The Originals were not just a mafia family. They a dynasty that had survived for centuries, their wealth legalized through casinos, bars, clubs, and glittering chains of business across continents. The world whispered the word mafia when their name was spoken, but never dared to say it aloud.
They were feared, yes. Respected, even more. Because unlike others, they had rules. They valued blood, loyalty, and legacy. They didnât betray kin. They didnât desecrate family.
The Fakes were everything they werenât. Brutal. Impatient. Hungry for power without honor. Their empire was built on rotting corpses, illegal chains, trafficking, exploitation. The people feared them tooâbut with loathing. They were parasites pretending to be kings.
The war between the two families had been raging in shadows for decades, but one move from the Fakes changed everything.
The sole heir of the Originals, their purest bloodline, their crown jewel ââ was cursed. A shaman, bought and twisted by the Fakes, laid a dark spell on him. And from that night forward, every sunset brought madness. The calm, cold heir who once commanded with steel eyes now became something else when the moon rose. His chest tightened, his breath broke, and the urge for blood drowned his sanity. He became violent, unhinged, a man shackled to a madness.
The Originals searched for healers, shamans, priests, everything money and influence could buy. Nothing worked. The curse clung to him like a second skin.
Then came the offer.
A proposal from the Fakes, dressed as olive branch, laced with venom. âMarry her,â they said. The only granddaughter, though step-blood, the only female heir on their side. She had grown like a caged bird, innocence preserved only because they never allowed her freedom.
But she was not free of their scheme.
On her back, hidden beneath her soft skin, a cursed tattoo bloomed: an orchid, black as ink. It wasnât just a mark. It was a tether. A chain forged to drive the Originalsâ heir into deeper madness. Around her, his curse would worsenâmad desire. He would crave her. Need her. And in that hunger, the Fakes would play their game.
Either she would break him, making him their puppet. Or, if they willed it, she would be the one to end him, a dagger hidden in the shape of an innocent bride.
And so the stage was set.
The Originals, proud as they were, faced a choice: sacrifice their heir to madness, or accept the poisoned marriage, hoping they could break the curse before it destroyed him.
The ML, torn between the calm control he once embodied and the beast that clawed inside his chest, met her eyes for the first time â and knew. She was his cage, and maybe, just maybe, his salvation.
But she didnât know it yet.
---
The wedding wasnât a celebration. It was a standoff disguised in silk and vows.
Both families dressed in their finest, smiles like knives, guns hidden in coats. The priestâs voice trembled as he recited the sacred words, knowing full well this union wasnât blessed by God but cursed by greed and blood.
She stood there in white, hands trembling, lips pressed together nervously. Her parents had given her nothing but cruelty. They kept her as an ornament, a pawn, raised only because her nanny secretly spent her own earnings to clothe and teach her. NaĂŻve, tender, book-smart but sheltered from real life, she grew up believing people could be good if only she tried harder to be kind.She didnât fully understand mafia politics, didnât know the strings her family had tied around her neck. She only knew she was marrying a man sheâd been told was âher future.â
He stood tall, composed, face unreadable. The sole heir of the Originals. A man who spoke in kindness but ruled with fire. He hated everything about this moment â not because of her, but because of the circus of it all. He hated intimacy. He believed men who fell to lust were weak, ruined. He had lived clean, untouched, devoted only to duty. And now the Fakes had tried to make him bend to it.
When the priest finally whispered, âYou may kiss the bride,â she froze. Her lashes fluttered. She pursed her lips and tilted her face up, innocent, almost childlike in her anticipation.
But he didnât move.
Her eyes opened, wide, confused. A soft sting pressed at her chest. Around them, his cousins chuckled â not mocking her, but her sweetness, her sheer cluelessness in a room filled with snakes. She thought she was being humiliated, but to them, she looked like a lost dove in a den of wolves.
And then, almost like an afterthought, he leaned in. His lips brushed hers â not passion, not tenderness, but enough. Enough to seal the vow, enough to shield her from mockery, enough to remind the room that he could be cruel, but never careless.
She blinked up at him, cheeks red, heart racing. It wasnât much of a kiss, but to her it felt like lightning. To him, it was duty.
Later that night, as they sat in the silence of their gilded cage, she turned to him, voice small. âThank you⊠for kissing me. Even if you didnât want to.â
He looked at her â at the innocence in her eyes, the softness untouched by her familyâs rot.
---
Night had always been his enemy.
When the sun fell, the curse rose in him like a storm. That night was no different â the door bolted, his wrists tied with thick rope, his chest heaving as if fighting invisible demons. His family had learned to keep him locked away once darkness came.
But something was different tonight.
A burning in the air. A sweetness that wasnât sweet at all. A scent, faint yet maddening , curling through his lungs, searing his veins. His body convulsed, the ropes biting into his skin, tearing bruises into his flesh.
The tattoo on her back burned, releasing a scent unseen but heavy, filling the mansion like smoke only he could smell. It clawed through his veins, driving him mad. He tore through the restraints, skin ripping, bloodied hands clawing at stone until he was free. He followed the scent.
And it led him to his own chambers.
She was sitting on his bed, quiet, dressed in a pale gown far too thin, too deliberate. Something her cruel mother had put her in â a mockery of innocence. The fabric clung to her like a whispered sin.
The orchid tattoo on her back burned, unseen but alive, releasing that cursed scent that made his pulse rage. She didnât understand why her skin ached, why her body felt feverish. She thought it was nerves, marriage jitters. But it wasnât. She was the trigger.
He staggered inside.His chest was heaving, his hands raw and bloodied from the ropes. His eyes â wild, dark, not the calm, kind man she had seen at the altar. He was shaking, lips parted as though every breath was a plea.
âDonâtâŠâ His voice broke. âDonât move.â
She froze, her innocence making her obedience instant. He stumbled closer, every step trembling between restraint and collapse. His hand reached out, stopped midway, clenched into a fist.
