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"You're staring again."
At first, Chrollo offered no response, appearing entirely unbothered by your biting words. He maintained a poised, rigid posture, his legs neatly crossed. Even with that damn book resting in his lap, his gaze remained locked onto you as if nothing else in the space existed.
"Go ahead. Take a good look." You barked a humorless laugh. "First, you slaughter my people for their eyes. Is this part two? Watching them rot while they're still in my head?"
His head tilted, allowing the moonlight streaming through the glass to highlight the line of his jaw before he at last replied:
"I've seen Kurta's eyes," he murmured. "Preserved in solution behind glass cases... dull things then." A pause. "But I wanted to see them when they're still alive and full of rage."
Keeping his gaze locked on yours, you leaned in and spat right at his shoe.
"You know, last night I dreamed that I killed you," you said, venom in your teeth.
His hand ceased its movement against the spine of the book, but that was the only sign you'd reached him. "And?" he asked softly. "How did it feel?"
"Like taking my first real breath in years," you whispered, tracing a slow line down your own neck before tightening your hand into a white-knuckled fist. "I shoved a fork through your neck—right here. Under the jaw, deep into the soft part. It went all the way up into your brain."
"Is that so?" His expression didn't flicker. "How did I go?"
You didn't look away from those hollow, dark eyes. "You gargled like a fish," you sneered. "Died staring at nothing. But even as light left those black holes of yours—you were smiling."
Chrollo didn't pull back. Instead, he let out a short, thoughtful hum, as if he were contemplating a particularly moving passage in his book. Slowly, he raised a hand, his long fingers trailing upward to the exact spot you'd pointed out.
He pressed his thumb into the soft tissue beneath his jaw, testing the pressure:
"The brain, you say?" he murmured, tilting his head back, exposing the vulnerability of his throat to the moonlight. "A messy way to go. But efficient, I suppose."
You hated how he looked genuinely fascinated when he said it.
The day everything ended, it started with smoke from burning homes when the Spiders came. By midday, the sky was a bruised, blooming orange, and the chorus of birds was drowned out by the sound of human screams.
You remember your uncle, trying to hide children under a floorboard. You remember when Feitan found them anyway. You remember a body dragged through the dirt by its hair — your cousin. You remember the indifferent look on Machi's face as she walked past. You remember one of them whistled. You remember your father on his knees, hands raised, trying to reason. You remember a bullet in his throat.
You remember the blood on your palms, the crunch under your knees when you crawled through the rubble. You remember your mother shoving you into a crawlspace under the floor. Her last words were "Don't make a sound."
You didn't.
Not when you heard her scream, blood soaked through the wooden boards above you. Not even when the voices laughed. You stayed silent until a hand ripped the boards free and hauled you into the harsh light. Your nails sank into his skin with a frantic, desperate determination. You fought with the raw ferocity of a trapped animal, biting and clawing at the cold hands that held you fast.
Chrollo didn't even flinch, his expression unwavering, as if he were carved from stone. There was a weight to the moment, then he said something you'll never forget:
"They say the Scarlet Eyes are most beautiful when filled with rage."
He didn't kill you. No—death would have been a mercy.
Instead, he kept you.
The first few days barely registered in your mind. A blurred image of tainted events and uncomfortable moments between you and your kidnapper. His hands were on the back of your head as he whispered how fond he was of you. You were raped to orgasm by him countless times until you passed out, and the squirting sprayed on the cock is so much that it seems like incontinence. Your body was covered with marks, bruises and purples, and you were still unconsciously saying "no".
So you give him no peace, you wake up every morning planning how to make his life as miserable as possible.
Some days you ignored him completely. On other days, you screamed, broke plates, and ripped your sheets apart.
But Chrollo never responded with anger, every act of rebellion was met with either serenity or interest. Even the time you spiked his tea with stolen cleaning chemicals from the bathroom, he didn't falter. He simply sipped the poisoned cup as if it were water, offering only a mild observation: "It's bitter."
You nearly tore your own hair out then—how could he be so unflinching, so calm? But you never stopped trying anything to provoke him into losing that awful, dead-eyed mask. You loathe him; no amount of admiration from behind a cage will make you forget what he is. And as long as you didn't give it, you still had power.
