The Kiss That Killed The Light

Damien Vale

She kissed him.

His brother.

Christopher had his arms around her like she belonged there—like Damien hadn't broken her open and poured himself into the cracks.

They sat on the couch, soft-lit and quiet. She clutched a used test in her hand like it was a death sentence, and yet—she wasn't shattered.

She was held.

Comforted.

She looked at Christopher the way she never looked at Damien: with trust.

And then she leaned in.

Slow. Grateful. Fragile.

Damien watched the kiss with a dead stillness.

It wasn't lust. It wasn't anger. It was obliteration.

Something inside him collapsed—silently, like a star folding in on itself.

She kissed him.

With his child inside her.

She chose him.

And for that—for that—he would burn everything.

Christopher. The illusion. Her temporary healing.

Damien didn't scream.

He didn't rage.

He simply turned away from the window with eyes like cold steel.

She belonged to him.

And if she forgot that, he would make sure she never did again.

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