soulfinder...

You peek into the oven and smile to yourself as the smell of mellow herbs takes over the kitchen. The scent is familiar, reminding you of home: the meal the kind you make when you want to feel close to someone again.

The past few months have been hard. Since four rifts cracked open through Hawkins, everything has felt off. Steve tries, he really does, but he's distant in a way people get when they don't know how to talk about grief without drowning in it. You don't blame him, but you miss your fiancé. 

You miss how things used to be between the two of you.

Your fingers wrapping around a lemon, you bring its bright yellow peel to meet the sharp ridges of a zester. The fine curls of peel stick to your skin, yet as you hear the front door opening and closing and rush to clean your hands in your apron, you don't worry about the way the fabric would smell like citrus for days to come.

"I'm in the kitchen," you call, barely managing to bite down the soft excitement in your voice. You have missed this: soft, domestic moments like these. There not to impress, but to mend.

As he steps into the kitchen, eyes twinkling as they meet yours, it's a touch of confusion that travels through you. 

A touch of uncertainty as your lips part and a knit forms between your brows.

"Smells heavenly," he murmurs as he closes his distance to you. His fingers fall to the small of your back to lead you closer to him, his other hand moving to cradle your cheek.

As the name passes your lips, your voice is barely louder than a whisper. "Henry."

Confused—though why would you be?

His voice is warm with amusement as he tilts his head. "Were you expecting someone else?"

Were you?

"No," you chuckle. "No, I just—" You glance at the clock above the fridge. "What time will he be—"

"What time will who be?"

"Steve," you manage, yet suddenly the name tastes foreign on your tongue. Wrong, like your mouth has forgotten how to form the sound.

"Steve?" Henry's thumb brushes against your cheek, soothing. "Sweetheart, that was before."

Before?

"Before I reminded you that you don't need to be lonely."

The word rings through you like a fracture untreated.

You had been lonely. 

The quiet of the house when Steve had been gone had been deafening. You had sat in front of a clock, counting down the hours, minutes, seconds until he'd be back, only for the void between the two of you to greet you in the place of your fiancé. 

Until he had filled it.

Subtle and slow, all while as certain as the rising sun, filling in the gaps of emptiness Steve had left behind.

As warm and comforting. 

As right, all of it leading to this moment: to you being home, with Henry. 

"Of course," a breath passes your lips and you shake your head with a chuckle. "I'm sorry, Henry, I don't know how I—"

His thumb moving to brush against your bottom lip silences you down. "Shh, darling. It's alright. You always mix timelines when you're tired."

"I do, don't I?" Your laugh is a breathless sound, and Henry smiles as if you had said something he had heard a thousand times before.

"It's alright," he repeats, his hand on your cheek leading you closer to him until his lips are brushing against yours.

So soft, so warm.

The kiss he guides you into so sweet. Thick with adoration and love, and the sense of belonging.

"There you are," he chuckles against your lips as you pull apart, his forehead moving to lean against yours. "My perfect wife."

"Yours," you beam, a laugh slipping from your lips as he steals a kiss and another from you. "You're distracting me, you know?"

"What could possibly be more important than this?" He chuckles. "Us."

"The food, for one," you tease. "I have to check on it, Henry."

"Then go," he murmurs, a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "I'll set the table."

Your smile comes easy to you as you yank open the oven door and wave your hand to dissolve the steam. 

The chicken is golden brown and your stomach rumbles as you pull the dish out, careful to not burn yourself. Rosemary needles cling to the skin of the chicken, glossy with butter, the scent thick in the air, comforting. 

The thought that passes through you is fleeting: the dish is cooked to perfection, and yet it couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes since you'd slid it in. 

A knit forms between your brows, and you turn to glance at the clock above the fridge. 

It reads the same as it had the last time you'd checked it. The time before then, and the time before then. 

"Don't do that."

You turn, your lips parted. "What?"

"Look for reasons to get upset." His voice is so soft, so gentle. His fingers land on your waist to trace mindless patterns on your skin through the fabric. "I built this. For us—remember?—so that you wouldn’t have to worry anymore."

Built. 

The word lands heavy.

"Our life, together," he hums. "It doesn’t matter how you ended up here. It doesn’t matter what your life looked like before this. What matters is that you’re here." His hand lands on your chin as he makes you look at him. "Where you belong. Safe."