_
This place wasn't your room, it wasn't quite a cell either—the space was too refined for that kind of name. Polished stone floors reflected dim lamplight; cream-colored walls absorbed sound to keep your screams from ever escaping. A bookshelf stood against one wall that was updated weekly with texts from ancient philosophers to modern ethics dissertations, from Camus, Sartre, to a well-worn copy of "Being and Time." There was even luxury here, too—if luxury could be weaponized, soft bedding untouched by sleepless nights; fresh clothes folded neatly each morning.
And then the bulletproof glass wall. Beyond it stretched the city, a neon web sprawled across steel veins. From this height, high above streets where people moved like ants blinded by light, the world looked beautiful and utterly alien. Your home and your people were a world away. Distant, and forever lost.
Once, in a life before your freedom was confined to these four walls, you belonged to the trees. Now, you could barely recall how they smelled when rain fell on pine after summer heat.
"Good evening, dear."
Every day at precisely 7:00 PM, never a second late, Chrollo arrived.
You didn't bother to greet him. You pressed your forehead so hard against the glass that bruises bloomed there. The cold was real, at least. That, you could still feel. You loathed the clothes he provided; the polyester burned against your skin like nettles. You had torn the hems that the sleeves ripped at the seam earlier—anything to break the slick, suffocating texture. Still, you found yourself pausing at an odd time, your hand pressed lightly against your abdomen, as if something were stirring beneath your ribs.
"You've torn your clothes," he noted, gaze sweeping over the tattered fabric. He set the book on your nightstand, the new one this week. "Did they chafe that badly? I could have them bring cotton. Something softer, perhaps."
"I don't want anything from you."
He let out a soft sigh before turning toward the table, flipping open the book he'd brought—a habit that infuriated you even more. "This one is by a philosopher," he said, tone conversational. "He wrote that memory defines the soul more than the body does. You might like it."
"I don't want your books."
"You read them," he said, not looking up.
"Because there's nothing else to do."
"Still," he murmured, "you read them."
You hated that he was right. You hated that, on some level, he knew you needed the words, even if they came from him.
You turned away, pressing your palm to the glass. Below, the city's lights bled together in hazy constellations. It was a world you could see but not touch—mocking you every night. He then moved toward you, his reflection bleeding into yours on the glass, etched against the vibrant neon wash of the city.
"If you touch me, I swear I'll use the chair over there to test your skull's durability." You hissed.
Chrollo only chuckled softly, treating your violent promise like the outburst of a charmingly naive child. Undeterred, he closed the distance between you.
"I don't mind at all," he murmured, folding you into an unexpected embrace from behind, before reaching out to stroke your hair.
Your fingers twitched at your side, nails catching on a frayed sleeve you'd gnawed open. He tilted your head back with deliberate care, his thumb tracing the sharp line of your jaw before slowing just beneath your lip—brushing across it in a touch so light it could've been accidental. And your body caught between fight and flight, and you jerked back so sharply that he let go.
"You're consistent, at least," he remarked.
"Get off—" you started, but before you could move, he turned you with practiced ease until you were facing him.
His lips found your neck, exploring every inch while his hands roamed hungrily, desperate to feel the heat in your skin. You pushed against his shoulders, wrenching sideways with a snarl, breaking his hold just enough to slam your elbow back toward his ribs. Putting three frantic steps between you and him.
Your fist aimed straight for his temple, but Chrollo caught it easily in midair like plucking a falling leaf. His grip tightened, and the pain bloomed across knuckles and bones, a lock of his ink-black hair shifted from the motion; otherwise, he didn't flinch.
Your body locked—from knowing how easily this calm monster could break you without ever raising a hand in violence. With the last of your resolve, you tried to wrench away. "Stop-"
"Resistance is futile, my dear."
But Chrollo's grip was like iron, and he didn't yield as he reached out slowly, palm pressing flat against your ribcage, beneath polyester prison-garments, where your heart hammered like a caged bird trying to escape its ribs. Then with terrifying gentleness, he pivoted against you so cleanly it felt like the room had turned instead of him. The world spun once—lights, glass, the city smearing into color—and then your back met his chest for half a second, one arm hooking around your torso.
