Married to my husband's son

The door exploded open like a gunshot, slamming against the wall so hard it made the floor tremble.

My heart jolted into my throat.

I didn't even have time to scream before something silver hissed past my face-fast, slicing the air with a shriek. I ducked instinctively. It missed me by inches.

Whoosh.

I hit the floor hard. The cold tile knocked the breath from my lungs. Behind me, a sharp metallic thunk echoed-then a clatter.

The knife had embedded a deep scar in the wall.

I froze.It gleamed there, absurdly calm for something meant to kill me.

And then-I heard him.

The slow tap of boots. Unhurried. Heavy. He wasn't running. He didn't panic. He was composed. Like he'd just dropped a wine glass, not hurled a blade at his wife.

I turned, still on the floor.

My husband stood in the doorway.

His robe hung open just enough to show the rise and fall of his chest. A smirk tugged at his lips-slow, smug, cruel. Then came the chuckle. Low and rough, like gravel dragged across pavement. "Be in my room tonight," he said, voice dry and jagged. "I need to be satisfied."I couldn't speak. My throat had cinched shut.

He didn't wait for a reply. He just turned and slammed the door behind him-so violently the windows rattled in their frames.

Then silence.

But it was the kind of silence that roared. My ears rang. My pulse was wild in my neck. My knees gave way before I realized I'd been shaking.

I collapsed onto the bed. The mattress swallowed me whole. I stared at the ceiling, chest tight, limbs numb.

What was my life?

Then-I heard it.

The door again. A soft creak.Terror ignited in my chest. I bolted upright, breath fractured. "I-I'm coming," I stammered, already scrambling off the bed.

But it wasn't him.

It was Richard.

His son.

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him with careful hands. His face was pale-but his eyes...

His eyes were burning.

Not with rage, exactly. Something more dangerous. Something deeper. I never could read him.

He crossed the room slowly. I flinched when he reached for me-but he just steadied me. His hands warm on my arms.Did he...?" He looked at the knife, still quivering in the wall. His jaw tightened. "He threw that?"

I nodded. My eyes stung.

"You're shaking," he said, barely above a whisper. He looked down at me, and for the first time, I saw cracks in that stoic mask he always wore.

"I should've done something," he said. His voice cracked. "Sooner."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small glass vial. The liquid inside was blue, almost glowing.

"Take this," he said, placing it gently in my palm.I stared at it. "What is it?"

"Put it in his drink," he said. "Before you go to him. It'll knock him out. He won't touch you."

My hand trembled. "What if it doesn't work?"

"It will," he said, eyes steady. "You'll be safe."

Safe. The word felt unfamiliar in my mouth. Like tasting a fruit I hadn't known existed.

I looked up at him. "Why are you helping me?"

He hesitated. His gaze flicked away, then returned.

"Because I care," he said, voice raw. "More than I should. And because if he hurts you again-I'll never forgive myself."

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The air between us felt charged. Heavy.Then, he reached up and brushed a strand of hair behind my ear. His touch was gentle. Careful.

"You'll be safe tonight," he said again.

He turned and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

I stood there, holding that tiny bottle, my heart thudding-not from fear, not this time. From something else.

Something like hope.

I got up.

For the first time in weeks, I moved with purpose. I stood in front of the mirror, my hands unsteady as I dabbed perfume along my neck. The one he said made him dizzy.Let him be dizzy, then.

I slipped into silk-not for seduction. For armor. For power. For control.

Every step toward his room felt like walking through water-slow, heavy, but deliberate. My heels didn't click. They whispered.

His room was dim. He was sprawled on the bed, eyes closed-until I stepped inside.

His gaze snapped open. Hunger flared across his face.

He growled, already reaching for me.

"Not yet," I said sweetly. "Let's have some wine."

He narrowed his eyes. Suspicious. Of course. I only ever smiled when I was scared.You can get it yourself," I added. "The good bottles are in the fridge."

I raised my voice. Just enough.

"Richard! Bring a bottle!"

A pause.

Then-footsteps.

The door opened. Richard entered, wine in hand.

Our eyes met. Just for a second. A silent exchange. Then he handed me the bottle, and left without a word.

I poured slowly. The wine curled into the glass like liquid garnet.He took his and drank in greedy gulps. I barely sipped-just enough to wet my lips. Just enough to lie.

I excused myself, went to the bathroom, and spat the wine into the sink. My hands shook. I rinsed until only the sharp sting of mint remained.

In the mirror, I saw a stranger staring back.

When I returned, he was already on the bed. Waiting. Watching.

I barely made it halfway before he lunged.

Hands. Weight. Heat.

Then-something changed.

His movements slowed.Then stopped.

He collapsed. Dead weight, falling off the bed like a puppet cut loose.

The door opened.

Richard.

He didn't say anything. Just walked in like he'd been waiting for the exact moment. Not a second early. Not a beat too late.

He crossed the room, knelt beside me, and-without asking-lifted me into his arms.

I gasped. Not from pain. From him.

The steadiness. The warmth.

I held onto his shirt without meaning to.

He didn't look at his father lying on the floorHe only looked at me.

And whatever was in his eyes-wasn't pity.

It was something more dangerous.

And I wasn't sure I was ready for it.

But I also wasn't sure I wanted him to let go.