His finger brushes over your cheek, wiping away a tear you didn't realize you had shedded.

"You do that sometimes," he hums. "When you’re close to remembering things you don’t need."

"Henry—"

He kisses you.

Not slow this time. Not indulgent. The kiss is firm, consuming, his hand sliding to the back of your neck as if to anchor you in place.

Your doubt dissolves into nothingness, your protests dying down on your lips as he seems to breathe life back into you.

When he pulls back, your thoughts feel smoothed. Like all their rough edges have been carefully sanded down, sharp rocks turned into pebbles by the waves.

"There," he murmurs, his thumb brushing against your bottom lip. "That's better."

"Better," you echo him, breathless. 

His smile is satisfied as he tilts his head ever so slightly, something darker—not dangerous—waking up in his eyes. "What do you say—," he steals a kiss from your lips, "we forget about dinner for now?"

"Won't it cool down?"

"You know that it won't," he chuckles as his hand slips into yours, the warmth of his skin against yours grounding.

It is the hand of which every mole and scar you have learned. The hand that has caressed you so many times before. 

The hand that now leads you into your shared bedroom, laughs passing both of your lips as you stumble into the room. Your kiss is sloppy, your lips too eager to pause for a breath, and it is only to guide you onto the bed that Henry breaks the touch between the two of you.

"God, you're beautiful," he murmurs with a shake of his head. "I can't believe you're mine."

"You better believe it," you beam as his fingers unbuckle his belt and unzip his pants. As he climbs on top of you, his hand caressing your cheek. 

And he sinks in. 

"Henry—" The breath that passes your lips is thick with lust, deep with love. "God."

"That's it, sweetheart," he breathes out against your lips. "Feel it all for me."

You do.

You feel the warm and soft caress of the sheets against your skin. The subtle bounce of the mattress as Henry slides out, only to ease back in.

You feel each inch of him filling you up, stretching you open in a way that feels nothing short of meant to be. As if you are made for each other: to find pleasure from the arms of one another.

No.

Purpose.

"There you go—"

"Henry—"

"You're perfect," he nuzzles your cheek with his nose, his voice so warm it sends shivers down your spine. "My perfect wife."

"Yours."

"Say that again."

"I'm yours, Henry," you breathe out as he picks up the pace. He's brushing against your cervix by each gentle thrust, the man drinking up every moan and breath slipping from your glossy lips. "I belong to you."

The words surface from somewhere deep down, passing your lips with such ease that makes you feel like you have spoken them a thousand fold.

And each time you have meant them.

Haven't you?

"Stay with me," he coos against your lips, his hand on your cheek guiding you to look at him. "Focus, darling. On this—," he slides out of you, just to bottom out: drawing a warm breath for a name from your lips. 

The sound rings wrong in your ears, and yet it's not until you see Henry's eyes darken that you understand.

It's not Henry's name you had spoken.

"He abandoned you," he murmurs, and despite the darkness in his eyes, his voice remains soft and warm as he continues easing in and out, the pleasure of each thrust rippling through you. "When you needed him the most, you became invisible to him. And the more you begged and the more you pleaded, the more distance he took, until Steve—" Henry's hand on your jaw guides you to look at him. "Left."

Your brows furrow. "Steve left?"

"Steve left you." His eyes remain soft. "There's nothing for you out there, darling. All that you have—," his lips brush against yours. "All that you are is right here, with me. I saved you."

"Henry—"

"This is where you belong," his voice takes a nearly hypnotic quality. "Safe. Protected. Loved and adored."

It is a touch of warmth that wakes up inside you from his words, and yet as you shake your head, it is tears that well in your eyes. "But he loved me."

"No, darling. But I do. I do. And unlike him—" he coos against your lips as he eases into you once more. "I will never leave you. I will never let anything come between us."

"Henry—"

"Not even you," he murmurs as he pulls out of you, just to flip you over on the bed. 

You bounce on the mattress, a gasp passing your lips as his body pins you against the soft sheets. And with that, he sinks in from behind.

"Henry—"

"That's it, sweetheart," he purrs. "That's better. You feel every inch now, don't you?"

You do.

God, you do: the thick weight of him is filling you up in a way that makes the words echo through your clouded mind once more.

This is meant to be.

As he thrusts in you, you feel your grasp around your worries loosening. Around the doubt.

