Archive of Our Own

Tyler had always known it was real for him—every glance, every touch, every whispered confession in the dim light of that Hyde colony cabin. 

He had fallen for Wednesday Addams from the moment she walked into the Weathervane like a storm cloud dressed in black, her dark eyes cutting through him like a blade he couldn't help but lean into. 

Everything he’d told her that night had been true: the way his heart had stuttered when she trusted him, the way her rare smile had felt like sunlight on scorched earth, the way he’d begged her to kill him in Iago tower because living without her forgiveness was a slower death than any axe could deliver. 

But he was a masochist, wasn’t he? A fool who kept coming back for the pain she dealt so expertly, the kind that twisted deep and lingered like poison in the veins. 

In the beginning of their twisted situationship, he had known exactly how she was—walls higher than Nevermore's towers, apathy as armor, pushing away anyone who got too close because vulnerability was a weakness she refused to afford. 

He’d seen it that morning after their night together, her voice cold as she called it a mistake, her back straight as she walked away without looking back, leaving him shattered on the dirt like discarded glass.

 And yet, he couldn’t stop—couldn’t stop the ache that bloomed in his chest every time he thought of her, the way his beast growled for her even as his heart bled. It hurt like hell, a quiet devastation that drew tears he wouldn’t let fall, because loving her meant embracing the agony, and God help him, he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

The axe bit into the wood with a sharp crack, splinters flying like shattered bone. Tyler swung again—harder, faster, the burn in his shoulders a welcome distraction from the one in his chest. The clearing was quiet, the colony still asleep, but sleep had eluded him. How could it, when every time he closed his eyes he saw her face—cold, unyielding, delivering the blow that hurt more than any claw ever could.

“It was a mistake.”

The words echoed in his head like a guillotine blade falling, clean and final. He’d known it was coming. Known it the moment she’d slipped out of his bed before dawn, the door clicking shut behind her like a lock he’d never pick. But knowing didn’t make it hurt less. It hurt like hell—raw, open, a wound that refused to scab because he’d let her in again, let her see the parts of him he kept chained even from himself.

He swung the axe again, the impact jarring up his arms. He was twisted. He knew that. He’d taken her trust and used it like a weapon under Laurel’s control. But everything he’d said that night—every confession, every touch, every desperate “I meant it”—had been true. He’d fallen for her hard, stupidly, irrevocably. The barista boy who spent hours decorating a crypt to impress her. The idiot who danced with her at the Rave’N like she was the only thing worth holding. The monster who begged her to kill him because he couldn’t live with what he’d done to her.

One night wasn’t going to fix that wreckage. One blissful, shattering night where she’d let him hold her like she was the only thing keeping him from falling apart. He’d felt her tremble, heard her sob his name like it was both curse and salvation. And in the morning, smoke and mirrors. Apathy. Walls up higher than before.

He knew her. Knew pushing people away was her armor, her coping mechanism when feelings got too close, too real. Too scary. She was terrified of what he made her feel—because he made her feel everything. And he scared her too. Because he saw through the indifference, saw the fire beneath, the girl who wanted to be loved but didn’t believe she deserved it.

The axe bit deeper. Wood split. His breath came in ragged bursts.

He was hurt. God, he was hurt. But he understood. They’d both been broken long before they met. And broken things didn’t fit together clean.

He’d heal. Or pretend to. He always did.

Weeks blurred into months in the colony. Tyler threw himself into the work—rebuilding fences torn by werewolf claws, teaching the younger Hydes to breathe through their shifts, running patrols until his legs burned and his mind went blank. Capri watched him too closely, her eyes sharp with concern, but she never said anything. The others whispered—asked if he was okay. He smiled. Said he was fine. Lied through his teeth.

The mission’s success lingered like a faint victory: Enid safe, restored, bubbly again. The pack dismantled. But the real win came in the mail—a heavy envelope sealed with black wax, stamped with the Addams crest.

An invitation.

The Addams Family Mansion was hosting a celebratory gala to honor the Hydes’ role in saving Enid. Wednesday had made good on her promise: Addams resources flowing in—funds for the colony, alliances with outcast groups, a partnership between Capri and Morticia to rehabilitate the image of Hydes. Press releases framing them as protectors, not monsters.

Tyler stared at the card for a long time.

He knew she’d be there.

The beast inside him stirred—growling, hungry, wanting.

He folded the invitation.

He went anyway.

