“No,” he’d answer, voice raw as a wound. “I’m yours.”
They called him RG—just the letters, sharp and hollow, like the echo of a gunshot. To the underworld, he was a ghost with bloody knuckles. To her, he was the angel who forgot how to pray.
And that was enough. No redemption. No prayers. Just her ruthless warrior, wearing his violence like a vow, and the quiet way she held him—fragile as stolen light.
VK kept no throne. Only him.