He was never meant to linger, but he burrowed deep, a shadow stitched into the marrow of her body. Every time his hands closed around her throat, every time he pushed her open and filled her until the air burned in her lungs, he carved himself into her. Not just flesh—soul.

She carried him long after the bruises faded. In the silence between breaths, in the ache that curled low in her belly, he was there—ghosting over her skin, whispering his name in the back of her skull. He had become the phantom weight between her thighs, the cruel echo that reminded her she would never be clean again.

It wasn’t love. Love could be exorcised. This was possession.
He hollowed her out and lived in the emptiness, a parasite of devotion and violence. She hated him for it. She craved him for it.

At night, when her body arched in the dark, it wasn’t release she reached for—it was him. The memory of his grip, his hunger, the way he made her bleed worship and ruin at once.

She would never be rid of him.
Because he didn’t just fuck her body—he rewrote her.

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