The Addams Mansion loomed like a living thing—towers twisting skyward into the starless night, gargoyles leering from the eaves with stone eyes that seemed to track every guest's movement, the air thick with rolling fog and the faint, cloying scent of damp earth, wilted roses, and ancient decay. Guests arrived in waves: black tie paired with fangs that flashed under the chandelier's sickly yellow light, scales glittering like oil-slick jewels on siren skin, poison punch bubbling in crystal bowls with a faint, ominous hiss. 

Capri and the colony were honored with toasts and applause—Morticia gliding through the crowd like smoke from a dying fire, her black gown trailing shadows, Gomez laughing that booming, infectious laugh that echoed off the vaulted ceilings like thunder in a crypt.

Tyler moved like a shadow himself—his borrowed suit too tight across the shoulders, fabric chafing against scars that still itched when the beast stirred, smile too forced, too brittle, like glass ready to shatter under the slightest pressure. He felt like an imposter among the gothic grandeur, a stray Hyde in a den of elegant monsters, his pulse thudding heavy in his ears as he navigated the room. 

Capri squeezed his shoulder once—silent support, her fingers warm and steady against his tension—but it did little to ease the knot in his chest. His eyes scanned the room anyway, traitorous, searching despite the voice in his head screaming to stop.

There.

Wednesday in black lace that clung like a second skin, braids pinned with raven feathers that caught the light like obsidian shards, talking to a group of outcasts with that detached poise she wore like armor. Their eyes met across the ballroom—longing crashing through him like a wave breaking against jagged rocks, inevitable, unstoppable, drowning him in the memory of her body beneath his, her breath on his neck, her nails digging in like she wanted to mark him forever. He looked away first, throat tight, heart slamming against his ribs. Pretended to sip his drink, the bitter punch coating his tongue like regret.

Why am I here? The thought looped in his mind, bitter and futile. To torture myself? To see if she’ll look at me like she did that night—before she called it a mistake? He knew better. Knew she’d built her walls higher after that morning. But the pull was there, always there, like a chain around his neck he couldn’t break. The beast whispered low, Go to her, but he pushed it down, clenching his fist around the glass until it nearly cracked.

The evening unfolded in torturous slowness: subtle brushes that felt like fate mocking him—her hand grazing his as she passed in the crowd, electricity jumping between them like lightning forking across a storm sky, sending heat racing through his veins. 

His shoulder bumping hers during a toast, the heat of her skin burning through the thin fabric of her dress, a reminder of how she’d felt under him, soft and fierce and his for one fleeting night. Eye contact that lingered too long, pulling him like gravity—across the dance floor where couples swirled in dark waltzes, from the buffet where finger foods bled red sauce like wounds, through the haze of cigar smoke that curled like ghosts in the air.

He tried to stay away. Tried to talk to others—forced conversations with outcasts who eyed his scar with curiosity, laughed at jokes that tasted like ash in his mouth. But the pull was there—lust coiling low in his belly like a serpent waking, inevitability settling heavy in his chest like lead weights dragging him down. The beast whispered claim her, louder now, stirring with the same hunger he felt every time she was near. He pushed it down, but it clawed back up, insistent, hungry.

She's poison, he told himself, draining his glass. She made that clear. A mistake. That's all I am to her. But the lie rang hollow. He knew her better. Knew the way her eyes softened when she thought no one saw. Knew the fire she hid behind ice. Knew he was the only one who ever made her burn like that.

Then a hallway—empty, shadowed, the noise of the gala muffled like a distant dream.

She was there.

He was there.

Words unsaid—breaths close, ragged, the space between them shrinking like it always did.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered, voice low, but her eyes betrayed her—dark, hungry, pulling him in.

“You want me to be,” he murmured back, stepping closer, close enough to smell her—ink, roses, midnight.

Heat building—slow at first, then all at once, like a spark hitting dry tinder.

The door clicked shut, the sound a death knell to the last of his restraint. Before the lock had even settled, he was on her. His hands were rough, one fisting in the intricate lace at her back, the other tangling in her braids, yanking her head to the side to expose the long, pale column of her throat. He didn’t ask for permission; he took. His mouth crashed against hers, a brutal, punishing kiss that was all teeth and desperation. He tasted the bitter wine on her tongue, the metallic tang of his own blood from where her teeth had split his lip. It was a messy, violent claiming, and she met it with a ferocity that made his beast howl.

