The next night, I made my choice.
I am done playing.
If he wanted to worship me, to beg for me — I would let him.But I wouldn't give him my heart again.No.
This time, I would make him feel everything he made me feel.I would make him suffer for every lie, every betrayal, every night I had cried alone while he was in another woman's bed.
He wouldn't even realize he was being destroyed.Not until it was too late.
I waited for him in the living room, dressed in nothing but the silk robe he had once given me.The one he had bought after some stupid argument, trying to apologize with gifts instead of words.
How fitting.
The robe slid over my skin like a second layer of sin, the cool fabric whispering against bare flesh.
When he walked in and saw me, he stopped dead.
His mouth parted slightly.His hands curled into fists at his sides, like he was physically restraining himself from taking me right there.
"You're late," I said softly, tilting my head.
He swallowed hard, his gaze raking over me."I got caught up—"
"With who?" I cut him off.My voice was soft. Poisoned within but soft .
He flinched.
Good.
Let him remember.Let him feel the knife he had plunged into me — again and again — every time he touched someone else.
I stepped closer, slow and deliberate.The robe slipped open slightly at the top, just enough to make his breath catch.
"You used to come home smelling like someone else," I whispered.I saw the guilt flash across his face.Saw the self-loathing he tried so hard to bury.
I smiled.Sweet.Cruel.
"Do you miss her?" I asked, running my fingers lightly over his chest.Tracing the place where I knew his heart was pounding."Do you miss the way she touched you when you lied to me?"
He grabbed my wrist, hard."Don't," he said roughly.
But he didn't push me away.He couldn't.
Because he was just as addicted to the poison between us as I was.
I leaned up on my toes, brushing my lips against his ear.
"You don't get to be angry," I breathed."You broke us."
His grip on my wrist tightened almost painfully.And then he kissed me — hard, brutal, desperate.
I kissed him back with teeth and nails, dragging my nails down his back, making him bleed for me the way I had bled for him.
He groaned into my mouth, a raw, wrecked sound, and lifted me into his arms.
I let him carry me to the bedroom.Let him think he was winning.
But when he laid me down, I flipped us.
Got on him.Pinned his wrists to the bed.
His eyes widened slightly, his chest heaving.I could feel how much he wanted me.How badly he needed me.
Good.
He was going to need me so much, he would forget how to breathe without me.And then I would leave him gasping for air.
I leaned down, dragging my lips over his jaw, his throat.Tasting his desperation.Tasting my power.
He tried to free his hands, but I held him firm.
"You don't get to touch me," I whispered, like my voice is a dagger sheathed"Not yet."
He groaned again, low and broken, his hips arching up against me.
"Please," he voice hoarse.
I smiled against his skin.
He had begged me before.But not like this.Not with everything on the line.
I kissed a slow, torturous path down his chest, his stomach, tracing every scar, every weakness.Making him tremble.Making him need.
When I finally took him in my mouth, he cursed violently, his head slamming back against the pillows.
But still, I didn't let him touch me.
I wanted him helpless.I wanted him wrecked.
And when he came undone, shuddering, gasping my name like a prayer, I pulled away and watched him fall apart.
No comfort.No mercy.
Just the cold satisfaction of knowing I had him exactly where I wanted him.
He reached for me, frantic, desperate to pull me back to him.
But I stood, tightening the robe around me again, covering myself.
The look on his face — heartbreak, confusion, need — was almost enough to make me falter.Almost.
"You don't get all of me," I said quietly."Not anymore."
I turned and walked out, leaving him sprawled naked and ruined on the bed.
Leaving him to choke on the same emptiness he had once left me with.