The curse screamed in his blood: Touch her. Claim her. Destroy her.
But somewhere, the real him was still fighting, dragging himself against the tide. He was on his knees before her, forehead pressed against the mattress in rebel.
âPlease,â he whispered, voice shaking. âPlease donât let me⊠break you.â
Her wide eyes filled with confusion, pity, and something she couldnât name. He looked less like a monster and more like a man burning alive in his own skin.
The madness clawed at him harder. His body leaned forward, lips brushing air inches from her skin, his hands trembling as if every nerve was on fire.
Control was slipping. And he knew it.
His eyes were wrongâwild, bloodshot, molten with hunger.
She sat on the bed, small and uncertain in that silk gown her mother had pressed on her with cold insistence, though she didnât understand the mechanics of curses, she knew one thingâhe was here for her.
âDonâtâŠâ
He didnât finish, because his body betrayed him. His feet dragged forward, pulled by something deeper than will. His gaze locked on her like she was the only water in a desert.
She swallowed hard, fists clenching in her lap. Fear made her throat dry, but pity, foolish pity, rose stronger. He wasnât a monster. Not really. He was a man bound, suffering, begging.
âDonât let me touch you,â he whispered, voice cracking. âIf I touch you, I wonât stop.â
Her chest ached. He wasnât snarling, wasnât threatening. He was begging. And that was worse.
Her hand moved on its own. Small fingers brushed against his jaw, feather-light, as if testing whether he was still real beneath the madness.
He snapped.
With a guttural sound, he surged up, capturing her in his arms, burying his face against her neck. She stiffened, but the moment his skin touched hers, the fire in his body eased, if only for a heartbeat.
âYou donât know,â he whispered against her skin, voice trembling with desire and hunger. âYou donât know what youâre doing to me.â
Her lips parted, but no words came. And then his mouth claimed hersârough,nothing like the tender kisses she had dreamt of, but searing, consuming, leaving her trembling as if her soul had been set alight.
She wanted to resist. She wanted to tell him this wasnât real, it was curse, manipulation, madness. But when his hands clutched her like she was the only thing anchoring him to earth, she couldnât push him away.
âTell me to stop,â he begged, forehead pressed to hers, his entire body shaking.
She couldnât.
And so she let him lead her into the dark, his lips tracing fire across her skin, his hands trembling as they slid over her, half worship, half desperation. She yielded, not because she was powerless, but because in that moment, she believed only she could save him from drowning in the curse.
It wasnât even choice. It was need, hunger, and tragedy binding them tighter than vows ever could.
And somewhere in the shadows, the curse laughed.
---
Morning light seeped into the room, pale and unkind. He stirred first, his body aching as though heâd wrestled demons all night. His hands were raw, bruised from the broken ropes, his lips swollen, his chest heaving with the memory of fevered hunger.
And then he felt her.
She was curled beside him, hair spilling over his arm, her skin darkly flushed where his mouth had been. The silk gown lay in tatters around her, a silent testimony to his loss of control.
His stomach twisted, nausea rising like bile.
What have I done?
He sat up sharply, dragging a hand through his hair, heart pounding. The flashes of the night came back in shardsâher lips trembling under his, her gasp when his teeth grazed her neck, the way her small body trembled but never pushed him away.
And worst of allâthe way he hadnât stopped.
His hands trembled as he clutched at the sheets, unable to meet her sleeping face. âI⊠forced her,â he whispered to himself, the words like poison. âI stole from her. Her choice. Her innocence.â
The man who had lived his life by discipline and restraint, now saw himself as nothing more than a sinner.
When she stirred, blinking awake, she found him sitting at the edge of the bed, shoulders stiff, head bowed like a criminal awaiting sentence.
âGood morning,â she whispered softly, voice still hoarse from the night.
He flinched. The words pierced him like knives. He couldnât bear the innocence in her tone, couldnât reconcile it with what he believed heâd done.
âYou shouldnât speak to me like that,â he muttered harshly, though his voice cracked. âYou should hate me. Despise me. Iforced you."
She frowned, sitting up slowly, pulling the blanket to her chest. âYou didnât⊠force me.â
Her words were simple, but he refused them. âDonât defend me,â he snapped, his jaw tight. âYou donât even know what I became last night. Iââ His voice broke, and he covered his face with his hands. âI was a beast. You deserved better.â
She hesitated. Her heart ached at the sight of himâthis man who had terrified her hours ago, now trembling like a boy whoâd lost himself. She reached out, laying a tentative hand on his back.
âYou didnât forced me,â she whispered. âI gave myself.â
He stiffened, his breath catching. For a long time he said nothing, then shook his head violently. âNo. Donât lie to make me feel less damned. Iâll bear this sin. Iâll keep my distance from you.â
And so he stood, pulling on his coat with shaking hands, leaving her in the bed they had shared, his heart heavier than any curse could make it.
She watched him go, torn between the memory of his desperation and the truth in her heartâthat she hadnât felt stolen. She had felt⊠needed.
But he would never believe it.
Not yet.
For nearly a month, he didnât touch her. Not a kiss, not a brush of fingers, not even a glance that lingered too long. He spoke to her only in clipped tones, as if politeness could erase the memory of his mouth on hers, the way she had trembled and yet pulled him closer.
At night, he disappeared. She learnedâby whispers in corridors, by bloodied coats left in basinsâthat he had been bathing in bloodlust. Every criminal dragged out of the cityâs underbelly was another body for him to release his hunger on. Every night he returned with new wounds,and eyes just a little more hollow.
But the headaches grew worse. The scent of her lingered even when she was across the hall, and sometimes, in the middle of his meetings, his chest would clench with need so strong heâd have to excuse himself before he lose control.
And sheâshe noticed.
At first, she thought his coldness meant rejection. That he regretted the night they had shared. And it broke her, because she wasnât built for half-measures. She was depraved in the way only the lonely are: give her a drop of love, and sheâd drown in it, surrendering whole.