You kicked, twisted, tried to drop your weight, teeth bared as you thrashed like an animal caught in a snare. He turned you again, this time forcing your arms behind your back, one hand locking both wrists together; your wrists burned where his grip held firm.
"You're going to dislocate something."
"I don't care!" you snarled, voice breaking as you bucked against him.
"That," he said, tightening his hold just slightly, "is precisely the problem."
You tried to throw your weight sideways, backward, anywhere. That was when Chrollo forced you forward, guiding you down and away from the stone, toward the bed just behind you. The mattress dipped under your knees as he pushed you onto it, using the softer surface to break the fall. Your chest hit the bedding, air rushing out of you in a harsh gasp.
His weight fell on top of you, while one knee pressed into the mattress near your hip, anchoring you. His hand stayed firm between your shoulders, keeping your head from snapping forward.
"You're going to hurt yourself," he said again, voice still infuriatingly calm.
You screamed into the sheets. Tried to wrench your arms free even as your shoulders burned and your wrists screamed in protest. The struggle tore at something raw inside you, and for a few seconds, you didn't care what broke as long as something did.
Unwillingly, your movements lost their sharpness. Your breaths hitched, then stuttered, then came ragged and uneven against the mattress.
Chrollo didn't loosen his hold yet. He waited until you finally went still, your body could no longer keep up with your fury, and he stayed exactly where he was. Even when your muscles gave out, even when your breath came in ragged pulls against the mattress, the tension stayed coiled inside you. Your hands flexed uselessly behind your back. Your teeth chattered with the effort of holding yourself together.
Chrollo loosened his grip just enough to test it. You surged immediately, a sharp, reckless jerk that sent pain lancing up your arms. Your wrist struck the headboard with a dull crack. You hissed, half in pain, half in fury, and tried again.
"That's enough," he said, firmer this time.
You didn't listen, the next attempt was worse. You twisted sideways, vision flashing white for a split second as you nearly wrenched yourself free—or tore something important in the attempt.
That was when he stopped trying to reason with you.
He straightened, still holding you down with one hand, and reached for his belt with the other. The leather slid free with a soft, mundane sound that felt obscenely loud in the room.
"No, no, no, no," you spat, your eyes blazing bright red. "Don't—"
"I'm a thief, darling."
But he was already moving your wrists apart, guiding them upward toward the headboard. The belt was firm, unyielding as he looped it around your wrists. He adjusted it twice, testing the tension, making sure you couldn't reach far enough to hurt yourself again.
You thrashed as much as the restraint allowed, the leather biting into your skin, the bed frame creaking beneath you.
"Ah, there it is," You don't expect comfort, least of all from him, but he's tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. "I've seen many beautiful things, but the way the light fractures in your eyes when you're looking at me with such pure, unadulterated loathing... it's a color I've never seen anywhere else."
"Damn you, Chrollo!" you choked out, your eyes blazing bright red. "I'll never forget. You slaughtered an entire village for a black-market price tag—for nothing! I'll carve that day into my own bones if I have to, just to make sure I never stop hating you!"
"It's a lovely thought, I hope you do." He hummed, his dark eyes searching yours with a void-like hunger. "Your clan, your family... they were a collection of masterpieces. And like any collector, I wanted that color. I wanted that heritage. So I took it, admired them until there was nothing left of the person they used to be. That is the privilege of the thief, my dear."
His palm flattened against your bare stomach. Traced upward and stopped just below your bra.
"And now, I want you."
Your shirt came off in stage, first the hem sliding up past your ribs, then over your bound wrists, where he carefully guided the fabric through and let it fall. Cool air hit flushed skin. Goosebumps raced across your stomach. Your skirt followed, peeled down over hips that bucked against his hands once before going still, whether from exhaustion or surrender, hard to say.
His mouth finally found the side of your neck—teeth scraping while tongue soothing, dragging slowly from the hollow below your ear down to your shoulder and leaving a trail of heat that prickled cold in its wake. His hand splayed across your ribs, thumb tracing the underside of your bra, you feel humiliated.
"Then I hope you rot in it!" you finally snarled, your legs trembling slightly where his knee presses against yours. "I hope you rot in every single thing you've stolen. I curse your hands—I curse the air you breathe and the very ground you're standing on! I hope it swallows you whole."
