The sound that escaped wasn’t a word.
It was a confused, breathy puff of air—the auditory equivalent of a question mark.
Hurt ?
The thought was so absurd, so utterly alien to the reality of the last hour, that my brain couldn’t form a proper response. No one had ever apologized to after sothing like this... Not even when it hurt.
And that’s when the mory, the one I kept locked away in a cold, dark box, broke free.
Max. A night a year ago. It had been clumsy and painful, a sharp, tearing sensation that had made yelp. When we were done, I’d curled away from him, biting my lip against the stinging throb. The sheets were sared with blood. Not a lot, but enough. I saw his eyes flick to the stain, then to , his expression one of pure annoyance.
"Seriously?" he’d sighed, as if I’d spilled wine on his favorite shirt. "You’re making a ss."
And I, stupid and desperate for his approval, had been the one to apologize. "I’m so sorry, Max. I don’t know why... I’m sorry."
He never touched again that night. He never asked if I was okay. He just rolled over and went to sleep, leaving to clean myself up in the bathroom, sha coiling in my gut like a venomous snake.
But Adrien...
Adrien, who had just taken apart so thoroughly I doubted I’d ever rember my own na, was holding like I might shatter, his voice breaking on the words Did I hurt you?
His arms—the sa arms that had pinned to the wall like a lifeline—were trembling.
The man who had hoisted my entire weight with sheer strength was now shaking from the possibility that he might’ve gone too far.
It took a monuntal effort, but I managed to push myself up slightly, my muscles screaming in protest. I twisted in his hold, a clumsy, boneless movent until I could face him. The mont my eyes t his, my breath caught in my throat.
The savage heat was gone.
What remained was a raw, cracked open version of Adrien—one I’d never seen before.
He looked wrecked.
His honey-brown eyes were slick with guilt. The sharp angles of his face were tight with restraint, his mouth set like he was bracing for a verdict.
For a second, I thought the broken look on his face would break , too. It was a chasm of self-recrimination, and it was all for .
My hand, trembling with a life of its own, lifted from his shoulder. I laid my palm flat against his cheek. The skin was hot, slick with sweat, the stubble a rough counterpoint to the raw vulnerability in his eyes.
He flinched.
Just slightly.
As if expecting to pull away.
And that—that—is what finally broke .
A sound tore from my chest, a choked, wet sob that was half laugh, half wail. Tears I didn’t know I had stored up began to spill from my eyes, hot and fast.
Adrien went still.
"Shit. Princess—what did I do?" he breathed. "Tell where I hurt you. Please."
His voice cracked on the last word, and that—combined with the way his hands had gone frantic on my body—made it even worse.
I shook my head, gasping. "No. No—you don’t understand." My voice wavered as tears spilled hot and fast down my cheeks. "You didn’t. You didn’t hurt ."
His jaw locked. "Then why are you crying?"
"Because you asked," I said, a tremble threading through my words.
My voice cracked on the last syllable.
"I’m crying... because you asked."
His brows furrowed. He didn’t get it.
"I’m crying because you took apart, and you were worried about putting back together," I sobbed, pressing my forehead to his. "No one has ever... No one has ever cared enough to ask if I was okay after."
The confession hung between us, raw and wounded. I saw the mont understanding dawned in his eyes, chasing away the fear and replacing it with sothing fierce, protective, and so full of aching tenderness that it stole my breath all over again.
His arms tightened around , pulling flush against his body until not even air could pass between us. He didn’t speak. He just held , one hand cradling the back of my head, his fingers threading into my hair while I cried. He held while I mourned the girl who apologized for her own pain, and he held while I celebrated the woman who was finally being cherished.
When my sobs finally subsided into shuddering breaths, he tilted my chin up. His lips t mine, not with the brutal claiming of before, but with a reverence that felt like a vow. It was a soft, searching kiss that healed more than it aroused. It tasted of salt and regret and a deep, unconditional love that I was only just beginning to comprehend.
When Adrien pulled back, the last of my sobs had lted into the steady rhythm of our breaths. I was still pressed against him, but the raw edge of the mont had dulled. I could feel the softness returning to my limbs, the heat from earlier fading into sothing manageable.
His gaze flickered over my face, searching for sothing—was it confirmation, relief? He didn’t speak at first. Instead, he just watched with that soft intensity I couldn’t quite get used to, like he was seeing for the first ti every ti he looked.
"You good?" he asked quietly, his thumb brushing the side of my face.
I nodded, a small, genuine smile finally curving my lips. "I’m good," I whispered, my voice still a little hoarse, but clear. "Better than good. Thank you."
His thumb stilled on my cheek, then gently stroked down my jawline. A soft breath escaped him, the tension draining visibly from his shoulders. It was a subtle shift, but I could feel the ripple of relief that went through his strong fra. His eyes, still a little shadowed with concern, softened further, crinkling at the corners as a faint smile touched his own mouth.
"Just... thank you?" he murmured, a hint of his usual playful lilt returning, though still subdued. "You’re killing here, Princess."
I chuckled, a soft, wet sound, and leaned into his touch. "What else am I supposed to say? I don’t think there’s a word for... this." I gestured vaguely between us, at the tangle of our limbs, the lingering scent of sex and tears, the profound shift that had just occurred.
He pulled closer still, one hand slipping under my back to hold more securely. "There doesn’t have to be," he said, his voice a low rumble against my ear. "Just... know that you never have to apologize for anything with . Especially not for feeling."
A beat passed, thick with unspoken things.
Then—
"Do you..." He hesitated, clearing his throat. "Do you still feel hot?"
I blinked. "What?"
He looked down at , his face unreadable. "The drug in your system. Is it still burning through you?" His hand drifted down my side, slow, testing. "If you are....You can use . Until you feel like yourself again."
My jaw dropped. How did he figure out I was drugged?
"Adrien—"
"I’m serious." His tone was grave, but his mouth twitched slightly like he knew how that sounded. "If your body still feels too much, too wired, I want you to—"
I smacked his chest with the flat of my palm.
He didn’t flinch. Just raised a brow. "What?"
"You’re such a pervert," I muttered, even as heat pooled low in my stomach.
"I am," he said without sha, sweeping an arm under my thighs and lifting again. "A very serious one, with a very specific dical purpose."
I groaned. "You’re unbelievable."
"Still feel hot?" he repeated, tilting his head down toward . "Because I’m running out of patience here, and if you say yes, I’m going to put you back on that wall."
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