The fear.

The confusion.

"Henry," the name slips from your lips once more, thick with arousal. You can already feel it: your pleasure coiling up at the pit of your tummy. Your fingers wrap around the sheets as you look for something to hold onto.

Anything to ground you, only for his words to send you spiraling.

"Tell me."

You don't even blink before the words have slipped from your lips. "I belong to you."

"That's right, darling," he murmurs into your ear, his lips so warm and soft as they brush against your earlobe. "Stay with me. Belong to me."

"I do," you moan out. "Henry, I do—"

"I know," he chuckles. "I know, sweetheart. So let go. I got you." 

His voice is so gentle, so warm.

"I got you."

So soft as it weaves its tendrils around your mind. 

"Show me that you're mine, and mine alone. Mine to have, mine to keep. My wife."

God, please—

"Cum for me."

Your pleasure shoots through you, hot and blinding, and with that, you're sent crying out his name again and again like it's the only word you know.

No, it is the only word you know.

The only word that matters.

His lips are so gentle as they press kisses along your jawline. His voice is so soothing as he hushes you. "I got you, darling. That's it—"

"Henry—"

"I'm right here," he murmurs. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm here."

He guides you into his arms, and you breathe with him until your body remembers the rhythm without effort.

Until your chest is rising and falling with breaths, gentle and calm.

"That's it," Henry murmurs, lips pressing a kiss on your forehead. "Just rest."

You try, just as the thoughts try to resurface. A name. The food. The clock, and yet each thought comes apart before it fully forms.

Henry’s thumb traces mindless patterns along your arm. "You don’t need to think anymore," he says softly. "I’ll do that part for you." 

"I know," you whisper, and he smiles against your skin.

In the kitchen, the clock still reads the same.

It always will. 

Were you? "No," you chuckle. "No, I just—" You glance at the clock above the fridge. "What time will he be—" "What time will who be?" "Steve," you manage, yet suddenly the name tastes foreign on your tongue. Wrong, like your mouth has forgotten how to form the sound. "Steve?" Henry's thumb brushes against your cheek, soothing. "Sweetheart, that was before."

the drop i felt in my stomach, fuckkkk

"Stay with me," he coos against your lips, his hand on your cheek guiding you to look at him. "Focus, darling. On this—," he slides out of you, just to bottom out: drawing a warm breath for a name from your lips.  The sound rings wrong in your ears, and yet it's not until you see Henry's eyes darken that you understand. It's not Henry's name you had spoken.

ooooohhhh shit, things are about to get real (is it bad i want to make him mad???? punish me sir)

You bounce on the mattress, a gasp passing your lips as his body pins you against the soft sheets. And with that, he sinks in from behind. "Henry—" "That's it, sweetheart," he purrs. "That's better. You feel every inch now, don't you?"

excuSE ME SIR that is ILLEGAL

You try, just as the thoughts try to resurface. A name. The food. The clock, and yet each thought comes apart before it fully forms. Henry’s thumb traces mindless patterns along your arm. "You don’t need to think anymore," he says softly. "I’ll do that part for you." 

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.”

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.”

He cut you off with a hard shake. “You almost made it to the cave,” he muttered, voice dark, almost impressed in its coldness. “Almost.” He shouldered open the bedroom door and flung you inside, letting you stumble and sprawl across the thick rug. As you scrambled to your knees, breath rattling in your chest, you didn’t look back at him—you didn’t dare.

The door boomed closed. Henry was on you before you could stand, grabbing your upper arm, forcing you around to face him. You tried to twist away, shoving at his chest. He didn’t budge. The movement only seemed to amuse him, the corners of his lips curling in something dangerously close to a smirk.

“Fighting me?” he asked, voice soft and curious as if he were observing a wild animal, not a person. His hand slid up to your jaw, thumb digging into your cheek until your eyes watered. “You think that’s going to save you?”

You couldn’t help the shake in your voice. “Let me go. Please, I wasn’t—I was just—”

“Just what?” He pushed you gently backwards until your knees hit the edge of the bed and you collapsed onto it. His body loomed over you, all broad shoulders and cold, blue eyes. “You weren’t thinking. You don’t think. You react. You run.”