You were shaking, your voice climbing into a jagged, breathless edge of hysteria.
"Every time you close your eyes, I hope it's nothing but the red of my people's blood! I hope those eyes you stole—every single pair—stare at you from the dark until you can't breathe. I hope they drive you insane!"
Something snapped behind those dark eyes. Like a leash he'd been holding with both hands, finally slipping through his fingers.
"Such a heavy burden to lay on me. Tell me, darling... did it feel as good to say as it did to dream?"
You pulled at the belt, the bedside frame groaning once more. "Call me 'darling' one more time and I'll bite my own tongue off just so I don't have to answer you."
He let you win this time and settled between your thighs, fully clothed against fully bare. Forearms framing your head, he was looking down at you with an expression that bordered on devotion.
The bra clasp gave way with a sharp flick of practiced fingers, tossed somewhere toward the foot of the bed without ceremony. One hand gripped your waist hard enough to leave fingerprints tomorrow—five little bruises that would bloom purple by morning. His other hand slid down your stomach, past your navel, fingertips skating the waistband of whatever underwear remained.
Two fingers hooked the fabric and dragged it down. Down your thighs, joining the rest of their discarded clothes on whatever dark surface served as the floor.
You shook when you heard the sound of a zipper opening. You felt the tip of his cock spreading the folds of your pussy. He was going to enter you... take you, rape you. And it hurt when he pressed in, you were almost dry, and he was with his horrible size. You retched in fear, tensing—
"It's okay, dear. You're taking it all so well. But I know you can take more, can't you?"
Yet, he eased you into it, stopping halfway and rocking back, then he was rubbing a finger over the small bud topping your slit.
The realisation hit just a moment later, as he began to thrust repeatedly into you; his cock hitting right where it hurt and then without stopping, doing it again and again. The headboard cracked against drywall, and somewhere in the apartment, something glass rattled on a shelf. Your scream was muffled against the bed sheets. His shirt clung to him—still fully dressed while you lay beneath him stripped bare.
"That's it my love, you cry so prettily for me."
Each thrust pinned you deeper into the mattress, the belt pulling taut against leather and bone. The bed screamed beneath you, springs protesting with every impact. His clothed chest dragged against your bare back—friction and heat and the obscene slap of skin on skin filling the dim room.
Outside, the city lights into smeared watercolors against the glass.
You arched your back, your bound wrists straining against the belt until the leather groans, your inner muscles clenching around him in a tight, rhythmic pulse. "Chrollo..." The words were torn from your throat as him hurried even deeper. "Please stop... Chrollo please... just stop!"
His rhythm didn't falter at all, each stroke punctuated by the rhythmic slam of the headboard against the wall as you cried out with such sawing aggression that emphasised just how needy he truly was, no matter the claims that otherwise left his lips, pinning the blame on you. His hands found your hips and lifted them off the bed entirely, changing the geometry of everything, driving into places that made stars explode behind eyelids.
The sheets beneath you were soaked through. Sweat, saliva, neither mattered.
"My dear, you do it so good, you take this dick so good, look at how it goes in and out, that's it darling." He bent forward and kissed your shoulder, murmuring against bruised skin between thrusts. "Take it all. I know you can. That's it."
One hand released your hip and snaked between your bodies. His finger found your clit and pressed—circling with ruthless precision, matching the pace of his hip stroke for stroke.
Your body was tightening around him like a fist. Close. So close. The coil in your belly wound impossibly tighter with every snap of his wrist and every devastating thrust. The belt creaked. Your wrists were red.
"You can feel how much I love you, right? Now let me feel how much you love me."
Soon, he leaned over you, mouth sucking marks on your neck and shoulder, muffling soft moans and grunts. You lost track of time at some point. His honey-sweet voice whispered such filth.
"That's it—take it all, honey—make it messy for me—"
Three more thrusts, completely stripped of rhythm as your walls clamped down and dragged him under. His fingers were digging crescents into your hips hard enough to bruise, and you felt a rush of heat and a thick, sticky wetness flood your womb. He clamped a hand over your mouth when you started begging him not to cum inside, shushing you.
Your nails dig into the mattress as far as your bound arms allow, your hips involuntarily bucking upward to meet every punishing drive. The sensory overload of his fingers, his weight, and the internal stretch shatters the last of your control, sending you into a white-hot climax that makes your entire frame go rigid.
