Loraine learned quickly how to disappear without leaving the room.
She moved like a ghost through the house—quiet, distant, untouched. Even when Jason stood only a few steps away, it felt like miles stretched between them.
She no longer met his eyes.
At breakfast, she sat at the far end of the table, fingers wrapped around a porcelain cup she never drank from. The sunlight spilled across the polished wood, highlighting the careful distance she kept.
Jason watched her constantly.
Every time she shifted in her chair, every time her brows furrowed in thought, every time her hand unconsciously drifted to her neck where the mark rested beneath fabric—he felt it like a blade pressing into his chest.
"You didn't sleep," he said quietly.
She didn't answer.
He reached for the teapot, poured her tea the way she liked it—just warm, not hot. He slid it toward her gently, like an offering.
She pushed it away.
The bond reacted instantly.
Pain—sharp and sudden—ripped through him.
Jason inhaled sharply, gripping the edge of the table.
Loraine stiffened. She felt it too. The echo of his hurt trembled through her chest, unwanted and intimate.
"I'm not doing this to punish you," she said finally, her voice calm but distant. "I'm doing this so I don't forget who I was."
He swallowed hard. "And who was that?"
"Someone who didn't belong to anyone."
Silence fell.
Jason stood slowly. "I'll give you space," he said, even though the words tasted like poison. "But don't shut me out completely."
She didn't respond.
The Dreams Return
That night, sleep betrayed her again.
Loraine dreamed of standing at the edge of a cliff, the sea raging violently below. The wind whipped her hair back as shadows gathered behind her.
Then—him.
Not the Jason she knew.
This Jason wore a crown of obsidian and bone. His eyes glowed red in the dark, his hands stained with blood—not fresh, but old, ancient.
Kneeling figures surrounded him.
"You don't fear me," Dream-Jason said, his voice echoing like thunder beneath water.
"I should," she whispered.
He stepped closer. "Yes."
She woke gasping.
Her chest burned, the bond alive and pulsing.
Tears filled her eyes—not from fear this time, but from understanding.
This was who he was before her.
This was what loving him meant.
The door creaked open moments later.
Jason stood there, visibly shaken.
"You saw it," he said hoarsely.
She turned away from him. "I don't want to see inside you anymore."
He crossed the room in two strides and dropped to his knees beside the bed.
Jason—kneeling.
Her breath hitched despite herself.
"Please," he said, voice breaking. "I don't know how to stop the bond from showing you everything. I swear I never wanted you to see that part of me."
She hugged herself tighter. "But it's there."
"Yes," he admitted. "And I hate that it scares you."
Jason's POV
He had ruled empires without shaking.
But watching Loraine pull away from him—
That broke him.
The bond, once a source of certainty, now punished him mercilessly. Every time she avoided his touch, it screamed through his veins. Every time she slept curled away from him, it burned.
He missed her warmth.
Her weight against his chest.
The way she used to fall asleep without fear.
That night, he sat on the floor beside her bed, back against the frame, refusing to leave even when she pretended to sleep.
"Just let me stay," he whispered. "I won't touch you."
She didn't respond—but she didn't tell him to go.
That was enough.
Later, when a nightmare tore her from sleep, she whimpered softly, fingers clutching the sheets.
Jason was up instantly.
"Loraine," he murmured. "It's me."
She trembled, breath uneven.
Slowly—carefully—he opened his arms.
"I won't trap you," he said softly. "Just… come here if you want."
There was a long pause.
Then—hesitant, reluctant—she shifted closer.
Her back pressed lightly against his chest.
Jason froze.
Her warmth seeped into him like forgiveness he didn't deserve.
He didn't tighten his arms. Didn't pull her closer.
He simply stayed.
"See?" he whispered against her hair. "I can be gentle."
Tears slipped silently down her face.
"I don't trust that gentleness lasts," she said.
"I know," he replied. "But let me earn it. Again. And again. However long it takes."
