🕰️Welcome🕰️

You took another step.

Then suddenly a vision tore through you.

There was no warning, no time to brace yourself. 

The dining room vanished in an instant, replaced by a rush of red and noise that pressed in from every direction. The walls warped and bowed inward, the air thickening as if the house itself were closing around you. Dark vines crept along the walls and ceiling, winding through cracks that hadn’t been there a second ago, pulsing like they were alive. 

You heard screaming that didn’t sound like it was coming from the children at all, and beneath it, beneath everything, was Henry’s voice. Not the calm one you knew, but something deeper, distorted, monstrous, reverberating through your skull as if it didn’t belong to a man anymore.

Your chest started to heave, your eyes growing wide at the horror in front of you.

The air felt wrong, too thick to pull in properly, every breath shallow as the vision pressed tighter around you. 

Your lungs burned as you tried to inhale, panic blooming fast and uncontrollable, your heart pounding hard enough that you could feel it in your throat. The screaming faded in and out, replaced by that deep, distorted sound of Henry’s voice reverberating through the red, the vines tightening their grip along the walls as if they were responding to him.

Then the dining room slammed back into place.

The chandelier was still overhead. The table was still there. The children were still sitting in their chairs, staring at you with puzzled expressions on their faces.

Then your knees buckled.

Your hands went slack and the plates slipped from your grip. The pie hit the floor first, porcelain shattering loudly as it broke apart, followed by the brownies a split second later, the dish cracking as chocolate scattered across the wood. 

Cream splashed up against the table legs and across your shoes, banana slices sliding outward as chairs scraped back in alarm.

You fell with the sound.

Your palm struck the floor hard, straight into the broken glass. Blood spread across the mess beneath you. Your chest kept heaving, breath catching no matter how hard you tried to pull it back under control.

The room erupted with noise.

The children shouted and cried, half-standing, half-frozen, eyes locked on the blood spreading across the floor and soaking into the hem of your dress. Someone backed into a chair. Someone else covered their mouth.

You barely heard them.

Your vision swam as you stared at your hand, red slick against white shards and pale cream.

This wasn’t something that happened to you. You didn’t collapse. You didn’t lose control like this.

Henry was beside you almost immediately.

He knelt and took your wrist, steadying you as he lifted your injured hand to inspect it. Blood streaked his fingers as he turned your palm slightly, his touch firm in a way that made your stomach twist.

“Sweetheart,” he said calmly, his voice back to normal now, as if nothing had happened at all, “are you alright?”

Your chest still rose and fell too fast as you shook your head. 

“I couldn’t breathe,” you said, the words coming out uneven. 

“I saw something. I heard you.”

Henry’s blue eyes searched your face. “You panicked,” he said evenly. “That’s all.”

“No,” you said, shaking your head, trying again to pull your hand back. “It wasn’t like that. I heard you. I-”

His grip tightened just slightly.

Around you, the children shifted and murmured, voices overlapping in a confused, uneven way, none of them quite sure what they were supposed to do. Someone whispered your name like it might fix things. Another asked if you were hurt, the question small and uncertain. A few of them stood frozen in place, hands gripping chair backs or the edge of the table, eyes flicking between your bleeding hand and Henry’s face, searching for reassurance and not finding it.

Holly edged forward despite herself. She looked torn, like she knew she wasn’t supposed to move but couldn’t stop. “But Mrs. WhatsIt,” she said, her voice thin and insistent, “your hand-”

Henry looked up.

The shift was immediate.

The room didn’t go silent so much as it tightened, the noise thinning out as if it had been pulled back all at once. The children stilled where they were, shoulders drawn in, watching him carefully.

“That’s enough,” he said. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t sound angry, just firm in a way that left no room to push back. “Everyone back to your rooms.”

No one moved at first.

They looked at you again, then at him, hesitation written all over their faces. One of them wiped at their eyes. Another took a half-step toward you and stopped.

“Now,” Henry added, the word heavier this time, settling into the room.

They moved then.

Slowly, carefully, like they were afraid of making things worse. They stepped around the broken plates and smeared cream, around the dark streaks of blood on the floor. A few of them kept looking back, expressions tight and uncertain, as if they were afraid something else might happen the moment they turned away.

Holly lingered longer than the others. She hovered near the doorway, twisting her hands together, her face drawn with worry. 