His hands were hot on your skin, one at your throat, not squeezing, just holding you down—reminding you how easy it would be if he decided to. The other traced your hairline, almost tender, fingers grabbing onto the back of your neck. “Do you have any idea what could have happened to you out there?” His voice dropped, suddenly rough. “You could have tripped in the dark, broken your neck. Or maybe someone else would have found you—someone who doesn’t care what happens to you at all. Not like I do.”

You closed your eyes, blinking back tears, trying to turn away. He tsked, gripping your chin, forcing you to look up at him. “No. Look at me. You need to understand this. I am the only reason you’re alive. The only reason you haven’t been hurt. I protect you—every day. And this is how you thank me?”

You squirmed again, pulling at his wrist, but he held you fast, his strength unyielding. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of crying, but your eyes burned, vision blurring.

He leaned closer, nose brushing yours, breath warm and steady, a sick intimacy in the way he hovered just above your lips. “You’re lucky I found you first,” he murmured, his voice suddenly honey-sweet, full of dangerous, false comfort. “You don’t realize how cruel the world can be. I do. I see what you’re too naïve to understand. You’d be dead without me.”

A tremor shook through you. You hated how your body reacted to his touch—how heat bloomed low in your belly even as your mind screamed to get away. Henry’s hand slid from your chin down to your throat, his thumb stroking over your pulse. “Do you want to be safe?” he whispered, tone coaxing, seductive. “Or do you want to risk everything, again and again, just to spite me?”

“I—I don’t—” Your voice failed you. The humiliation of being caught, the ache of his grip, the fear—it all twisted inside, making you dizzy.

Henry’s expression softened, but it wasn’t kind; it was predatory, almost pleased. “You can’t help yourself, can you?” He brushed his lips against your ear, voice barely more than a breath. “You need me. You don’t even know how much yet.”

Your body shivered beneath him, thighs pressed together, trying to make yourself smaller. He pressed you flat against the bed, his thigh between yours, forcing you open. “You’re so stubborn,” he said, almost fondly. “Always testing me. I have to teach you. Again and again. And you never learn.”

He paused, taking in the tears slipping down your cheeks, the defiance still burning in your gaze. His eyes flashed, something wicked behind the icy calm. “Maybe I haven’t been strict enough,” he murmured, thumb smearing a tear away with agonizing slowness. “Maybe you need to be reminded what happens when you forget who you belong to.”

You shook your head, words caught behind your teeth, but he only laughed, soft and cruel. “You want to run? Go ahead. See how far you get next time. But for now—” He shifted, pinning you harder, his weight a promise. “I guess I’ll just have to teach you properly.”

His voice was low, menacing, yet almost gentle. His grip never loosened, even as you writhed—just enough to show you still had some fire left. You tried to twist out from beneath him, but he used his weight, his presence, to force you down, breath coming fast and shallow against your ear.

He smiled, slow and cold. “Keep fighting, if you want. See how far it gets you. All you do is prove how much you need me.”

The mattress dipped under his knees, the world narrowed to his hands on your body, the sick pulse of arousal and dread mixing in your veins, his breath hot at your jaw, teeth grazing skin, voice a velvet threat:

“Let’s see if you learn this time.”

Henry’s hands moved with an infuriating slowness, heavy palms skating down your trembling body, mapping every inch as if memorizing the contours of your fear and stubbornness. His fingertips hooked under the elastic of your panties, dragging the thin fabric down your thighs. The backs of his knuckles grazed your skin, a touch both deliberate and dismissive—he wasn’t in a hurry, he wanted you to feel how casual this was for him, how completely in control.

The air was thick, hot with anticipation and the humiliation of being laid bare under his gaze. You tried to close your legs, but his knee wedged itself between them, forcing you open, exposing you to the cool air and his hungry, assessing stare. He sat back just enough to admire his handiwork, one hand braced by your hip, the other lazy and taunting, cupping the heat between your legs. He brushed his thumb idly over your clit, featherlight, barely there, making your whole body jerk involuntarily, a choked gasp slipping from your lips before you could stop it.

“Oh, look at you,” Henry murmured, voice syrupy with condescension. “Always so defiant until I’ve got you like this. You don’t even know what you want, do you?” He circled your clit again, almost a tease, watching the flush creep up your chest, the way your hips tried to arch up for more, desperate for any real friction.

