She made me a promise once. I remember every word.
I have been patient. I have watched her choose the wrong men, again and again, whilst I waited in plain sight, close enough to touch, careful never to take what she hadn't yet learned to give.
But patience has a limit, and I have found mine.
She thinks she knows what she's afraid of. She has no idea. Every secret she's buried, every hunger she's ashamed of, every dark inch of her she keeps locked away from the men who claim to love her, I already own it. I've been collecting her, piece by piece, for longer than she's been counting.
She belongs to me. She has since before she knew my name.
It's time she found out exactly what that means.