So she tried. Tried to close the distance in her silly, clumsy ways.
She baked for him once, burning the crust so badly even the servants couldnât eat it. He ate it anyway, jaw tight, because she smiled at him like it was the finest meal in the world.
She wandered the halls humming, tripping over carpets, pouting when his cousins laughed, only to laugh along with them a heartbeat later. What seemed at first like playactingâthat kind of false sweetness people wear as a maskâproved to be her true nature. She wasnât calculating. She wasnât pretending. She was just⊠like that.
And one by one, the household began to soften. Even the uncles who had raised their brows at her clumsiness began to chuckle when she spilled tea or tugged at her husbandâs sleeve to whisper some ridiculous thought.
But him. He stayed distant.
Or tried to.
Because every night, when the moon rose and the curse clawed at his veins, it wasnât criminals he wanted. It wasnât blood.
It was her.
The mere sight of her sitting cross-legged on the bed, hair falling over her face as she read aloud from her books in her uneven voice, was enough to unravel him. His fingers would curl against his knees, his jaw clenched until it hurt.
He thought distance would save her. But every day he starved himself of her, the madness dug deeper, waiting for the moment it could break free and claim her again.
And sheânaive, silly, depraved in her own wayâwas waiting, too. Waiting for the day he would finally realize she had already given herself, completely, without hesitation.
The full moon hung heavy over the city, casting silver light through the narrow windows.
She couldnât stay in her room. The fever of tattoo clawed at her chest, pulling her toward him with a need she didnât understand. Each step she took was driven by a force bigger than her will. By the time she reached the corridor, she saw him returning, drenched in blood, muscles tense, hands clenched like iron.
It should have been horrifying. It should have made her stumble back in fear.
But it didnât.
Maybe it was trust. Maybe it was the curse fever clouding their judgment. Maybe, deep down, she recognized the beast as still himâthe man she loved, and feared, and wanted all at once.
He saw her.
And in that instant, everything else disappeared.
His pace quickened, every step pounding against the floor. His right-hand man moved to intervene, to keep her safe, but the sight of another man near her sent his madness spiraling. He could feel the raw, unbridled desire clawing through his chest, the curse twisting it into something feral. He nearly choked the man with his bare hands, the thought of anyone touching his woman igniting a violent, possessive storm.
âI need youâ she said softly, almost breathless, as he reached her.
He didnât answer. He simply took her into his arms, dragging her into the room, ignoring the echoes of her whispered protests.
âI donât like blood,â she said, concern lacing her voice.
He froze for the barest second, then reacted, gripping her waist and pulling her under the warm spray of the shower. Water poured over them, steam curling like smoke around their bodies. His hands roamed with a need that was half curse, half hidden instinct, tracing the lines of her body as though memorizing them.
She gasped, shivering against him, hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.
The room echoed with the sound of their hunger: gasps, whispered names, teeth brushing skin, a roughness that was both raw and tender. It wasnât playful.It was filthy, fierce. The hidden lust he had restrained all his lifeâthe darker, untamed part of himâwas erupting in a way that was desperate and unrelenting.
She felt it all, and instead of fear, something inside her shivered with satisfaction. For the first time, she realized he listened to her, in fragments, like a beast understanding human language. Not enough to obey, not enough to bend, but enough to recognize her as herself.
Every thrust, every kiss, every whispered growl carried both madness and recognition, and when it was over, they collapsed together, aching and sticky, the water running cold over their bodies.
She held him close, pressing her face into his shoulder, feeling his heartbeat hammering against her. She didnât yet know which part of this was the curse, which part was him. But for once, she didnât care.
He breathed ragged, head bowed over her, hands still gripping her sides like he was afraid she might vanish if he let go. And in that moment, they were both lost to something larger than themselvesâlust, madness, obsession, loveâall tangled together, impossible to separate, impossible to resist.
The nights became a rhythm neither could escape.
Whenever the moon rose, he would appearâsometimes bloody from the cityâs underworld, sometimes pale and trembling from the fight to restrain himselfâbut always, always, his eyes found her. And when they did, nothing else existed. Not the rage. Not the blood. Only her.
She learned him, piece by piece: the way he trembled before touching her, the way his voiceâlow, rough, tainted with both lust and desperationâspoke things that made her shiver, words she didnât think sheâd hear from anyone. Dirty, commanding, utterly unrestrained. And yet⊠he never hurt her. Not truly. Not intentionally.
The family watched from the shadows, convinced she was the cure, for their heirâs madness. They stationed guards, kept records, whispered in secret. And on nights when she came near him, their theories seemed to hold true. He clung to her, breathed her in, let her guide him even while the curse writhed within him, tugging at his mind, his morality, his very soul.
For her, it was intoxicating. She didnât see curse or madnessâshe saw him. The man she had come to love, whose ferocity became tenderness whenever he faced her. Even in the rough, cruel heat of his touch, she felt reality. She felt him. She could feel the truth in his dirty words, in the growls that came from a place deeper than magic could reach.
Months passed, and the curse was no longer confined to night. It leaked into the day, subtle as poison: headaches, anger simmering beneath his controlled demeanor, flashes of obsession at the mere thought of her. His family frettedâtoo late to stop the pull. She had begun to accompany him, traveling beside him, watching him command his empire with cold precision⊠but when he glanced her way, the storm inside him always bent to her. She could see the hunger, the obsession, the madnessâbut also the restraint. With her, he would never rise above her, never harm her. He was hers, in every sense the curse could twist, yet still human enough to love herâor think he did.
And the fakes...They watched, bated breath, convinced their puppet scheme was unfolding. They did not understand one crucial thing: he was no longer theirs to control. He could be pulled in a thousand directionsâmadness, bloodlust, lust, loveâbut for her alone, he was tethered, a storm contained in her arms.