She didn't answer—but she didn't move away either.
A Fragile Truce
In the days that followed, Jason tried in quiet, desperate ways.
He left flowers on her bedside without saying a word.
He memorized the books she lingered over and filled the library with them.
He learned to cook—badly—just to make her smile.
Sometimes she did.
Sometimes she didn't.
But at night, when the house grew too quiet and the bond hummed between them like a living thing, she allowed him close—never fully turning to him, never fully rejecting him.
And Jason learned something terrifying:
Loving her was no longer about possession.
It was about restraint.
That realization unsettled him more than any rebellion ever had.
Possession had rules. Control had structure. Violence—whether emotional or physical—had always been simple to wield. But this… this fragile truce, this distance she maintained while still allowing him near, demanded something far more difficult.
Patience.
Loraine noticed the change before she acknowledged it.
Jason stopped hovering. He no longer followed her from room to room, no longer asked where she was going or when she would return. He listened more than he spoke. When she retreated into silence, he didn't demand explanations. When she flinched, he stepped back instead of forward.
It confused her.
It hurt him.
One afternoon, she found him in the library.
He stood just inside the doorway, frozen.
Loraine sat curled into one of the armchairs, sunlight spilling across her face, a book forgotten in her lap. Her hair was loose, falling softly over her shoulders, her lashes casting shadows against her cheeks. There was a faint bruise at her wrist—he had caused it weeks ago—and seeing it now made his breath hitch painfully.
For a moment, he forgot how to breathe.
She looked… unbearably human.
Not his. Not marked. Not bound by fate or blood.
Just her.
He took a single step back, as if afraid that even standing there might steal something from her.
"You can come in," she said without looking up.
His chest tightened. "I didn't want to disturb you."
"You're not," she replied quietly. Then, after a pause, "You rarely do anymore."
That wasn't an accusation.
That was an observation.
He crossed the room slowly and sat in a chair across from her, keeping distance between them like an unspoken agreement.
"You haven't eaten," he said gently.
"I will."
"When?"
"When I'm hungry."
He nodded. "Alright."
Silence settled—not heavy, not hostile. Just careful.
"I'm trying," he said eventually, voice low. "I don't expect forgiveness. Or closeness. I just… want you to see that I can change."
She closed her book. Finally met his eyes.
"Change doesn't erase what already happened," she said.
"I know." His jaw tightened. "But I won't add to it."
Something shifted in her expression—something like exhaustion mixed with reluctant relief.
That night, rain battered the windows.
Thunder cracked loud enough to rattle the glass.
Loraine sat awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, heart racing despite herself. She hated that storms still scared her. Hated that her body remembered weakness even when her mind tried to forget.
The door creaked open.
Jason didn't step inside.
"May I?" he asked softly.
She hesitated. Then nodded once.
He sat on the floor beside her bed again, back against the frame, just as he had the night before. No touching. No demands. Just presence.
"You don't have to stay," she murmured.
"I want to," he replied. "Unless you ask me to leave."
She didn't.
The thunder came again—closer this time.
Her hands clenched in the sheets.
Without looking at her, Jason slowly extended his hand, palm up, resting it on the mattress between them.
An offer.
Not a claim.
Her breath trembled.
After a long moment, she placed her fingers lightly against his.
He didn't close his hand around hers.
Didn't pull.
Didn't move at all.
She exhaled shakily, leaning back against the headboard.
"Jason," she whispered, not trusting her voice to be stronger.
"Yes?"
"If you ever stop being gentle—"
"I won't," he said immediately.
She shook her head. "If you do… I will disappear in ways you won't be able to find."
The bond pulsed painfully.
He swallowed. "Then I'll spend the rest of my existence making sure that never happens."
She didn't say she believed him.
But she didn't pull away either.
And for now, that fragile space between them—
not love, not freedom, not forgiveness—
was enough to let them breathe.