“Holly,” Henry repeated, his piercing eyes still on you.

The young girl flinched at the sound of her name, then looked back at you one last time, eyes shining and uncertain, before finally turning and following the others down the hall.

When the last set of footsteps faded, the house felt different like it had closed in on itself.

Henry turned back to you.

Your breathing was still uneven, chest rising and falling too fast, the sting in your hand sharp where he held it.

Up close, you could see the change in him more clearly now. 

His brows were drawn together, not in anger exactly, but in concentration, like he was working through something he hadn’t planned for. The calm was still there, settled into his posture, but it felt tighter, held in place by effort.

He looked down at your hand, at the blood slicking his fingers, and something flickered across his face too quickly to name. His grip adjusted slightly, not gentler, just more secure, as if he didn’t trust you not to slip away if he loosened it.

“You’re shaking,” he said quietly.

“I couldn’t breathe,” you repeated, the words coming out thin. “I thought I was going to pass out.”

Henry’s jaw tightened. He lifted his gaze back to your face, eyes searching, assessing, his expression closed off in a way that made your stomach drop.

“You didn’t see anything,” he said evenly. “You scared yourself.”

You shook your head, frustration bleeding into fear. “You keep saying that like I imagined it.”

His eyebrows drew together, the crease between them deepening as irritation finally broke through the calm he’d been holding onto. A dark curl slipped loose from where it had been neatly kept, falling forward against his forehead as he leaned closer.

“I won’t have you upsetting them,” he said, his voice tighter now, edged with something unmistakably irritated. “And I won’t have you doing this to yourself.”

“They were scared,” you said. “Holly was crying.”

“That will stop,” he replied immediately, too fast, his eyes flicking toward the hallway before snapping back to you. “This won’t, if you keep pulling at it.”

You swallowed. “I didn’t ask for this.”

Henry stepped closer, close enough that there was no space left to retreat into. The warmth of him was unavoidable now. His free hand came up, fingers closing around your arm, firmer than before, anchoring you where you stood.

“You don’t need to ask, love,” he said, low. “You just need to stop.”

Your chest tightened. “And if I can’t?”

His mouth pressed into a hard line, the muscle in his jaw jumping as his brows knit even tighter. That loose curl fell further, shadowing his eyes as something dark and impatient moved there.

For a moment, he said nothing.

His grip tightened as if he’d already made up his mind.

“I’ll make sure you do,” he said.

He didn’t give you time to react.

His grip shifted suddenly, releasing your arm only to catch you around the waist as he lifted you clean off the floor and swung you over his shoulder. 

The abrupt movement knocked a sharp yelp out of you, your hands clutching at his shirt as the world tipped sideways.

“Henry-”

He ignored your protests as he turned away from the room, his grip shifting just enough to keep you steady against him as he started up the stairs. 

You tried to speak again, but the words caught somewhere in your chest as he continued upward. 

It felt like this was something he had already decided on as he carried you, like the question you’d asked downstairs had only confirmed it rather than caused it.

At the top of the stairs, he nudged the bedroom door open with his shoulder and stepped inside without slowing down.

He set you down on the bed a moment later, firmly enough that the mattress dipped beneath you and your breath hitched as you braced yourself on your hands.

Your chest was still rising too fast as you looked up at him, your palm throbbing where it pressed into the sheets.

Up close, you could see how tight his expression was now, his brows drawn together, his jaw set, as he looked down at you like he was holding something back rather than letting it go.

You shook your head, anger finally cutting through the fear. 

“I don’t know what’s happening,” you spoke, your voice sharper now. “I was standing there one second and the next I couldn’t breathe, and everything went wrong, and you just keep telling me to stop like that explains anything.”

Henry’s jaw tightened at that. 

He took a step closer, then another, until he was right there, close enough that you could feel the heat of him again. His eyes flicked briefly to your hand, the blood smeared across your palm and dried along your fingers, then back to your face.

“You’re spiraling,” he said, his voice tight now, irritation breaking through. “And you’re letting it turn into something it doesn’t need to be.”

“That’s not fair,” you shot back. “I didn’t imagine it. I saw something, and you won’t even let me talk about it.”

His brows knit harder, the crease between them deepening as that loose curl fell further across his forehead. 

“Because talking about it makes it worse,” he stated calmly. “For you. For all of us.”