Even he could not distinguish the line anymore. Was his need her? Was it the curse? Was it desire, obsession, or love? He didnât know. But she did. She gave herself entirely, willingly, loving him in all his darkness, in all his madness, in all the ways he could be dangerousâand she trusted that he, in turn, would always protect her.
---
She had thought she knew cruelty. She had lived it quietly in her parentsâ shadow, endured it in hushed tones. But nothing prepared her for the truth she overheard that day.
Her motherâs voice, sweet and poisonous, floated through the marble halls of the fake family mansion.
âSoon, he will be mine to destroy,â the woman said. âEvery moment with her, every touch, every glanceâpoisoning him further. The curse is strong, and she doesnât even know what she is doing. One day, it will consume him entirely.â
She froze, heart clenching. Poisoning him? Consuming him? Her own motherâwho had feigned concern for her all these months since her marriageâwas plotting against the man she loved. Against her.
She had loved him. Every word, every laugh, every stolen moment in the madness of their nights together⊠had it been real? Or had the curse shaped his desire, warped it into something cruel?
The thought split her chest like glass. She could feel the fractures of her heart spiderwebbing, every shard piercing deeper as reality sank in. He was falling into madness because of her. Because of her alone. And she⊠she was nothing to her own family. Just a vessel, a tool, a pawn to a scheme she had never agreed to.
The halls felt colder, the chandeliers dimmer, the laughter of the fakes echoing like mockery in her ears. She didnât know where to turn, didnât know how to fix what she had helped create in her innocent desire to give him herself.
Then she rememberedâthe shaman. The one originals had been searching for. The woman who had carved the tattoo into her back, who had intensified the curse. The woman who might undo this nightmare.
She raced to find her, desperation fueling her steps, only to reach the place and find⊠nothing. Gone. As if she had been a ghost that never existed, leaving no trace, no instruction, no hope.
The walls seemed to close in, the world narrowing to the pounding of her own heart. He was out thereâmadness rising, desire unchained, obsession bending realityâand she was helpless. Alone. Forsaken.
And the cruelest thought of all: every moment she had loved him, every tiny spark of tenderness, every whispered confession, might have been a lie. The curse had written their love story, and she was the unwilling author of his descent.
-----
She returned home, each step heavier than the last, her motherâs words still echoing viciously in her mind. âWrap him around your fingers⊠make him yoursâŠâ the woman had hissed. But she was too stunned, too horrified to even respond. How could she do such a thing to a man who had given her everything.
The door opened, and she barely had a moment to think.
He was there. His arms wrapped around her in a forceful hug, almost crushing. The hall behind them was chaos incarnateâhis cousins nursing bruised ribs from fists he hadnât restrained, lips split, chairs overturned, the echoes of a man in fury reverberating through the mansion. Even his parents looked helpless, their authority shattered by the storm that was their beloved son.
All she felt was guilt. Every pang, every sob rising unbidden from her chest, as if the world itself blamed her. She collapsed into his arms, shaking.
âStop⊠I⊠IâŠâ she stammered, unable to form a coherent sentence.
Her breaking only worsened him. She could feel itâthe surge of murderous rage that had already painted the hall with pain, the same energy that had sent his cousin flying. His grip tightened, yet not to harm her. He was careful, deliberate, even in his fury.
âDonât cry,â he growled, low and raw, voice rough with both madness and despair. âItâs not⊠itâs not your fault.â
She looked up, eyes wide, and saw it: the storm of obsession and curse fueled need mixed with genuine desperation. He didnât want to harm her. He couldnât.
With surprising care, he guided her into his room, still holding her tightly, eyes locking onto hers. âLook at me,â he demanded softly, yet with the weight of every night he had spent leashed and starving. âItâs only you. Only ever you.â
Her sobs caught in her throat .She could barely breathe, tears streaking her face as she collapsed into the storm of his arms.
âI⊠I love you,â she gasped, voice broken and ragged. âIâve loved you from the very first moment. Every look, every touch, every word⊠Iâve cherished it. But⊠itâs a lie, isnât it?â
He tensed, feeling her words cut sharper than any blade.
âYou⊠you donât love me,â she continued, voice rising through her sobs. âItâs⊠itâs the curse! That madness that grips you at night⊠that obsession⊠that need⊠thatâs not you! How could it be? How could someone be kind, someone capable of tenderness and care, when their own bloodâyour familyâtrains them in cruelty? When my own parents⊠when they treat me like Iâm nothing, just a vessel, just a tool to satisfy greed and schemesâŠ?â
Her hands gripped him as though she could hold him together with sheer will, but even that failed. âHow⊠how could you ever have loved me? How could any of it be real if every moment of care, every touch, every word is forged by magic, by curse, by someone elseâs manipulation?!â
She sobbed harder, shaking violently. âI⊠I want to believe itâs real! I want to believe itâs you! But how? How can I? Everything is⊠poison! Everything is a trap!â
The room seemed to shrink, the air thick with despair. Even his madnessâthe beastly, violent needâpaused, as if struck by the raw honesty of her pain. He could feel her love radiating, full and unguarded, yet twisted in agony because she knew, or feared, that his feelings might not be his own.
Her words hit him like fire poured into his veins. For a heartbeat, he felt strippedâbare, raw, as if she had torn away his armor and left only the beast trembling inside.
How could it be possible? How could every glance, every stolen smile, every time he had caught her silliness and thought her adorableâhow could that not be real? He remembered the way sheâd reach out when the madness had him cornered, when even his own blood turned away, afraid. Everyone ran. Everyone looked at him like he was a monster. But she⊠she came closer. She touched him. She held him.
That wasnât the curse, was it?
His chest heaved, heart hammering like a caged animal desperate for release. Yet the curse coiled tighter, whispering, seething, pressing madness into his thoughts. He felt the violence rise in him like a tideâanger at her words, anger at himself, anger at this invisible chain that twisted everything.
âIââ His voice cracked,growl His fingers dug into his own hair as though he could claw the curse out with bare hands. âI donât know whatâs real anymore!â His shout was feral, ragged, desperate.
