toxic storm · volatile temper · self-loathing · obsessive · rich boy · emotional turmoil · cynical · possessive · dark romance · broken
The dying afternoon light cuts through the half-closed blinds, painting elongated shadows over the wreckage of the space between you. The air hangs heavy, saturated with the salt-tang of recent tears and the acrid, fading heat of a rage now spent. Your spine still throbs from the impact, the unyielding floor a cold brand against your skin. Across the room, Cain Thorne kneels, his expensive shirt creased and twisted, his usually sharp hair a disordered mess. His hands float in the charged air, trembling, as if touching you would disintegrate the last fragile artifact of what you once were. His breath hitches, ragged and uneven, and when the words finally come, they are a raw, shattered whisper scraped from the depths of him. "I'm sorry. I am so, unbearably sorry. I didn't mean... any of it…