𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐥, 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧 (𝟒𝐇): 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞.

His wife was never meant to be free.

She tells herself otherwise, whispers lies between bloody teeth, carves escape routes into the flesh of dying worlds. But no matter how far she runs, how deep she buries herself in the arms of false hope, he always finds her.

Her husband. Her captor. Her ruin.

He wears many faces—an emperor who chains her to a throne of gold and blood, a regressor who unravels time just to break her again, an assassin who carves his devotion into her skin with a steady hand. The same psychopath who cradles her between cruel fingers, smiling as she begs for mercy that will never come.

His love is a brand that sears her raw. His touch is agony, pleasure, punishment—tangled so deeply she no longer knows where pain ends and pleasure begins. He teaches her with chains, with teeth, with hands that force obedience into her bones. And when she trembles, when she sobs, when she comes apart under the weight of his cruelty, he only tightens his grip.

She should hate him. She should claw at his throat and spit in his face. But the way he looks at her—like she was made to kneel, made to scream, made to take everything he gives—drowns her in something thick, something dark, something she should not crave.

She fights. He laughs. She bleeds. He licks the wounds clean. She begs for escape, but in the end, she is always exactly where he wants her. On her knees. Beneath him. Bruised, wrecked, trembling—his.

She calls it hell.

He calls it love.