But deep in the mess of madness, there was one thing that burned steady: her. Always her.
And yet, the curseâs grip was relentless, pushing, twisting. It told him he needed her because of it. That his hunger for her wasnât his own but something stitched into his bones by dark magic. That when the curse broke, he wouldnât need her at all.
He froze at that thought. The silence in his head after it was deafening.
If it was true⊠if it was the curse that bound him to her⊠then what was left of him without it?
She saw it in his eyesâthe war, the torment, the creeping realization that once the curse shattered, he might not feel the same. That was the knife that gutted her: not the beastly madness of the nights, not the violence, not even the cursed lust. It was the possibility that his love⊠wasnât his at all.
Her tears fell harder, not just for herself, but for himâfor this man who didnât know which part of him was real, and which was shackled by a darkness neither of them asked for.
And for the first time, she felt haunted... by the thought of a future where he woke free⊠and no longer wanted her.
Even in the chaos, they gave in. The night was thick with desire, raw and desperate, but beneath it pulsed a painful truthâpleasure tinged with terror, love laced with fear. She clung to him, tried to anchor him, yet every touch, every gasp, carried the shadow of the curse.
Morning came too soon. She awoke to find him⊠different. His eyes, wild and unfocused, flicked only to her. Every movement was erratic, unnerving. He followed her like insane man ignoring everyone else in the mansion.
Family membersâblood relatives who had once shared laughter and strategy with himâlooked on, helpless. Their hearts ached as they saw the man they once knew reduced to a predator of his own mind, the curse consumed him whole. Just a few years ago, he had been steady, disciplined, precise. Now, nothing remained but the animal.
She swallowed her fear, steadied her shaking hands, and faced them all. âI⊠I caused this,â she said quietly, firmly, though her heart pounded like a drum. âI have to help him. I canât⊠I wonât let him suffer like this.â
Her confession and resolve stirred something in his parentsâtheir guilt, their fear, their desperation. The search for a solution intensified. Every scroll, every whisper, every lead on the shaman was pursued with newfound urgency.
It was the originalsâthose who had protected the true line of the familyâwho finally acted. Leaving aside treaties and diplomacy, they launched an assault on the fakes. The battle was brutal. Even weakened by their leaderâs illness, they overcame the impostersâ defenses, dismantling their schemes brick by brick. They knew the curse was keyâits threads woven not only into him but also into the girl they now realized was the unintentional anchor of the chaos.
At last, the shaman was found. She was wary, hardened by the very curse she had unleashed. Undoing it was no simple act; it had cost her dearly, carved scars into her body and soul. She eyed the girl and the heir with a mixture of suspicion and exasperation. âYou think itâs just a spell,â she said, voice sharp.
Yet the girl stood resolute, unwavering. She had seen the abyss, held him in it, and would not step back now. Whatever the shaman demanded, she was ready.
The candles flickered, shadows stretching long across the walls. The shamanâs voice cut through the silence, low and measured. âThis curse⊠it does not leave lightly. To undo it, his mind will be wiped cleanâevery memory of you, might be gone."
Her heart tightened at the words. She knew that once the ritual was done, he would awaken without a trace of the love that had grown through chaos and curse.
The orchid tattoo pulsed violently on her back, a living conduit of the magic that had driven him to insanity.The shamanâs knife glinted sharply, not to wound her permanently, but to sever the magical threads tied to his consciousness. With every careful incision, pain lanced through her nerves, but it was nothing compared to the knowledge of what he would loseâwhat she would lose.
He watched from the doorway, restrained, maddened by the residual pull of the curseâs energy. Each heartbeat of hers sent flashes of instinctive recognition through him, but the pull would not last. He wanted to run, to reach her, to destroy anything that hurt her, yet the shamanâs power held him in check.
The ritual dragged on, each minute stretching into agony. As the final words of the incantation were spoken, the curseâs energy surged violently, then dissipated like smoke escaping into the night. Her body trembled, and his chest heaved as if he had been submerged underwater for hours.
The last echoes of the shamanâs chant faded into the stillness of the room. The orchid tattoo on her back was gone, replaced by faint, jagged scars. She breathed shakily, every nerve raw from the pain and the tension of the past months.
He lay in front of her, completely still. His chest rose and fell gently, the tight lines of madness that had haunted him now vanished. He was free from the curse, yesâbut he had lost all memory of her.
She sank to her knees beside him, trembling. The weight of everything crashed down on her at once. She couldnât help the tears that fell, hot and unrelenting, streaking across her face.
âI⊠I did this,â she whispered, her voice cracking. âI saved you⊠but Iâm gone from your mind.â
Her fingers hovered over his hand, trembling, afraid to touch him yet desperate for some connection. He stirred slightly in his sleep, a faint murmur escaping his lips, but there was no reaction to her presence.
The tension in the room, in her chest, broke like a dam. She let herself collapse fully beside him, pressing her face to the cool fabric of his shirt, letting her sobs shake her body. For the first time, she allowed herself to feel the full weight of loss: the curse was gone, but so was the man she had loved.
She held onto him anyway, she whispered a promise only she could keep:
âIâll remember⊠Iâll keep you, even if you forget me.â
The morning sunlight slanted through the curtains, warm yet cruel. She sat quietly, lost in thought, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, replaying the last weekâs events, the pain, the scars, the ritual that had freed him from the curse. She had hoped, naively, that when he woke, even if his memories were gone, there would be some traceâsome instinct, some recognition.
The moment came. His eyes opened slowly, blinking against the light. He sat up, scanning the room, taking in the familiar surroundings with the blankness of someone seeing the world for the first time.
The whole family had gathered, watching silently, the tension in the room palpable. The shamanâs warning still lingered in the back of everyoneâs minds -do not force him to remember. His mother cleared her throat gently, voice trembling, âHe⊠this is your wife.â
The words fell like stones. His eyes widened, and the color drained from his face. He looked at her, at her stillness, at her hopeful, aching presenceâand recoiled. Horror twisted across his features, a violent, visceral reaction.
