be a marriage I never wanted. I might care for you at some point in my life, but nothing more than that," she said, cutting his words and her hidden feelings.

He went rigid at her words—her honesty like a knife twisting in his heart.

He knew it. He'd known it all along. But hearing those words... seeing the finality in her eyes... it hit harder than anything else.

His chest felt tight. A lump lodged in his throat. He wanted to argue. To fight her. To force her to feel something—anything—more than that.

But he didn't move, staring down at her—frozen in that aching moment.

His voice was low. Broken. "You really mean that?"

"Yes, my lord," she replied, her voice a mix of truth and deception. He noticed the fleeting flicker in her eyes and the slight hesitation in her tone. While her words seemed honest, they danced around the deeper realities she chose to hide—neither a complete lie nor the whole truth.

And somehow, that gave him hope.

Dangerous, reckless hope.

His thumb brushes the corner of her lips. "That's what hurts the most."

He leaned down until his mouth hovered just above hers—close enough to feel every breath she took.

"I don't care if you don't want this marriage right now." His voice was a rough whisper. "I don't need love... not yet."

A pause. Heavy with meaning. "But one day... you'll stop telling half-lies."

And then—he kissed her. Soft at first—a question, a plea.

Then deeper, desperate—as if trying to memorise the feel of her before he had to leave tomorrow. She melted in the kiss.

He felt her respond—soft, pliable, yielding beneath him. Her lips parted, allowing his tongue to invade her mouth—teasing, tasting, claiming. A low growl escaped his throat.

His hands slid down, one cupping the side of her face, the other gripping her hip—holding her in place against him, against the growing evidence of how much he wanted her.

Her body against his, the way she responded...

He knew, with an aching certainty, that leaving tomorrow would gut him. he thought, Maybe it was better to leave, maybe time apart could make him feel less for her.

He broke the kiss slowly—reluctantly—resting his forehead against hers, breathing her in.

His heart pounded—not from passion now, but from fear.

Fear that he was losing himself in her. That every touch, every look, was chaining him to a woman who still didn't want him the way he wanted her.

And yet... she'd melted. Just now. In his arms.

That wasn't duty.

But it wasn't surrender either.

"Maybe..." he thought, "distance is what I need."

A month apart. No more late-night arguments turning into desperate embraces. No more watching her move through the house like she owned his soul without even trying.

Perhaps time would dull this fire.

Perhaps it would make him hate her again.

"Safer," he told himself. "This has to stop before I beg for real."

But as he pulled back and looked at her flushed face—the swollen lips, the dazed eyes—he knew one truth:

Leaving wouldn't make him forget.

It would only make it worse.

"His pride lay shattered at her feet — but so did his future."

What's stronger — his love or her hatred? 🤔

Every like =  forgive him or make him suffer? ❤️⚔️