Blood on the Wedding Bed
POV: Anika
Kurosawa Estate – 4:16 AM
The bedroom felt colder than it ever had before.
Like the walls themselves knew what had been broken.
Anika stood at the threshold. Wet. Silent. Wrapped in the damp cloak Rai hadn't taken back.
She hadn't said a word since they returned.
Neither had he.
The guards had disappeared. The staff vanished like shadows under command. She was left standing in the room they once called a marriage suite.
Her eyes landed on the bed.
The same bed where he once kissed her with reverence.
Where he whispered her name like prayer.
Where she once thought maybe, maybe, this was a love story written in thorns but watered with tenderness.
Now?
There were roses in the room. Dozens of them. Crimson.
Too crimson.
She stepped closer — and then saw it.
Blood.
A single drop on the white sheet.
Small.
But damning.
Her breath caught. Her knees went weak.
She reached out to touch it, unsure if it was a hallucination, a warning, or—
Footsteps.
She turned.
Rai stood in the doorway.
Soaked shirt clinging to his frame. Hair wet. Eyes darker than nightfall.
"You're bleeding," he said softly.
She blinked. "I—I'm not."
He walked in. Slowly. Like a wolf entering his den.
"It's not yours," he clarified. "It's mine."
She didn't speak.
He stepped closer. Close enough for her to see the faint cut on his side — shallow, probably from when she'd fought him earlier.
She almost said sorry.
She almost cared.
But the blood on the bed stole her voice.
"What is this?" she asked hoarsely. "A warning? A reminder?"
"No." He didn't hesitate. "It's a mark. That nothing between us can ever be clean again."
She backed away.
But the bed was behind her. It hit the backs of her thighs. She stumbled, fell onto it.
He didn't stop her this time.
He stepped forward. Knelt. His hands pressed into the sheets beside her.
Caging her again — but this time, there was no wall.
Just soft bedding.
And unspoken war.
"You think I wanted to hurt you?" he murmured.
Her fists clenched.
"You did hurt me."
He nodded.
"And yet…" He leaned in. "You didn't scream when I touched your throat."
She looked away.
"You didn't run when I let you go."
She bit her lip.
"You're not afraid of me, Anika." His voice darkened. "You're afraid of what it means that you want me anyway."
Her eyes burned.
"You're wrong," she whispered.
He reached up. Gripped her chin. Gently. Firmly.
"Then tell me you don't want me."
Silence.
"Say it," he said again. "Tell me you don't want me to throw you onto this bed and make you forget why you ran."
Her breath hitched.
But no words came.
Because even now—
Even after everything—
His presence burned through her like fire through silk.
"I hate you," she finally gasped.
And he smiled.
But it wasn't smug.
It was sad.
"Good," he said. "Because hate is real. And real is all we have left."
He leaned down.
Their lips barely touched.
Not a kiss.
A threat.
A promise.
Then he pulled back — and walked out.
Leaving her alone on the wedding bed.
Staring at the single drop of blood.
Wondering if it belonged to him… or what was left of her.