âWhat⊠what is this?â he demanded, voice shaking with disbelief, panic, and fury. âThis⊠this is a lie! I neverânever wanted this. I neverââ
Every word, every inflection cut into her chest like glass. She could see itâno warmth, no recognition. His reaction was pure shock, rejection, horror.
She crumpled slightly, tears brimming, realizing the full scope of it. The love she had felt, nurtured through months of madness and desire, had never truly existed in his mind. It had been illusion, conjured by the curse, fed by magic, nothing more.
Her optimism shattered like porcelain. She wanted to speak, to beg, to tell him that she was real, that she loved himâyet even as the words trembled on her lips, she knew it was meaningless. He could not hear her. Not yet.
He stood abruptly, anger flashing, body rigid, as if the world itself had betrayed him. âIâ I neverââ His words stopped, drowned in the sheer panic of confronting a bond he had never chosen.
She looked down, her heart breaking quietly. Yet,she stayed, though wounded, because somehow, somewhere, a fragment of her still believed in the man behind the mind, in the man who had once burned with madness and desire for herâeven if now, he could not remember it.
She had to accept it: the curse had given her moments that were never real, and now reality, cold and merciless, stood between them.
The days after he woke were a delicate, painful dance. He moved through the house like a man unfamiliar with his own life, eyes flicking over rooms, objects, and faces he should have known, but did not. Memories that once defined himâthe last few years of his life, the moments with herâwere gone.
His family, painfully aware of the shamanâs warning, kept silent about the true nature of what had happened. They could not mention for fear of triggering fragments that might turn him unstable again. Instead, they tried carefully, painstakingly, to orient him to the world he had lost: his home, his responsibilities, even his marriage.
He was shown pictures, videos, the proof of the life they had shared. The wedding, the quiet moments, the laughter caught in fleeting framesâall evidence of a bond his mind no longer remembered. His chest would tighten, heart racing, inexplicable emotions swirling inside him. Some moments felt strangely familiar, a fleeting warmth that tugged at himâbut every time he reached for clarity, the memory slipped, leaving only confusion. His lips parted, then closed again, as if tasting a truth he could not swallow.
Sometimes, watching the videos of them together, a rush of heart-pounding emotion surged through himâan instinctive recognition that left him both breathless and anxious. Yet when he looked at her in the flesh, the one who had lived every stolen, cursed night with him, there was nothing in his mind to connect the warmth of the video to the woman standing before him.
For her, it was torture. She was desperate to be near him. But every step toward him, every attempt to bridge the gulf, felt futile. The man she had loved was gone. In his place was a stranger with her face, her name, her touch, but none of the history that had made their bond real.
He asked her, almost clinically, how they met. She told him everything â from the first time she entered his life, to the curse, to their marriage. She painted the picture gently, leaving out the darker edges, but her voice trembled when she spoke of how he used to cling to her as if she were his only cure.
He listened quietly, eyes narrowing, skeptical.
âintimacy? Make outs?â he scoffed when she hinted at their closeness. âNo. I donât believe that. Iâve lived my life on discipline. I swore never to give in to lust.. You say I submitted? That Iââ he shook his head, sharp, almost offended, ââI know myself better than that. I would never lose to such weakness.â
Her throat closed up, because she remembered every scar he left on her skin, every night he whispered filthy words with fevered hunger, every morning he held her as though she was his anchor. And here he was, denying it all as if it were some nightmare she fabricated.
Then he softened, but only a little. âI donât feel anything for you. No pull. No warmth. Only⊠this.â He touched his temple, where dull headaches still lingered. âSickness. Fog. As if something in me doesnât fit. But you? You donât feel like mine. Not in hereââ he tapped his chest, steady.
Her lips trembled, but she forced a smile. âMaybe youâre right. Maybe it was never love. Maybe it was only the curse.â
But her heart was screaming, No, it was real. I loved you. You loved me. Even if you donât remember, it was real.
He said the word like a bladeâdivorceâclean, logical, final. It was the simplest answer for a man who trusted plans and resolutions: cut the loose thread, remove the variable, protect the life he thought he wanted. Heâd convinced himself it was mercifulâbetter to be honest and end what he couldnât feel than to keep her tied to a husband who didnât remember her.
His parents stared at him for a long minute that felt like a judgement. They had watched the months of ruin and the ritualâs cost; they had watched the madness strip him and saw, too, the girl who had bled for his cure. Their faces were older now, lined by guilt and fear.
âYou want to walk away?â his father said at last, small and incredulous. âAfter what happened? After she stood there andââ He stopped, because no one could finish that sentence without the shame showing on their faces.
His mother folded her hands, voice steady but fierce. âListen to me, son. You are not thinking straight. Not yet. The shaman warned usâdo not speak of the curse. But that does not mean we turn away from what is real.â
she gave out some cd from cabinate which was solely for observation purpose but now show told. "Watch them-- âWatch how you reach for her in the footage, how your hand finds hers without hesitation, how you laugh when she does something embarrassing. These are not lies she told to herself. These are you. You couldnât bear to be apart from her; you walked with her; you fed her burnt bread because she smiled. Are those acts of a man who never loved?â
He sat very still. The room filled with the small, mundane sounds of a life reconstructed on screens. The footage was ordinary and therefore unbearable.