“You don’t get to decide that,” you sneered. “I’m the one who’s bleeding.”

The words hung between you.

Henry’s gaze dropped again to your hand, still red, still shaking slightly, then lifted back to your face. 

Something dark moved through his expression, frustration mixing with something more volatile.

“You don’t stop,” he said, low. “Even when I’m trying to help you.”

“Then help me,” you pleaded. “Don’t just tell me to forget it.”

That did it.

He moved in close, one hand coming up to your jaw, fingers firm but not painful, forcing you to look at him. His breathing wasn’t as even anymore, his control slipping at the edges.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said.

“Like what?” you replied, your breath still uneven.

“Like you don’t trust me.”

“Right now, I don’t,” you crossed your arms.

The silence that followed was heavy.

Then he crashed his lips against yours.

You let out a small moan in surprise, the sound slipping out before you could stop it, and despite yourself you melted into the kiss, your body giving in even as your thoughts lagged behind. 

You felt the shift immediately, the way his mouth curved just slightly against yours, a brief grin pressed into the kiss like he’d been waiting for you to do exactly that.

“There,” he murmured against your lips, barely pulling back. “That’s better.”

You swallowed, your forehead brushing his as you breathed. “I’m still upset,” you muttered, even as you stayed right where you were.

“I know,” he replied, like it didn’t matter as much as it should have.

His hand slid from your jaw to your wrist then, slower now, his thumb brushing near the cut as if he’d only just remembered it. Your hand still throbbed where the glass had caught you, sticky and sore, and you hissed softly without meaning to.

His grip gentled slightly. “I’ll take care of it later,” he said, pressing a kiss on your hand. “You don’t need to worry about that right now.”

You looked at him, confusion still sitting heavy in your chest. “You’re just pretending nothing happened.”

“I’m trying to keep you from dwelling on it,” he smiled, his voice low again. “You don’t need to sit with things that only upset you, dear.”

The pet name made your breath hitch.

He leaned in again, kissing you once more, slower this time, like he was settling something rather than starting it. “I’ll make you forget about this,” he added quietly. 

And the part that scared you most was how easily your body seemed willing to let him.

He didn’t give you much time to sit with that realization.

He kissed you again, more firmly this time, his hand steady at your wrist as he leaned into you. 

The bed dipped beneath his weight as he shifted closer, the space between you disappearing as he pressed you back against the mattress.

You sucked in a breath against his mouth, fingers curling into the fabric at his shoulder as his weight settled over you. He was careful of your injured hand, guiding it aside as he adjusted, but the rest of him stayed close.

The closeness made your head feel light, the rest of the room fading out as his mouth stayed on yours. Your frustration blurred further with every second, replaced by a warmth that settled low and made it harder to think straight.

Henry shifted back just enough to look at you, his eyes dropping to where his hands had already found the fabric of your dress. He didn’t say anything as his fingers slid under the hem and began lifting it up.

The fabric skimmed up your legs, exposing more skin with every inch, and you felt shivers down your spine when the cool air met your bare skin.

You watched him as the dress was pulled over you, your chest rising a little faster as it came free and was tossed aside. 

The hungry look in his eyes made your stomach twist, making you grow wet as you shifted beneath him, suddenly very aware of how exposed you were since you weren’t wearing anything underneath.

Henry straightened up and slipped out of his blazer, laying it neatly over the armchair beside the bed. He then took off his glasses next and set them carefully on top of the nightstand before pulling his shirt over his head and setting it aside just as neatly.

You watched him the entire time.

You never got used to how beautiful he was.

His hair was slightly mussed now, that loose curl still out of place, his brows drawn just enough to give him that focused look that always made your stomach flip. Without the glasses, his blue eyes looked sharper somehow, more intent as they settled on you again.

He moved closer, slow enough that you had time to notice it, time to feel the way the air shifted between you. 

Then he leaned down, angling his head just enough that his mouth brushed past your ear, his breath warm as it fanned across your skin.

“You’re doing that thing,” he murmured, his voice low and close. “The way you look at me when you’re trying to decide whether to give in.”

Your breath stuttered at the sound of it, the words sinking in deeper than they should have. 

You shifted beneath him without thinking, your thighs pressing together as a soft, broken sound slipped out of you before you could stop it.

Henry noticed immediately.