The room went quiet except for your breathing and the distant hum of the city beyond the glass.
You were bound, shaking, fury and nausea and exhaustion tangling in your chest until you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. You really were going to vomit this time; you could feel it, the sickness beneath your skin, in your head, in your stomach, in your womb.
The possibility of being taken captive was a danger to be aware of for your people's scarlet eyes, but rape was not tolerated. Rape in the Kurta clan was virtually unheard of because punishment for such an action was so severe. The Kurta did not have a prison. Punishment for such felonious acts often consisted of execution in front of the clan.
You closed your eyes, then opened them again; everything before you was a blurry, watery mess. Once the crying starts, there's no holding it back.
"Untie me..." You choked out, and with that, the tears began to fall even harder. "I want to wipe my face..."
Chrollo didn't seem to hear you words. He looked at you then, really looked—your heaving chest, your clenched jaw, the red beginning to bloom at the edges of your eyes, then slowly reached out his hand to catch a falling tear. He looked down at his damp finger, then leaned slightly forward, pressing a soft kiss against the tear still clinging to your eyelashes.
"I love you."
You were nearly driven mad with frustration. Drop after drop, large beads of tears spilled from your eyes, rolling coldly down your face, gliding past your nose and the corners of your mouth, pooling at your chin before thudding onto the bedsheet, soaking the white fabric in an instant with splotchy wet stains.
A gentle kiss was placed down, and the trailing tears suddenly vanished. Following the tracks of those tears came a series of tender gestures across your eyelashes, your cheeks, the corners of your mouth, and finally, your lips.
A kiss that tasted of salt.
_
You remember the first time you met him.
It was days before the night of the massacre, when you crouched low in the undergrowth, gathering fruit in a basket. There were birds fussing in the canopy, until a voice came from behind you.
"Excuse me."
You straightened up a bit too quickly, and thorns caught on your sleeve. What really startled you wasn't just the voice, but the fact that you hadn't heard any footsteps, not even a crunch of soil at all.
"Pardon me, I didn't mean to startle you."
When you turned, he was already standing there, close enough that you wondered how long he had been watching. He was a handsome young man, who looked like he'd walked straight out from the polished cities. A pair of eyes, black holes in the nothingness, fixed on you. And you couldn't help it—your heart twitched.
He was so beautifully wrong; as if every line of his face had been carefully chiseled from marble, making him look less like a man and more like a piece of art. His skin was as white and delicate as a moth's wing, so fragile you couldn't imagine it holding a drop of blood. His hair was a stark, inky spill against that paleness.
Beautiful in a way that left you questioning how someone like that could be so cruel.
"Would you know where the nearest river is?" He asked, his tone polite, as though you were neighbors and not strangers in the middle of the woods.
You narrowed my eyes at him, your fingers tightening around the wicker handle of your basket. The only nearest river here was the one women used for washing, people drink from it, just near the village path.
But you didn't answer right away. Instead, you let your gaze rake over him, head to toe. He didn't so much as blink beneath your judgment, waiting patiently for an answer.
"You're not from here," You clicked your tongue and looked away, pretending to rearrange the berries in your basket
"No. I'm passing through." He tilted his head slightly, the faintest smile touching his lips.
"Travelers don't come far into our forest. Unless you're lost."
"Then I suppose I am," he replied. "Lost, and looking for water."
You frowned. The phrasing was odd, though it wasn't hostile. "The nearest river is..." You hesitate, considering him. Outsiders can be trouble, your elders always said. So you turned around and lifted your hand and pointed toward a tangle of brush where the ground grew marshy, away from the village. "That way. You'll find it if you follow the path far enough."
But he doesn't look, or even turn his head. He only stared at you, gaze steady, as if he could see the falsehood folded inside your words. Seconds stretch. Long enough for your stomach to tighten, and your hand started to tremble slightly, though you will it still.
"I see." At last, he inclines his head. The smallest, neatest bow you'd ever seen.
He stepped forward. For a moment, you think he'll take the false path you pointed, but instead, he simply keeps slipping by without a sound, the faint brush of his coat stirring the edge of your sleeve. Your shoulders went rigid, but you didn't dare to move.