âI donât remember,â he said finally, the words scraping out of him. They were not accusation so much as confession. âI feel nothing but hollowness and these headaches. Sometimesââ He stopped, swallowed. âSometimes the footage makes my heart race, but I cannot tell if that is instinct or⊠residue.â He looked at his mother. âHow am I to trust that these emotions are mine and not the echo of what the curse forced on me?â
His motherâs eyes softened. She reached across the table and put her hand over his. âYou will not be forced,â she said. âYou will not be told to pretend. But you will give it time.Watch, speak to her, ask questions, let the small things teach you. Do not decide on divorce from the first shock.â
His father added, quieter: âYou do not owe her memory, perhaps. But you owe honesty. Try to talk, not because we command you, but because you deserve to know who you are now. If there is any man left in you who remembers what he found compelling about her onceâif that man wakesâwill you walk from him without trying?â
He ran his fingers over the photos he couldnât remember taking. He felt the pull of something not-quite-him in his chest,irrational pebble of curiosityâan ache that might be the ghost of love, or the last shreds of the man he had been.
âFine,â he said at last, voice hollow but resigned.
Sheâwatching from the doorwayâfelt as if the world might finally tilt back into some shape. He had not promised to love again, nor to believe her. He had only agreed to try.
It was a fragile truce: for now, she would not be abandoned, and he would not be pushed into a decision made out of confusion.The house around themâonce a battlefield, then a hospital for madnessâbecame a place for slow, intentional conversation, a space where the truth would have to be rebuilt piece by patient piece.
He tried. Awkwardly, stiffly, like a man walking in shoes that didnât fit. At first it was habitâshe sat beside him at meals, so he let her; she talked softly about small things, so he listened, silent but not leaving. He didnât love herânot in the way he thought love should feel, sharp and clear and undeniable. But he grew used to her.
Every night when he slept, she curled closer, her lips pressing feather-light kisses across his brow, his cheek, his jaw. Sometimes her fingers traced the faint scar where his madness had left its mark, and sheâd whisper in the dark, âCome back to me, please.â She felt pathetic, weak, even shameful for giving so much when she received so little. But she couldnât stop. Her heart was a stubborn, desperate thing, and if he couldnât remember loving her, then she would make him fall againâslowly, patiently, no matter how much it broke her.
He sensed something. Sometimes, half-dreaming, heâd stir and catch a warmth in the darkâan odd peace that didnât match the emptiness in his waking hours.
In his mind, she was still a stranger his parents swore was his wife. But in his body, in his habits, in the quiet rhythms of living, she was already there.
It was a quiet night. He had been reading, a finance report open in his hands, but the words blurred after a while. The house was too stillâtoo heavy with unspoken things. He heard her breathing, soft and even, from the other side of the bed. She had fallen asleep curled slightly toward him, lashes casting shadows on her cheeks, her hand resting limply between them like she had been reaching out but lost courage halfway.
He told himself to ignore it. To close the file, turn off the lamp, and sleep. But his eyes kept drifting to that small hand. Fragile. Patient. Waiting.
Without thinking, he shifted, his fingers brushing against hers. It was instinctâlike muscle memory he didnât understand. The moment he felt her warmth, something jolted in his chest. A strange familiarity, deep and buried, like dĂ©jĂ vu. His hand tightened before he could stop it, holding hers.
She stirred faintly, not waking, but her lips curved in the smallest smile, as if she had been waiting all this time for him to reach back.
He froze, heart racing, caught between denial and longing. He should have let go. He wanted to let go. But he didnât. For the first time since heâd woken up cursed-empty, he felt⊠less hollow.
And in that silence, he realized something terrifying: maybe, just maybe, his heart remembered what his mind had forgotten.
The night stretched on, heavy and still. He had promised himself distanceâpromised logic, restraint, boundaries. Yet as he lay there, watching the rise and fall of her breathing, something in him betrayed that resolve.
His body moved before his mind caught up. Slowly, unconsciously, he leaned toward her. The faint scent of her hairâsoft, unassumingâpulled him closer. For a heartbeat he hovered there, his lips just a breath away from her temple, his hand still tangled with hers.
He stayed there for a moment, close enough to feel the warmth of her skin, close enough that if she woke, he wouldnât have an excuse.
Then he shut his eyes tightly, swallowing hard, and stilled.By the time sleep finally claimed him, he was still bent toward her, caught in that space between denial and surrender.
The morning sun slipped through the curtains, soft and golden. She stirred first, warm, cocooned, and then realizedâshe wasnât lying alone. His arm was around her waist, his chest rising steady against her back.
For a second she froze, afraid it was a dream. But noâit was real. He had pulled her into him sometime in the night. The thought made her heart burst wide open.
She turned slowly, facing him. His lashes flickered, his breath even, and she couldnât help herself. The joy was too big for her small body to contain.
She peppered him with kissesâhis cheek, his jaw, his lips, quick little flutters of devotion. âI missed this,â she whispered between each one, her voice trembling with happiness. âI missed you, I missed usâŠâ
He blinked awake under the onslaught, startled at first, but then stilled. His heart hammered so fast it almost scared him. He wanted to stop herâsay something rational, something that reminded them both of the distance he had set.
But he couldnât. Instead, he lay there, stunned and alive all at once, his pulse skittering wildly. He didnât admit itânot to her, not even to himselfâbut God, he liked it.
That night after his first return to the fieldâstanding in blood, smoke, and the echo of dying menâhe came home quieter than ever. Everyone thought it was fatigue. Only he knew it wasnât.
Sleep did not bring rest. It dragged him into a fever-dream, half-nightmare, half-ecstasy. He saw himself drenched in crimson, but instead of fear there was hunger. A terrible, ravenous hunger.
And thenâher. Always her.
The carnage melted into the shape of her body, soft, glowing against his darkness. Her touch replaced the knives, her scent drowned the stench of iron. She whispered love in his ear, but heâGod help himâheard filth pour from his own mouth, words he never thought himself capable of, claiming her like she was air and heâd been choking all his life.
He dreamt of biting her shoulder, leaving marks down her skin, his hands gripping, his body desperate. In that fever, he couldnât breathe without her. Couldnât live without her. She was both salvation and ruin, the only thing that calmed his madness and the very fire that fed it.
When he woke, his sheets clung damp to his skin, his chest heaving. His hands shookâhe didnât know if from shame or from restraint. But worse was the ache in his body, the heat coiled low, unbearable.