His mouth curved faintly, satisfied, as he stayed right there by your ear. “There it is,” he said quietly. 

“You’re not as upset as you pretend to be.”

You whined under your breath, frustrated with yourself, with him, with how easily he got this reaction out of you. 

Your body felt warm all over now, restless, your thoughts blurring the longer he stayed that close.

He slowly unbuttoned his slacks, releasing his already hard cock.

Your mouth went dry and you swallowed hard at the sight.

“That look,” his voice was low and satisfied as he stroked himself. “You’re not even trying to hide it, are you, darling?”

You rubbed your thighs together again, letting out a soft moan as you looked away for half a second before he caught your chin, tilting your face back toward him.

“Don’t,” he said quietly, tracing a featherlight touch along your jaw. “I want you right here, sweetheart,”

His hands then spread your legs so that your glistening pussy was on display for him.

His gaze lingered on you like he was taking his time committing the sight to memory. His mouth curved just slightly as he leaned closer again.

“You look perfect like this,” he said quietly, his voice steady. “You don’t have to think about what you saw right now.”

His hands slid to your hips as he lined himself with your wet entrance.

Your breath came out shaky.

“Just stay with me,” he murmured. “Let me take care of it.”

He finally pushed inside you, his cock stretching you, making you whine and dig your nails into his back, the pain from your bleeding hand still slightly there.

“That’s it,” he groaned quietly, voice right by your ear now. “I’ve got you.”

You whimpered again, caught between frustration and need, your hips instinctively seeking him as he stayed there, instead of rushing. His hands stayed firm at your sides, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

“Breathe,” he murmured. “You’re okay. Just focus on me.”

His mouth brushed along your jaw, then your ear, his tone softening even as the tension stayed tight between you. 

“You don’t need to think,” he added. “I’ll do that for you.”

Your pussy throbbed at his words and with that he started to move, maintaining a steady pace.

A faint sheen of sweat had already formed at his hairline, catching the light as he looked down at you, focused and intent. That loose curl clung to his forehead now, his jaw tight, his breathing heavier than before but still controlled.

“You’re doing so good,” he praised, as he withdrew half of his length, and shoved into you again.

You whined softly, overwhelmed and flushed, your body completely tuned into the rhythm he set.

He brought one of his hands down to your pussy and circled your clit with his thumb, putting more pressure each time he circled making your back arch.

Then he started to thrust into you at a faster pace making your mouth contort into an o shape.

“Have you forgotten already?” he said, his voice lower now. “Downstairs. The mess you made. The way you stared at me like I was a monster,”

The words cut deeper this time, slicing through the haze instead of skirting around it. 

Your breath hitched, emotion surging up fast and hot as your chest tightened, tears burning behind your eyes from the pleasure.

His forearms caged your head in, as his hips slapped against yours with wet smacks.

“You don’t get to look at me like that,” he continued, his tone controlled but unmistakably cruel. “Not after everything I give you. Not after I calm you down.”

The sounds of your slickness and of your panting filled the air.

“Henry-” you practically screamed as his tip kept hitting your g-spot.

Your thoughts scattered, the room tilting as the pressure built, too much to hold onto at once. The vision flickered at the edges of your mind, already slipping, like it couldn’t survive under his voice.

“There,” he murmured, softer again, almost pleased as your focus wavered. “That’s better.”

Henry groaned with pleasure as he felt you flutter around him.

Your breathing turned ragged as everything blurred together. The vision downstairs cracked then, the sharp edges dulling, the images smearing until they didn’t quite make sense anymore.

Henry continued his fast thrusts as your climax hit, your cunt squelching around his cock, making you see stars.

“Sweetheart,” he breathed, the edge finally gone from his voice, replaced by something heavier and satisfied.

You clung to him, your breathing slowing as everything settled, your body warm and spent beneath him. 

He stayed buried in you for a moment longer, his hand smoothing along your side like he was making sure you were still with him.

“That’s it,” he said quietly. “I’ve got you.”

By the time he finally pulled out of you, the room felt hazy in the aftermath. 

Your thoughts were slow, softened around the edges, and when you tried to reach for what had happened earlier, it slipped away just out of grasp.

Henry pressed a kiss to your temple making you smile. 

“Rest, my dear,” he gave you a smile. “I’ll clean you up.”

The house stutters like a skipped heartbeat.