He spun her, slamming her back against the heavy wood of the door. The impact knocked a gasp from her lips, a sound he swallowed with another bruising kiss. His hands tore at the lace, delicate fabric ripping under his impatience. The sound was obscene, a sharp tearing that mirrored the way he was shredding the last of her composure. He wanted her ruined, wrecked, marked by him. The black lace fell away, and his palms scorched a path up her ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts before his mouth followed, biting down hard on the curve where her neck met her shoulder. He didn’t just want to leave a mark; he wanted to brand her, to sink his teeth into her flesh until she tasted his rage and his need in her own blood.

She arched into him, her nails raking down his back, tearing through the cheap suit jacket and shirt, scoring lines of fire across his skin. The pain was a balm, a grounding point in the maelstrom of his lust. He growled, a low, guttural sound that was more Hyde than man, and hauled her away from the door, stumbling toward the bed. He didn’t lay her down. He fell with her, landing hard enough to make the ornate headboard slam against the wall. He was over her, a cage of muscle and fury, his knees shoving her thighs apart. He could feel the heat of her through the thin silk of her panties, a damp, inviting warmth that made his cock throb with a savage need.

He shoved the scrap of silk aside, his fingers finding her slick and swollen.He drove two fingers into her, curling them hard, searching for that spot that would make her unravel. Her back bowed off the bed, a choked cry tearing from her throat. It was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. He watched her face—lips parted, eyes squeezed shut, that mask of indifference shattered into a million pieces. He was the only one who ever got to see this. The only one who ever broke her.

He would wait.

The thought cut through the red haze of his lust, sharp and clear. He would wait forever if he had to. He would endure this agony, this secret love, this being her dirty little secret, because the alternative was nothing. And this—her body writhing under his, her breath hitching as he pumped his fingers into her, the scent of her arousal filling his lungs—was everything.

He pulled his hand away, ignoring her frustrated whimper. He fumbled with his belt, the buckle clanking as he freed himself. He took himself in hand, stroking his length once, twice, the head leaking pre-come. He lined himself up, not with gentleness, but with intent. He looked down at her, at the dark, wild need in her eyes that she tried so desperately to hide.

“This is mine,” he snarled, and then he drove into her.

The force of it stole his breath. She was tight, hot, and so fucking wet he thought he’d lose his mind. He buried himself to the hilt, his hips slapping against hers. It wasn't gentle. It wasn't loving. It was a claiming. A punishment. A prayer. He set a brutal pace, pulling out almost completely before slamming back in, each thrust a punctuation mark to the silent war they’d been waging for months. The bedframe groaned, the headboard a rhythmic drum against the ancient plaster.

He hooked her legs over his arms, spreading her wider, changing the angle so he could go deeper. He wanted to fuck her into oblivion, to make her body remember only his shape, his scent, his violence. Her hands gripped his shoulders, her nails digging deep, holding on as he pounded into her. The sounds she made were incoherent, a litany of gasps and curses and his name, torn from her throat with every punishing thrust.

He could feel her tightening around him, her inner muscles clamping down like a vise. He reached between them, his thumb finding her clit, rubbing it in tight, harsh circles. “Come for me,” he demanded, his voice a ragged command. “Now.”

Her body arched, a silent scream on her lips as her orgasm crashed through her. Her pussy pulsed around him, a rhythmic clenching that pulled him over the edge with her. He came with a guttural roar, his hips stuttering as he emptied himself deep inside her, pouring every ounce of his love and his pain and his fucking soul into her. It was a release so violent it left him shaking, his arms trembling as he collapsed over her, his face buried in the crook of her neck.

For a long moment, the only sound was their ragged breathing. He could feel her heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat matching his own. He stayed inside her, not wanting to break the connection, not wanting to face the morning. He knew she’d push him away again. He knew she’d call it a mistake again. But as he lay there, boneless and sated, with her scent all over him and his come leaking out of her, he made his peace with it.

Let her have her walls. Let her have her secrets. He had this. He had her, gasping and shattered and his, if only in the dark. And he would wait. He’d wait for the day she finally admitted she loved him back. But for now, this was enough. It had to be.

She’ll come back, the beast had whispered. She always comes back.

And she had.

Not right away. Not for months. But eventually.

She always did.

So he waited.

He waited while he left the Hyde colony—he appreciated everything Capri did for him, but it was time to move on. He waited while he earned the Night family fortune through methods he wasn’t proud of—blood, threats, Thing’s quiet menace at his side, the kind of deals that left stains on the soul. He waited while he built something new: helping marginalized outcasts who’d been hurt like him—Hyde kids rejected by their packs, sirens silenced by fear, necromancers hunted for sport. He made himself useful. Made sure no one else endured the suffering he had. Made sure no one else had to kill their own mother to protect the person they loved.

