Kieran stood from the bed and grabbed her hand, spinning her around to face him.
"Where is your collar?"
She didn't react. But he saw it—tears shimmering in her eyes. And just like that, confusion washed over him.
He knew she'd be upset. He hadn't come home in over a day. He expected anger. Silence. Maybe even tears.
But not… this.
Not the emptiness in her eyes. Not the way her body felt cold even in his hands.
Something was wrong. Deeply wrong.
He let go of her hand and turned toward the bedside drawer. Pulling it open, he fumbled past notepads and sticky notes—the ones he had bought just for her. He grabbed the latest one she'd been using, along with her pencil.
Hurrying back to her, he pressed them gently into her hands.
"Talk to me, baby," he pleaded. "What did I do? Why are you crying?"
She didn't move. Didn't reach for the book.
And in that moment, he couldn't care less about the missing collar—even if it was worth millions.
It was just a thing. She was priceless.
He took her hand again and felt her flinch—only slightly—but enough to make his heart crack. Still, he brushed it off. He pulled her back to the bed and sat down, settling her gently on his thigh, not caring that his clothes were bloodied.
"Please," he whispered, "write it down. Tell me what I did wrong. Tell me how to fix it."
Genesis sat stiffly on his leg. A part of her wanted to move away, to put distance between them. But a stronger part still loved this man deeply—enough to stay.
Silently, she took the notepad. Kieran exhaled, just a little.
He watched as she slowly began to write. When she was done, she didn't lift the note—she knew he could see it clearly.
The words read:
You treat me like pro…per…ty.
He blinked, confused. The words didn't make sense at first. Then he gently turned her face to him.
"I treat you like property?" he asked softly, his brow furrowed. "No… no, baby, I've never done that. Where is this coming from?"
She didn't answer. Her eyes welled again. Then she grabbed the pencil and quickly scribbled more:
Never said I love you.
Collar on my neck like animal.
The words stabbed through him. He fell silent.
His mind raced, flashing back to that day in therapy with Alecia. She had asked him if Genesis was happy. He'd said yes. She had said yes too—tentatively. But Genesis had never lied to him.
He never told the therapist about the collar. Knight—his other side—hadn't wanted to share that with Alecia. He didn't trust her.
He truly thought Genesis had been okay with it. That she understood what it meant to him.
But she's ours, a voice inside him growled.
He shook his head, pushing the thought away.
Running a hand down his face, he looked at her again.
"I didn't know you felt that way," he said quietly. "If you ever hated it… if you didn't want to wear it, I would've never made you. You're not some possession. Not to me. Never."
Genesis stared at him, her mind tangled in memory.
She thought back to the day he'd placed that collar around her neck.
She hadn't exactly hated it then. She didn't think of herself as something to be owned.
He said she belonged to him.
And he said he belonged to her too.
But now?
Now she didn't know what was real anymore. Revelation's words had taken root.
Her heart pounded. Her eyes stung.
Her fingers tightened around the pencil.
Then she wrote:
Do you love me?
Kieran's breath caught.
That question broke something inside him. Not because he didn't know the answer—but because she didn't.
"Genesis…" he said softly, lowering himself in front of her again. "Baby, of course I do."
He tried to meet her gaze, but she looked away, blinking fast.
"I thought I showed it. Everything I've done—every damn thing—it's all been for you. I know I haven't said it before, and maybe that was my mistake… but I love you. I do. I love you."
He reached up, cupping her cheek.
She flinched.
Just slightly.
But he saw it.
And it shattered him.
"Please," he whispered, voice raw. "Tell me what changed. Tell me why you're looking at me like I'm the bad guy."
She looked down at the notebook again. Her hand trembled as she wrote:
Because you never said it.
Because the collar made me feel like I belong to you… not with you.
The silence between them grew heavy.
He froze.
His chest rose and fell as the words sank in.
"I thought it made you feel safe," he said at last, his voice barely above a whisper. "I thought you liked it. I would never want you to feel… less. I swear."
She looked at him, eyes swimming. She wanted to believe him.
He looked sincere. Lost.
Hurt.
But Revelation's voice echoed in her mind:
He thinks love is ownership.
He never told you.
He never wants you to speak.
You're a songbird in a cage.
Her hand moved again.
Would you still love me if I wasn't yours?
Kieran stared at the words.
His jaw clenched. Then slowly, his shoulders dropped.
"I would love you even if you walked out that door and never looked back," he said, his voice hoarse. "I'd hate it. I'd break. But I'd still love you."
And this time, when he touched her hand, she didn't flinch.
She looked up at him—eyes wide, glimmering with silent ache. Then, slowly, she nodded.
She didn't smile. She didn't throw her arms around him. But she stayed.
And for now, that was enough.
Later, in the bathroom, her words played on a loop in his mind:
Would you love me if I wasn't yours?
Kieran braced his fist against the cold tiles as the shower pounded over him, the hot water washing away blood, dirt—everything but that question.
She didn't understand. Of course he would love her. Even if she wasn't with him. Even if she walked away. He'd still love her.
But.
He would never let another man have her. Never. He would burn the world down first.
The very thought made his chest tighten, made something dark coil low in his gut.
Then he felt it—soft, warm arms wrapping around him from behind. He froze.
But when he turned, there she was.
His wife.
Genesis.
She stood there soaked and smiling gently, her face tilted up to meet his. Her eyes still held pain, but the shadows were softer now.
He didn't move. Couldn't.
How was he supposed to live like this? With the knowledge that the one person his soul revolved around might one day stop being his?
She was his sun. His breath. His tether to sanity.
And he was losing her by inches.
"I love you," he whispered again. The words came out broken, but true.
Her cheeks flushed pink. She looked down shyly, biting her lower lip—then lifted her gaze again, quiet and vulnerable.
He wanted to ask her—Do you love me too?—but something stopped him. Not fear. Not pride.
Respect.
Instead, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, his lips lingering there longer than necessary.
Inside his head, the question burned:
Can he let her go?
He paused.
But what he failed to notice was the quiet glint in Genesis's eyes… and the slow curl of her lips. Something had begun to stir, quiet, steady, unstoppable.