Lights flare white—then yellow—then rot into red veins crawling up the walls. The stairs ahead of you stretch, bend, correct themselves. Reality can’t decide what it wants to be, and neither can he.

Max’s fingers dig into your wrist. “Don’t look at him,” she says, breath ragged. “It’s not him. It’s—”

Henry steps into view.

White shirt first. Clean. Almost gentle.

Then the colors glitch—fabric darkening, posture sharpening, smile thinning into something knowing.

Then Vecna bleeds through him, bones and shadow and power crawling over familiar skin.

He flickers between all of them as he walks down the stairs, each step deliberate, unhurried. Like he knows you won’t run.

You can feel him inside your head, not like an invasion—like a door that was never locked.

There you are.

Your heart stutters. Not fear. Recognition.

“Keep moving,” Max says, tugging you back. “Please.”

Henry stops halfway down.

The air tightens. Pressure blooms behind your eyes.

“Get out,” he says.

The words hit Max before they hit the walls.

She slams back, lifted off her feet, pinned hard against the wallpaper as if the house itself has turned on her. She gasps, palms scrabbling uselessly.

“Henry—!” you cry.

His eyes snap to you.

Not Vecna’s hollow glare. Not Mr. What’s-It’s cold amusement.

Henry’s.

And when he looks at you, the pressure eases—just for you.

“Don’t say my name like that,” he murmurs. “Not when you’re trying to leave.”

Your knees weaken. Max is shouting something—your name, maybe—but it all fades under the hum of him. His power coils, warm and suffocating, curling around your spine like a possessive hand.

“She doesn’t get to take you from me.”

The world tilts.

You don’t remember falling—only waking to the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek.

The blue house breathes.

Its walls glow faintly, veins of psychic light pulsing in time with his heartbeat. Henry carries you as if you weigh nothing, one arm firm around your back, the other hooked beneath your knees. His grip isn’t tight—but there’s no question you couldn’t get away.

When he sets you down, it’s on the edge of the old bed. His hands linger a second too long.

“You came back,” he says quietly.

“I never left,” you answer. Your voice sounds strange—thick, like the words are being pulled from you instead of spoken. “I’m still here. With you.”

His fingers lift your chin. Not rough. Commanding.

“Say it again.”

“With you.”

The house shivers.

He steps closer, close enough that your knees part instinctively to let him stand between them. His presence crowds the air, heat rolling off him in waves. You can feel the buzz of his power right under your skin, responding to your breath, your pulse.

“You don’t flinch anymore,” he observes. “You used to.”

“I learned,” you whisper. “You don’t hurt what’s yours.”

A smile curls slow and dangerous across his mouth.

“That’s right.”

His hand slides to your waist, fingers splaying like he’s memorizing you. The touch isn’t explicit—just intimate, deliberate. Possessive. His thumb presses lightly, anchoring you, reminding you exactly where you are.

“Max thinks she can save you,” he murmurs near your ear. “She thinks love is escape.”

His breath ghosts your skin. You shiver.

“But you,” he continues, voice dropping, darker now. “You understand me.”

Your hands curl in his shirt, knuckles brushing warm skin beneath the fabric. Electricity snaps between you, sharp and dizzying.

“I see all of you,” you say. “Even the parts you pretend not to be.”

His control slips—just a fraction.

The lights flare. The house groans.

His forehead rests against yours, tension coiled tight as a drawn wire. His grip at your waist tightens, pulling you flush against him, your breath catching at the contact. Nothing graphic—just too close, too charged, too much.

“You should be afraid of me,” he says.

“I’m not.”

A beat. Then his mouth brushes your jaw—barely there, a promise rather than a kiss. Your pulse spikes, heat pooling low and sharp, and he feels it. Of course he does.

His smile turns wicked.

“Good,” Henry whispers. “Because I don’t share what belongs to me.”

Outside, thunder cracks.

Inside, his power wraps around you like a vow—and you let it.

The blue house never sleeps.

It hums—low, constant—like it’s listening.

Henry stands in front of you, close enough that your knees brush his thighs, close enough that every breath you take feels borrowed. The air between you is thick, electric, waiting for permission to break.

“You felt it too,” he says quietly. “Didn’t you?”