And through it all, he still found time for Wednesday.

He found her in random towns with one stoplight and no name. Big cities where the noise drowned out everything except the sound of her breathing against his throat. Back roads at 3 a.m., headlights cutting through fog, her black coat stark against the passenger seat. He found her in dive bars and abandoned warehouses and once in a club in Mexico, the bass rattling through the walls while they tore at each other like they could fuck the years of distance out of their systems.

The bass was a physical thing, a primal beat that vibrated up from the soles of his boots and into his bones. It was an ugly, aggressive sound, but it was a distraction. Tyler nursed his whiskey, the glass cool against his palm, and let the noise wash over him. He wasn’t here for the music or the sweating bodies writhing under the strobe lights. He was here because a part of him, the sick, broken part that still craved the sting of her nails and the sharp edge of her tongue, knew she might be.

And then he saw her.

It was like the crowd parted for her, a sea of technicolor chaos splitting to let the black-and-white nightmare through. She was a slash of obsidian in a dress that looked like it had been wrought from shadow and sin. It clung to every sharp angle, every dangerous curve. She was tolerating some folk dance with a look of serene concentration that Tyler knew meant she was mentally calculating the most efficient way to dislocate her partner’s joints.

He felt the corner of his mouth twitch. Predictable. Utterly, beautifully predictable.

He pushed off the bar, the half-full glass of forgotten whiskey left behind. The movement was instinctual, a predator sighting its favorite kind of prey. He watched her see him, a flicker of something in her dark eyes that wasn't surprise, but recognition. A challenge. She excused herself, moving through the throng with a liquid grace that was both menacing and mesmerizing.

They met in the space between the dance floor and the bar, a temporary island of stillness in the chaos.

“You still dance like you’re trying to summon a demon,” he said, his voice low and rough, cutting through the music. He let his eyes drag over her, a slow, possessive inventory. The dress, the way it hugged her hips, the elegant column of her throat. “All sharp edges and midnight. Makes a man want to get burned.”

Her lips curved into that familiar, dangerous smirk. “And you still look like you’re auditioning for the bad-boy reboot nobody asked for. Leather jacket, bedroom eyes, that scar like you’re branding yourself ‘trouble.’ Predictable.”

He loved it. He loved her biting remarks, the way she used her words like little daggers. It was their foreplay. He stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her, to smell the faint, clean scent of her skin beneath the cloying perfume of the club. “You came looking for me,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to her mouth. “Don’t pretend you didn’t.”

“You’re in my way,” she shot back, but her voice had dropped an octave, a husky note that betrayed her.

He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear, the intimate contact sending a jolt through him. “Then move me,” he whispered, the words a deliberate provocation. “Or let me move you. Your call, Cockroach. But we both know how this ends—clothes on the floor, your nails in my back, my name on your tongue until you forget how to hate me.”

He saw the subtle shift in her stance, the infinitesimal tightening of her jaw. She was his. He grabbed her hand, her fingers cool and slender in his, and pulled. Not towards the exit, not towards some dark alley. He pulled her towards the VIP section, a roped-off area overlooking the dance floor. He’d bought it out for the night. An expensive, ridiculous impulse, but he’d known. He’d known he’d need a stage for them.

The bouncer unclipped the velvet rope without a word. Tyler led her up the short flight of stairs to the private lounge. It was sleek and dark, all black leather couches and a low table littered with expensive bottles. The best part was the one-way glass wall. They could see the entire club, the pulsing, mindless horde below, but no one could see them.

“Subtle,” Wednesday sneered, looking around the room with disdain. “Did your ego require its own soundproofed echo chamber?”

“My ego requires a place where I can fuck you without an audience,” he corrected, turning to face her. “Unless, of course, you want one.” He gestured to the glass wall. “They’re down there. Dancing. Living their little lives. They have no idea that up here, the Addams girl is about to get her world rocked. It’s a turn-on, isn’t it? The risk. The performance.”

Her eyes flickered to the glass, then back to him. A tell. She was a creature of the stage, a natural exhibitionist cloaked in a mantle of misanthropy. The idea of being watched, of being the secret, depraved heart of the oblivious party below, was as intoxicating to her as it was to him.

“You’re disgusting,” she said, but there was no heat in it.

“I’m honest,” he countered, closing the distance between them. He backed her up against the cool glass, her body a stark silhouette against the chaos of the club below. He didn’t kiss her. Not yet. He just stood there, letting the anticipation build, letting her feel the heat of his body, the sheer force of his wanting. He reached out, his fingers tracing the delicate strap of her dress. “You wore this for me.”