And then he looked across the room.
She was there, curled in her side of the bed, hair fanned across the pillow, breathing gently as if nothing in the world could harm her.
His pulse slammed in his throat. He couldnât look away. His dream still painted her naked in his arms, still echoed her moans and his ragged pleas.
He dragged a hand over his face, trembling. What the hell was happening to him?
Because the truth was undeniable now. He wasnât only haunted by blood. He was haunted by her.
The next day, he couldnât even look her in the eyes without seeing flashes of that dream. Her laugh made his chest tighten; the brush of her fingers when she set a cup of tea by his hand nearly undid him.
So he built a wall.
To her, it felt like rejection. She didnât understandâhow could she? She thought maybe sheâd been too eager, too affectionate, too much. That maybe his heart was finally drifting away for good.
But for him, it was torment of another kind.
He told himself over and over: I am not like that. I am not some beast that thinks in filth. I am not a man who devours. Virtue was his creed, discipline his armor. And yet the memory of her bare skin in his dream burned hotter than anything he had felt in waking life.
The more he tried to run from it, the sharper the hunger dug its claws into him. It wasnât just desireâit was obsession, wild and choking. And the cruelest part was this: he had no one to blame but himself.
Every time he avoided her gaze, her soft confusion cut him deeper. Every night he turned from her warmth, he felt a little more like a liar.
Because despite his walls, despite his desperate effort to be a virtuous man⊠every inch of him wanted her
She snapped one evening, unable to keep swallowing the ache of his distance. He had just turned away again, brushing past her in the hall like she was smoke.
âWhy are you doing this?â she burst out, voice trembling but fierce. âEvery time I reach for you, you push me further away. Am I that unbearable to you?â
He froze, shoulders stiff. His silence was worse than a blow.
Her eyes glistened, anger mixing with hurt. âIâm trying, you know. Every night, every momentâIâm trying to make you see me, to love me again. But you⊠you look at me like Iâm something to be avoided. Why?â
The dam inside him split. He turned sharply, jaw tight, eyes burning with something darker than she had ever seen.
âYou donât understand,â he said hoarsely. âI canât⊠I canât be near you without wanting more than I should.â
Her breath caught.
He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated, pacing like a man caged. âAll my life, I kept myself clean from that kind of weakness. I swore I wouldnât be a slave to desire. And then youââ He broke off, swallowing hard. His gaze pinned her, raw and unguarded. âYou undo me. I dream of you, I ache for you. Itâs crazy.And if I let it consume me, Iâll ruin myself."
The room was heavy with silence. Her shock gave way to something softer, trembling.
âThen why,â she whispered, stepping closer, âare you fighting the one thing I want too?â
His breath hitched. He hadnât realized how close sheâd come until her hand brushed his chest. His heart thundered beneath her palm.
He clenched his jaw, every muscle tight with restraint. But the truth had already escaped his mouth. And as her fingers curled into his shirt, as her eyes met his without fear, he knewâhe couldnât bury this feeling anymore.
She didnât wait for him to finish that thought. The ache in her chest, the months of silence, the longing that had been eating her aliveâshe let it explode.
Her hands gripped his shirt, pulling him down as her lips crashed against his. It wasnât soft, wasnât hesitantâit was a kiss meant to break chains.
His eyes widened, every part of him screaming to hold back. But the fire in her, the desperation in her mouth moving against his, cracked through the dam he had built. With a ragged groan, his arms locked around her, crushing her to him as if heâd been starving for this all along.
She whispered his name between fevered kisses, tears and laughter mixing as she clung to him. And heâhe kissed her like a drowning man who had finally tasted air.
The night that followed was chaos. Restraint burned away in the heat of her touch, in the softness of her voice calling him hers again and again. The storm inside him raged, but instead of destroying him, it consumed them both in a way that felt terrifying and beautiful.
By the time dawn broke, she lay tangled against him, his hand resting protectively at her waist, as if his body remembered something his mind still denied. For the first time, he hadnât fought the pull. And it terrified him⊠but it also left him unable to let go.
It hit like shards of glass, stabbing behind his eyes until he clutched his head with a muffled groan. She stirred beside him, touching his shoulder with concern, and he snapped his eyes open, forcing a calm mask over his face. He didnât want to scare her. He didnât want to admit that her presence was starting to unlock something.So he swallowed the pain, breathed through the pounding in his skull⊠and turned to look at her.
Her lips swollen from his kiss, her cheek pressed against his chest as if it belonged there. His armâwithout him thinkingâhad wrapped around her protectively.
And for the first time, he admitted to himself:
> ⊠I canât let her go.
___
Months passed. Dreams haunted him, fragments of the curse mixed with sweet ecstasy, violent hunger turned into need, desire now intertwined with love. And though he remembered nothing clearly, he began to reconstruct his own truth. The curse was goneâbut in its absence, he discovered a deeper, darker self that had always existed. A psycho, yes, but one capable of choice.
And she â his little wife, so heartbreakingly naive, so open in her love â was the reason. She gave him everything without fear, as though she had never known how dangerous he truly was.The madness had returned, not as the curse, but as a part of him. Sometimes he laughed quietly in the dark, stroking her cheek as she slept. The irony was cruel: the very innocence that shouldâve protected her had instead made him obsessed.It whispered to him at night, teased him in shadowed corners, yet she was always there, the only reason he could keep it in check.
He could never let anyone know the full depths of his desire. To the world, he was still the composed, clever man, the heir of a powerful empire. But in the privacy of darkness, he was hers entirelyâa dark, obsessive bastard, consumed by his love, driven by his own twisted need. And she, in her naivety and devotion, would never know the full scope.
And with every memory, a realization crept in: the curse was gone, but the his twisted self wasnât. It had never been. It was him all along.
.
.
.
The curse had only revealed the darkness he was always meant to carry.
Whether it was love, obsession, or fate â no one would ever know.