His hand lifts, stopping just short of touching you—hovering at your throat, fingers trembling with restraint. Power crackles beneath his skin, visible now, thin veins of light tracing up his wrist.

“When I took you,” he continues, eyes darkening, “the way you answered.”

Your pulse jumps.

“You didn’t fight,” he murmurs. “You leaned into it.”

His thumb finally presses to your throat—not choking, not cruel—just enough to feel your heartbeat stutter under his touch. His power responds instantly, the house shuddering like it approves.

“Henry,” you breathe.

His name is a trigger.

The restraint snaps.

He pulls you forward by the waist, hard enough that you stumble into him, your body fitting against his like it was always meant to. His other hand slides into your hair, tilting your head back with practiced ease.

“This,” he says, voice low and dangerous, “is what you do to me.”

Then his mouth is on yours.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not rushed either—slow, claiming, his kiss deepening as if he’s testing how much you’ll give him. His power surges with it, heat blooming through your chest, down your spine, curling tight and insistent low in your body.

You gasp into his mouth, fingers gripping his shirt as he presses closer, his thigh sliding deliberately between yours. The pressure makes your breath hitch, your body reacting before your mind can catch up.

He feels it.

Of course he does.

A dark sound leaves his throat—satisfied, possessive.

“Look at you,” he murmurs against your mouth, breaking the kiss only to drag his lips down your jaw, your neck. “So responsive. Every time.”

His mouth lingers there, kisses slow and intentional, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver. His hand tightens at your waist, guiding your hips without asking.

You move with him.

Grinding—not frantic, not desperate—controlled. Measured. Each shift of his body sends sparks through you, his power amplifying every sensation until it feels overwhelming.

“You belong here,” he whispers into your skin. “With me. Exactly like this.”

Your hands slide up his shoulders, nails digging in as the heat coils tighter, sharper. He lifts you effortlessly, setting you back against the edge of the bed, positioning himself between your legs again.

The house pulses.

“You feel how easy this is?” he asks, one hand braced beside you, the other resting firmly on your thigh. “How naturally you let me lead?”

His fingers trace higher—not crossing any lines—but the implication is enough to make your breath stutter. His power flares in response, invisible pressure pinning you in place, not painful—commanding.

“Stay,” he says softly.

Your body obeys before you can think.

A slow smile spreads across his face.

“There it is,” he murmurs. “That trust.”

He leans in again, forehead pressing to yours, breath warm, intoxicating. His thigh shifts, deliberate, grounding you while his power hums through the space like a living thing.

“You don’t need to run,” he says. “You don’t need saving.”

His mouth brushes your lips again—lighter this time, teasing, controlled. “You need someone strong enough to hold you when the world breaks.”

Your hands fist in his shirt.

“I choose you,” you whisper.

The house thrums.

His control slips for half a second—enough for his power to flare bright, shadows crawling up the walls as his grip tightens, possessive, certain.

“Say it like you mean it,” he demands.

“I’m yours.”

That does it.

He kisses you again—deep, claiming—his power wrapping around you like a vow, like a cage you don’t want to escape. The world outside the blue house doesn’t matter.

Only this.

Only him.

Henry always trusted his child’s instincts and he doesn’t treat her like she’s fragile. He hasn’t since she was a baby. That’s why he lets her wander the house freely.

If she falls, he would soothe her quietly, maybe soft words filled with reassurance. He would go back later to the spot that it happened and fix whatever caused it. Loose stair or cracked floorboard, no matter what he would try his best for it to not happen again. If she made a mess, he would quickly suppress any feelings of frustration or anger and help his daughter clean it up.

He believes responsibility is taught, not demanded.

Sometimes before bed when she’s feeling needy or upset, he’ll read her stories, whether they’re old books, poetry or fantasy related things. The one thing he pivots away from is past stories or experiences, about himself. He doesn’t want to open up to his daughter just yet.

As every season passes and changes, the weather does too, of course. Henry is very much used to the coldness that lingers in the house and finds comfort in it but when his daughter complains about the house being too cold that’s when he trades his comfort for hers.

He turns up the temperature in the house and smiles softly in content when his daughter sleeps comfortably and peacefully in bed without shivering.

Henry is internally terrified of anyone ever hurting his sweet, ambitious child. Anyone that ever potentially would or has would be permanently etched in his mind. He would stop at nothing to destroy the town before letting harm come anywhere near her.