Your hands fisted in the sheets, nails digging in, breath coming in tiny, ragged shivers. “Stop—please, Henry, just—”

He cut you off with a tut, bending over to press his mouth hot and close against your ear. “You want me to stop?” His fingers slid down, parting your folds, slicking themselves with your arousal as if to prove a point. “That’s not what your body says.” He rubbed slow, lazy circles over your clit, two fingers dipping down to tease your entrance, pressing in just enough to make your muscles clench around nothing. Every movement was calculated, designed to drive you mad with need while keeping you just out of reach.

He pressed a little harder, making you whimper, your hips rolling in spite of yourself, seeking more, begging for it. He grinned, voice low and pleased. “Look at you. I barely touch you and you’re already soaking. That’s what happens when you disobey—you make a mess and I have to clean it up.”

You tried to turn away, mortified, but he caught your chin, forcing you to face him, eyes sharp and demanding. “You want to come, don’t you?” His fingers stilled, just barely inside you, refusing to move until you answered.

You hesitated, shame warring with need, but your body answered for you—a needy buck of your hips, a strangled whine in your throat. Henry laughed, the sound dark and knowing. “I knew it. But you don’t get to come yet. Not until you mean it. Not until you’re sorry. Not until I believe you.”

He dragged his fingers back up, circling your clit with maddening patience, teasing but never giving enough. You squirmed beneath him, the pleasure too much and not enough, a sharp ache building inside you, heat pooling deep and urgent in your belly.

“Say it,” he commanded, voice velvet-wrapped steel. “Tell me you’re sorry. Like you mean it.”

You shook your head, biting your lip, the words stuck in your throat. He pressed a little harder, the pads of his fingers slipping over your clit in slow, lazy circles that made your thighs tremble. He leaned down, lips brushing your jaw, breath hot and ragged. “Don’t make me wait all night,” he warned, a mock patience in his voice that sent a cold thrill down your spine.

He pressed two fingers inside you without warning, knuckles deep, stretching you slow and deliberate, curling up to stroke that sensitive spot that made your whole body arch off the bed. Your mouth dropped open, a helpless moan pouring out, raw and desperate, your hips bucking up to meet his hand.

“Say it,” he repeated, thrusting his fingers slowly, almost carelessly, as if he could do this forever, as if your pleasure—or your torment—meant nothing to him except as a lesson. “Or I’ll stop. Right now. I’ll leave you like this, aching, desperate, until you learn to be good for me.”

Your pride fought back, stubborn, tears prickling at your eyes, but the pleasure was overwhelming, impossible to ignore. He shifted, pressing his thumb against your clit while his fingers fucked you slow and deep, pushing you closer and closer to the edge but never letting you fall.

“Please,” you gasped, voice breaking, body shaking with the effort to hold back, to not give him the satisfaction.

He tsked, shaking his head. “Not good enough. I want to hear you beg. I want to hear you mean it.”

You broke, the shame and need twisting together until you couldn’t tell them apart. “I’m sorry,” you choked out, voice raw, tears streaming down your cheeks. “I’m sorry, Henry, please, I’m sorry—”

He smiled, wicked and triumphant, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “That’s my girl.” His fingers sped up, thumb circling your clit with perfect pressure, drawing desperate, needy sounds from your lips. “Now come for me. Show me how sorry you are.”

The orgasm crashed over you, violent and overwhelming, your whole body seizing beneath him, cries echoing in the room, every nerve ending aflame with relief and humiliation. He held you through it, fingers milking every last tremor from your body, watching with dark, satisfied eyes as you fell apart for him.

He didn’t stop until you were boneless and gasping, the lesson burned into your skin. His hand finally left you, sliding up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing away the tears, his voice low and almost gentle.

“Maybe now you’ll think twice before running,” he murmured, a threat and a promise tangled together, as he leaned in to claim your mouth with his.

Henry’s hands slid from your jaw down to your collarbone, rough and unhurried, fingertips ghosting over sensitive skin as he pushed the straps of your dress from your shoulders. The fabric slipped down your arms, pooling at your waist, exposing trembling skin to the dim light. He caught your gaze, the ice in his blue eyes thawing into something heavier, more wounded than angry.

His palm flattened over your heart, thumb tracing a circle just above your breast. “You really wanted to leave me that badly?” he murmured, voice low, not harsh but laden with an ache that twisted in your gut. “You were going to run from me? After everything I do for you?”

