Ian wouldn't quit—spilling sorrys, baring his soul, begging forgiveness like a wolf on his last moon. Hell, he smeared blood-scrawls on the glass: *I love you, Tina. Eternal.*
Even as the dark tugged him under, that plea hung on his lips: *Forgive me.*
If those scars—his lies, his blades—hadn't carved me raw, I might've cracked. Melted under that storm of "devotion."
But nah. I'd tasted the rot. No second bite. Forgiveness? Off the menu, forever.
Enforcers and the meat-wagon rolled up, hauling us both to the healer's clinic.
Ian straight to the knife-dance room; me? Ankle wreck kept me sidelined, observation hold.
Garage cams caught it crystal—dash rig too, every snarl and snap.
Clara? Lights out permanent. Ian? Cuffed for unlawful cage, intent maul, negligent kill—bars waiting, lon
