Page 121 of Fated But I Hate Him

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I trace the pattern with my eyes.

I remember every choice. Every bluff. Every quiet tilt of my head that made grown killers twitch in their boots.

I remember being terrified in a locked apartment, once.

I remember feeling like I didn’t own my name, let alone my body.

I remember shaking in a broken chair, praying no one would knock at the door.

And now I shape syndicate policy with a look. Now I enter rooms without a weapon drawn and come out the last one standing.

The Butcher isn’t a shadow anymore. She’s a construct of my making. A banner I wave with intention. A tool I sharpen, then sheathe when it suits me.

And now... she’s going to be someone’smother.

Not because I was punished.

Not because I lost control.

Because I fuckingchose.

Vrok wakes justbefore jump prep, eyes still heavy with sleep, but alert the moment I touch his arm.

“I was dreaming,” he murmurs, voice low.

“Good dream?”

His arms wrap around me again. “You. A desert sky. The sound of a heartbeat that wasn’t mine.”

I don’t say anything.

I don’t need to.

We’re building a life with danger in its margins, not in its foundation. We’re not waiting for peace—we’re carving it, moment by moment.

The galaxy’s still on fire. But we’re no longer burning with it.

We’re lighting a path forward.

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