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Absolutely not.

This is not happening.

I turn slowly, the plastic container crinkling in my grip. He’s lying there against the pillows, his eyes half-closed but watching me, and there’s something in his expression that makes my chest constrict. Something soft. Vulnerable. That looks dangerously close to actual emotion.

My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

I try again.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

“No. No, you don’t.” The words come faster now, tumbling over each other. “You’re injured. You lost blood yesterday. A lot of blood. You’re probably delirious. Or maybe your wound is infected and you have a fever and you’re hallucinating and you think I’m someone else or…”

“June.”

“Or maybe it’s just the adrenaline crash talking, you know? We’ve been running on pure adrenaline for like twenty-four hours and now it’s wearing off and your brain is doing weird things and saying weird things and you don’t actually mean…”

“June.”

“Or maybe it’s the sex? Sometimes great sex makes people say things they don’t mean. It’s a chemical thing. Oxytocin or dopamine or whatever. Your brain gets flooded with feel-good hormones, and suddenly you’re confessing love to people. They say it happens when you’re dying, too. All those hormones. If you’re seeing a bright white light, Wraith, don’t go into it…”

“June.” His voice is firmer now, cutting through my spiral. “Stop.”

I stop. My hands are shaking. The food container crinkles again, and I realize I’m crushing it, so I set it down on the table before I demolish it.

“I’m not delirious,” he says, and his voice is steady. Calm. The voice of someone who knows exactly what he’s saying. “I don’t have a fever. I’m not hallucinating. I’m not dying. And it’s not the oxytocin talking, whatever the fuck that is.”

“You can’t know that. You don’t even know what oxytocin is.”

“I can.” He shifts slightly against the pillows, wincing as his side protests. “I know what I’m feeling. And I know what I said. I love you.”

There it is again. Those three words. Said so simply, so directly, as if they were the most natural thing in the world. Like we’re not hiding in a cheap motel from killers. Like he didn’t spend years making me feel like I was nothing.

“You don’t have to say anything back,” he continues, and now his voice goes softer. Gentler. “I’m not asking you to. I just wanted you to know. You deserve to know.”

I stare at him. At the bruises on his face. At the bandage on his side. At the way he’s looking at me like I’m something precious instead of something he can use.

And I don’t know what to do with it.

Because the Dylan I remember — the Wraith I lived with — he didn’t do this. He didn’t buy me flowers from pharmacies because he didn’t know what else to do but wanted to do something. He didn’t let me cuff him to a bed and call him a filthy little bitch and ride his face until I came.

The Dylan I remember controlled every aspect of my life.

Told me what to wear, who to see, how to spend my time.

Made every decision for me because he knew best, because I couldn’t be trusted, because I needed him to manage me like I was a child or a pet or a problem to be solved.

I remember the way his hand would close around my wrist — not hard enough to bruise, but firm enough that I knew I wasn’t going anywhere until he let me go. I remember the way he’d lean in close when he was angry, his voice dropping to that quiet, dangerous tone that made my stomach knot with fear. I remember the way he’d look at my phone, my emails, my texts, checking who I was talking to and what I was saying because he had a right to know, because I was his.

I remember feeling small. Scared. Like the world was a dangerous place, and he was the only thing standing between me and disaster, but also like he was part of the disaster himself, and I just couldn’t see it because I was too close.

That Dylan would never have said “I love you” and meant it. He would have said, “I own you.”

But this Dylan bought me roses and apologized for not knowing my favorite flowers. This Dylan fought two armed men to protect me. This Dylan let me drive his truck and make decisions and take control because he trusted me.

This Dylan submitted to me, let me whip him, let me cuff him, let me sit on his face and ride him while he called me Mistress and begged for permission to come.