You opened your mouth, but the words tangled with a shaky breath. Henry’s fingers found the clasp of your bra and undid it with a deft flick, letting the final scrap of modesty fall away. He nudged the dress the rest of the way off, his knuckles grazing your thighs, making your breath stutter.

He held you there, stripped bare and shivering, under the weight of his stare. “I’m not angry, darling. Not really.” He dipped his head, brushing his lips over the line of your jaw, warm breath feathering down your neck. “But it hurts. It hurts, knowing you’d rather risk yourself out there than stay with me. Am I really that awful?”

His question crawled beneath your skin. Tears welled up, blurring the world around his face, your throat tight. “No, Henry—no, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I just—” Your voice cracked, and you buried your face in the hard muscle of his shoulder, shame burning your cheeks.

He shushed you softly, hands soothing over your ribs. His body pressed into yours, heat and need and ownership all wrapped up in the way he handled you—unyielding, but never hurried. He sat back just enough to undo his own pants, pushing them down over his hips, cock heavy and flushed, the sight of it making your insides twist with nervous anticipation. He didn’t bother to take his shirt off, just let it hang open as he guided your legs apart, body slotted perfectly between them.

He leaned over you, chest brushing your nipples, the scratch of fabric against your bare skin sending a shiver up your spine. His hands framed your face, forcing you to look up at him. “You’re mine,” he said, soft and final, a statement of fact that demanded no answer. “Say it.”

You swallowed hard, tears spilling over, voice small and raw. “I’m yours, Henry. I’m sorry. I’m yours.”

He kissed you, slow and punishing, teeth scraping your bottom lip as his hips pressed forward. The thick head of his cock nudged against your entrance, slick and aching, your body already yielding from the rough tease he’d given you before. He slid into you in one long, deliberate thrust, filling you completely, stretching you open until your mouth dropped open on a shuddering gasp.

Henry’s breath was hot against your ear as he bottomed out, holding himself deep inside. “You feel that?” he whispered, moving his hips just enough to make you clench helplessly around him. “No one else will ever have you like this. No one else gets to see you fall apart. You’re mine, and you’ll never run from me again.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks, shame and relief warring inside you, body clinging to him as he started to move—slow, possessive thrusts, each one claiming you again and again. His hands roamed everywhere: cupping your breasts, gripping your waist, pinning your wrists above your head only to let go and cradle your face while he fucked you.

He kissed along your jaw, and you pressed your lips to his skin in a desperate apology, peppering kisses along his neck, across his throat, up to his cheek, whispering broken pleas between every gasp. “I’m sorry, Henry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it, please don’t let me go, please—” Your words were muffled against his throat, voice shaking with every thrust, every wet, needy moan.

He grunted softly, thrusts deepening, fucking you harder but never rough—just insistent, relentless, coaxing you toward the edge again. “That’s it,” he murmured, letting you sob into his neck, “say it again.”

Your lips brushed his jaw, his mouth, salty with your tears. “I’m sorry, Henry, I’m yours, I promise, I’m yours—” The words spilled out between kisses, each one more desperate as your body tightened around him, every muscle trembling, the pressure building again, impossibly sharp.

“Good girl,” he breathed, voice ragged. He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes searching your face, needing to see every quiver, every tear. “Come for me. Show me you mean it.”

You shattered for him, your whole body arching up, walls clenching tight around him as you cried out his name, sobbing into his mouth, legs trembling as the orgasm tore through you. Henry groaned, hips snapping forward, thrusts growing frantic as he spilled inside you, holding you so tight you couldn’t have run even if you wanted to.

He stayed like that, locked together, letting your bodies ride out every aftershock, his lips gentle on your damp cheeks. His hands softened, stroking your sides and kissing away the tears.

Slowly, carefully, he eased out of you and gathered you up, pulling you onto his lap, your face pressed into his chest. His arms wrapped around you, holding you secure and safe, rocking you gently while your breathing evened out. He pressed soft kisses onto your temple, voice a low rumble against your skin.

“It’s all right,” he whispered, thumb wiping the last tears from your cheeks. “I forgive you. You’re safe with me, always. I’m not letting you go. Never again.” He held you close, bodies tangled, the sharp edge of the lesson fading into a quiet, possessive warmth, his forgiveness settling over you as heavy and inescapable as his love.

everything: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005 @bookoffracturedescapes