"If fate allows," As he draws level with you, he pauses, not long enough to face you again. "I hope we'll meet again."
You turn, but he is gone, dissolved into the hush of the forest as though he had never been there at all.
Your chest heaves once, and you tell yourself you'll forget him. That he was only a stranger passing through. But his words cling to you, stubborn as burrs, long after the berries have stained your hands and the sun has slipped behind the treeline.
_
You woke to the sound of something sizzling.
For a fleeting moment, a disorienting haze cloaks your awareness, leaving you puzzled about your surroundings. The room appeared just as it always did—immaculately clean and meticulously arranged. Every item was in its rightful place, untouched by the chaos of the previous day. It felt surreal, as if the furious spirals of emotion, the violent tearing apart of the atmosphere, and the raw, unrestrained rage that had once filled the space had simply evaporated, leaving no trace behind. An unmistakable smell of food saturates the air, but it's a warmth that feels foreign and unsettling.
It took longer than it should have to remember where you were.
You sat up slowly, waiting for the usual disorientation to pass. It doesn't. It never does. Instead, it settled into you, holding you rigid as you swung your legs off the bed, noticing the belt was gone from your wrists, leaving only raw, angry red welts behind.
By the time you reached the main room, Chrollo already stood at the counter, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, hair pulled back as if this were any other morning in any other life. There's a pan sitting on the stove, bread lined neatly on a plate, and two cups set out side by side.
"Good morning," he said. "How are you feeling today?"
He poured coffee into one of the cups, dark liquid filling it to the brim. He added cream to the other without asking.
"I wasn't sure what you preferred," he continued, setting one cup down across the table from where he intended you to sit. "So I made something simple."
Your hands curled into fists at your sides. A fierce and familiar rage flared up, threatening to consume your very core. There are a thousand things you want to say, but the anger has nowhere to go, suffocated by an overwhelming wave of exhaustion. You were too tired to confront him or to give him the satisfaction he craved, so you sat at the table.
"You didn't have to," you said finally, because silence would give him something to interpret.
"I wanted to."
He set a plate in front of you. There was no embellishment or garnish; eggs were cooked plainly. Next to them, the toast was cut neatly in half.
"You don't have to finish everything, just take what you can handle," he said, taking the seat across from you.
The table was smooth, cool under your palms. Proof that this moment existed, no matter how wrong it felt. You stared at the food. It looked fine. Smelled fine. Yet your body seemed to recoil from it, a persistent feeling you'd been ignoring for a week. The coffee in your cup carried an unsettling metallic taste that lingered on your tongue, and your appetite had drifted in and out, leaving you in the grip of nausea each morning.
"I'm not hungry," you muttered.
"I know," he replied calmly. "You rarely are in the mornings."
You forced your hand to move and stabbed at the food, pushing it around the plate. Finally, you lifted a forkful to your lips and chewed out of spite more than hunger. It tasted like nothing.
Chrollo watched without staring. His gaze drifted respectfully, allowing you a sense of privacy while remaining wholly present in the moment.
"You haven't eaten much lately," he said, his brow furrowing with what looked like genuine, pained concern. "Just... if it's something more, you should know."
Your grip tightened around the fork. "It's nothing, really. I just need rest."
"Loss of appetite can be a response to prolonged stress," he murmured, leaning in just enough that you could see the sincerity in his dark eyes. It was a terrifyingly kind expression. "We'll fix it. Starting tomorrow, I'll prepare smaller, lighter portions—perhaps something chilled or more fluid if textures are becoming difficult. I want this to be easy for you."
You grumbled weakly and said you were fine as you dropped the fork; it clattered against the plate louder than you intended. You pushed the plate away and wrapped your arms around yourself, exhaustion finally catching up with the fury.
The coffee—rich, bitter—suddenly turned your mouth slick with saliva.
"No," you swallowed hard. "I can't."
The nausea surged, sharp and overwhelming. You clapped a hand over your mouth, chair legs scraping as you stood fast. The world tilted, and heat flooded your face.
Chrollo noticed immediately, he stood and slid the plate farther back. "That's fine," he said, already moving aside. "Don't force it."
