The first time she kissed me, the world shifted beneath my feet. It wasn't just a touch, but a tremor—silent and deep—rippling through every nerve, every fragile bone. Her lips were cold, but the heat that followed was unbearable. I tasted the faint bitterness of iron, the subtle sting of something ancient lurking beneath her skin. It was the kind of kiss that unmade me, piece by fragile piece, while weaving something darker into my soul. It marked me. Not with a scar I could see, but with a curse that settled like smoke, curling into the darkest corners of my mind. That night, I understood that desire was no sanctuary—it was a battleground where lust and ruin danced in a deadly waltz.

  Her eyes held stories I wasn't meant to read, secrets folded between shadow and fire. She whispered nothing, yet her silence spoke in a language I was desperate to learn. I fell willingly, like a moth drawn to the flame that promised to consume me. The room was thick with the scent of musk and forgotten sins, and I knew, as my breath hitched, that I was already hers—not fully, not yet, but inevitably. The taste of her curse was the taste of blood mingled with honey, sweet and dangerous, intoxicating and inevitable. In that moment, beneath the heavy drapes of a house that seemed to breathe and watch, I became a prisoner of a love both fatal and beautiful.