I told myself enemies don't break.
Not for a man whose hands could snap my neck or pull me from the grave.
But that night in the scarred safehouse, with syndicate knives at our throats, we vowed forever in front of families who'd gut us for less.
Forced marriage. Public chains. A paradox that tasted like ash and hunger.
His eyes met mine across the altar of betrayal, promising ruin wrapped in salvation.
I hated how my pulse betrayed me.
Our hate was legend.
Rival enforcers, bred on blood feuds and whispered sabotages.
Yet he corners me in dim hallways, body slamming mine against cold walls, breaths ragged like we're fighting for air.
Days of restraint explode into tangled limbs in shadowed corners, sweat-slick skin yielding where words fail.
Fists unclench in the haze of a warehouse raid, gripping him like he's the only solid thing amid flying bullets.
I crave his protection, that raw vulnerability I've denied too long.
But surrender means exposing the fractures family loyalties carved into my soul.
He's the loner who aches for alliance, gruff sarcasm hiding a need that mirrors mine.
Our truces are fragile, rage simmering beneath deliberate touches that demand everything.
One wrong move, and the empire crumbles. My autonomy shatters. Sanity fractures under threats that never sleep.
Losing him would hollow me worse than any blade.
This pull defies lethal oaths, turns denial into obsession.
What if love like ours isn't salvation, but the blade that finally cuts deepest?