You barely made it to the bathroom, retching over the sink as your body curled inward, stomach spasming in vain. There was nothing to eject—just bile, pain, and the humiliating sound of your body betraying you once more. After it passed, you remained there, forehead resting on the cool porcelain, breathing shallow.
"Hey." Chrollo voice came from behind you. You didn't look up, didn't want him to see you like this.
"Go away," you managed between breaths.
He moved closer, waiting until the silence stretched thin. "How long's this been happening?"
You rinsed your mouth and wiped your face with the back of your sleeve. "A few months."
"You think it could be...?"
"No." You cut him off fast. Then softer, "No, it can't be."
When you finally straightened, a curious sight met your eyes — he was holding a small white box and still sealed. You didn't know where he'd kept it, or how long he'd been waiting to give it to you.
"You should check," he said.
"You already bought one?"
He shrugged, his gaze dropping to the floor. "I just thought— I don't know. Better to know than to keep guessing."
You stared at the box resting in his outstretched hands. It looked harmless, but it carried a weight you weren't ready to hold. Suddenly, the words you longed to voice lodged in your throat.
It occurred to you that you had missed your period for a while. You didn't think much of it because extreme stress could cause you to lose your period, and if there was ever a time for it to skip, it was definitely when you had been kidnapped by the man who committed genocide on your clan.
"I don't want to know," you whispered, your breath barely a flutter.
"I know." He stepped closer, for you to feel the sickening warmth of him. "But maybe it's time you did."
With hesitant fingers, you reached out and took the box from him, feeling the cool, smooth surface against your skin. In that suspended moment, neither of you spoke.
You took the test into the bathroom and closed the door behind you, though the thin wood did nothing to quiet the pounding of your heart, which resonated like a drum in the eerie quiet. The chill of the tiles seeped through your socks as you stood before the mirror, staring at your own reflection, which looked both familiar and foreign. Your hands trembled uncontrollably, the box feeling heavier than it should as you carefully opened it
After what felt like an eternity, you placed the test on the counter, stepping back as if it were a creature that might bite.
From the other side of the door, you heard his knuckles tap softly. "I'm right here," he said, as if to reassure you.
You didn't reply, you closed your eyes tightly, grounding yourself through measured breath. The bathroom light was bright, bleaching the room in pale yellow. It was another wound, really.
When the result appeared — those red, positive lines — your heart clenched so tightly you thought it might split you in two.
In a moment of frustration, you seized a nearby chair leg and swung it with fierce desperation, shattering the bulb in a shower of glass. Shards flew like glimmering stars, scattering across the cold tile floor. For two fleeting minutes, you tasted real darkness. For two minutes, you could almost trick yourself into believing you were free.
He must've heard it; the door creaked open before you could speak. And the lights came back on, fixed without explanation. Chrollo only stared at the lines on the test. Despite your best efforts to stifle the rising tide of emotion, you pressed your palm firmly against your mouth. Yet, a sob still came through, shaking your shoulders. Your knees gave before you realized you were falling, and you crumpled against him. For a moment, your eyes shone a bright, almost fevered scarlet — lit from somewhere deep inside — before the tears welled up and softened them to a muted ember.
Chrollo pulled you without asking. "Hey," he whispered into your hair. "Breathe."
"I can't-" You buried your face in his chest, your fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt. The sobs came hard, shaking through you.
No. No way in actual hell would you let yourself carry one child belonging to Chrollo Lucifer; you vehemently rejected it with every fiber of your being, as if it were a poison coursing through your veins. Nothing in this world could evoke greater resistance from you, including the monster in front of you, and how you wished you could convey that to him verbally instead of succumbing to an overwhelming fear.
"You think it's a boy or girl?"
You let out a shaky laugh. "I... I don't know. It's too early to—"
"I think it's a girl. What do you think about naming our child Ruby?" he suggested, his voice filled with twisted affection. He then leaned back just enough to look at you, his fingers brushing a tear from your cheek. "Or perhaps Scarlett? They means red, I want something that reminds me of your eyes. It's a beautiful color on you."
It took a moment for the weight behind his words to sink in, and you could only look at him, appalled. You had never felt more used in your entire life, and the nausea surged within you, threatening to spill over once more.
"I hope they'll have your eyes, darling."
You still dream about the fork.
Every night.
Under the jaw.
Deep into the soft part.