Semua Bab His Poisoned Rose: Bab 101 - Bab 109

***15 years ago***His Pov:It’s been three days since my mother pushed me down the stairs.Three days since I felt my body crash against every hard step, bones snapping, skull cracking, everything blurring into nothingness before I blacked out.My right hand is fractured. They had to wrap it in plaster, sling it from my neck like a reminder of how breakable I really am. My head is bandaged too—tight and rough around my skull—covering the deep wound above my eyebrow where they stitched me back together. Seven stitches. I counted them when I woke up, fingers trembling as I traced the skin around them, wondering why I still felt so numb.I don’t even know how I survived.If David hadn’t done something… if he hadn’t begged or screamed for help… I would’ve bled out right there at the bottom of those stairs, and no one would’ve noticed until I started to rot.From the bits and pieces he’s let slip, I think he ran to the neighbours, knocked on their doors in the middle of the night, sobbing

Her Pov:When I wake up, he’s nowhere to be seen. The bed is cold beside me, as if he had left hours ago, yet the air still carries the ghost of his presence.Last night, he was all over me. When I drifted into sleep, it was with his scent wrapped around me, his breath mingling with mine, his body pressing down on me in a way that made me feel utterly possessed. Now, with the morning light streaming through the curtains, I feel the stark emptiness of his absence. My fingers brush over the sheets, still slightly wrinkled from where his hands had gripped me, from where his body had pinned me down as he took me, as he claimed me.A sharp ache pulses between my legs, a reminder of just how relentless he was. His thrusts had been merciless, as if he wasn’t just trying to claim my body but my very soul. As if the mere act of having me wasn’t enough—he needed to carve his presence into my skin, into my bones, into the deepest recesses of my mind. And what’s worse? I had wanted it. I needed i

Her Pov:I swallow hard, looking away from him for a second, trying to gather my thoughts. “Is that it?” I finally ask, my voice barely a whisper. The question lingers, hanging between us, almost absurd in its simplicity.“No,” he says softly, his voice barely louder than the river’s murmur. “There’s more to be freed than just the fish.”I glance up at him, but his expression remains unreadable, as always. But something in the way he looks at me makes my breath hitch, like he’s seeing through every wall I’ve built.He steps closer, and I feel the heat of his presence before I even see him fully. The air between us thickens as though the world is holding its breath. I want to speak, to ask him everything, but my throat tightens, the words sticking in my chest. I stand there, frozen in place, as his gaze holds me captive, just as much as he claims to have done to the fish."They’re just like me..." he whispers, the words soft but piercing, making my chest tighten. His eyes are intense,

His Pov: She is asleep before I finish the words. My little mischief. My undoing. Her head rests against my shoulder, the silk of her hair brushing my jaw with every uneven breath. She clings even in sleep, her hand still curled inside mine, as if she thinks I would vanish the moment she lets go. But I don’t vanish. I can’t. I’ve built empires out of blood and steel, carved out loyalty with terror and fire. I’ve never once flinched from the weight of power or the filth of the crown I wear. Yet here she is, breaking me with nothing but a sigh against my throat. I close my eyes and inhale her scent deeply—roses, soft and intoxicating—as if I can anchor myself in it, as if I can force my mind to believe this is real. She’s real. We’re real. I was scared. No—scared is too weak a word. I was terrified. Terrified that she would choose her freedom over me. That she would slip through my fingers the way she’s always wanted to, the way she’s dreamed of since the day I chained her fate

Her Pov:I freshen up and change into a beige mid-length frock that moulds to my breasts, cinches tight at my waist, and flares at the bottom. Just a normal beige frock.But it looks… too revealing. As if I’m trying too hard. As if I want to be seen.To be seen by him.Do I?Why am I putting effort into how I look? Why am I overthinking a dress when he has already seen me in my worst states—vomiting, hallucinating, crying so hard I couldn’t even form words? He has seen the raw, ugly, unfiltered parts of me. So why does this feel different?I look into the mirror.My ice-blue eyes stare back at me.I look… flushed.I look different.Just like he said.Happy, maybe? Peaceful? I don’t even know what to call it. But something in my reflection has shifted. Something softer. Something warmer. Something that doesn’t look like it’s constantly bracing for impact.I take a comb and start running it through my hair, slow, distracted strokes, still watching myself. My eyes look more… alive. My br