“I wore this because it’s black and functional,” she lied. “Your self-importance is showing.”

“Is it?” He hooked his finger under the strap and slowly slid it down her shoulder, baring the pale, perfect skin. He leaned in, his mouth hovering just above the spot he’d uncovered. “Or is this?” He blew a gentle breath across her skin, and he felt her shiver. “You can lie to everyone else, Wednesday. You can even lie to yourself. But don’t lie to me. I know you. I know what this”—he gestured to the space between them, the electric, volatile air—“does to us.”

He finally lowered his head, his mouth finding the sensitive skin where her neck met her shoulder. He didn’t kiss her. He bit her. A sharp, possessive nip that made her gasp. He soothed the sting with his tongue, tasting her, the salt of her skin, the unique flavor that was hers alone.

“Still a coward,” she breathed, but her hands came up to grip his jacket, pulling him closer. “Afraid to kiss me properly?”

He laughed against her skin. “Oh, I’ll kiss you. I’m going to kiss you everywhere.” He spun her around, pressing her front against the cold glass. Her palms flattened against it, bracing herself. He moved behind her, his body a hard line against her back, his hands gripping her hips. He leaned forward, his lips brushing her ear. “Look at them,” he murmured, his voice a low, commanding growl. “All those little bodies, grinding away. They think they’re having a good time. They have no idea what real pleasure is. No idea what it’s like to be so consumed by someone you forget your own name.”

He slid his hands up her sides, his thumbs stroking the undersides of her breasts. He could feel her heart hammering, a frantic drumbeat against his palms. He reached around, his fingers finding the zipper of her dress. He pulled it down, inch by agonizing inch, the sound a sharp, metallic hiss in the quiet of the lounge. The dress pooled at her feet, leaving her in nothing but a scrap of black lace and thigh-high stockings.

“Fucking perfect,” he breathed, his hands roaming over her exposed skin. She was a masterpiece of pale flesh and sharp angles. He turned her back to face him, his gaze devouring her. He sank to his knees, his hands gripping her thighs. He looked up at her, her expression unreadable, but her eyes were burning.

“You’re going to watch them while I eat your pussy,” he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. “You’re going to watch their mindless fucking while I give you the best head of your life. And you’re not going to make a sound. Understand?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He hooked his fingers into the delicate lace of her panties and pulled them down. He tossed them aside, then hooked her leg over his shoulder, opening her to him. He could smell her arousal, a dark, musky scent that went straight to his head. He looked up one last time, meeting her gaze, then he dove in.

He was merciless. He fucked her with his tongue, licking and sucking and probing with a single-minded intensity. He was rough, demanding, giving her none of the gentle worship she’d hated. This was what she wanted. What they both wanted. He wanted to break her, to see that composure shatter into a million pieces. He circled her clit with the tip of his tongue, then sucked it hard, his teeth grazing the sensitive bundle of nerves.

Her body tensed, her hands flying to his hair, her fingers tangling in the strands, holding him in place. She was still silent, but he could feel her control slipping. He slid two fingers inside her, curling them to stroke that sensitive spot on her front wall. He pumped them in and out, matching the rhythm of his tongue. He could feel her getting closer, her inner muscles fluttering around his fingers.

“Come for me, Wednesday,” he commanded, his voice muffled by her flesh. “Let me feel it. Let go.”

With a choked gasp, she shattered. He felt the convulsive clench of her orgasm, the hot flood of her release. He lapped it up, his tongue stroking her clit.

He stayed on his knees for a moment, his face still pressed against her, feeling the last of the shudders wrack her body. The taste of her was on his tongue, dark and addictive. He looked up, and the sight of her—head thrown back, eyes closed, her chest heaving with silent breaths, a goddess of destruction brought to her knees by pleasure—was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. It was a victory, a fleeting moment of control in a relationship defined by chaos. But underneath the primal triumph, a softer, more dangerous emotion bloomed. He loved her like this. He loved her when she was fighting him, and he loved her when she was surrendering. He just… loved her. And that was the most terrifying thing of all.

He rose slowly, his muscles coiled with a tension that went far beyond mere arousal. He was hard to the point of pain, his cock a rigid, demanding pressure against his jeans. He needed to be inside her. Not just to fuck her, but to feel that connection, that violent, undeniable fusion that was the only way he knew how to bridge the chasm between them.

He spun her around again, pressing her against the one-way glass. Her palms flattened against it, her body a stark, erotic silhouette against the flashing lights of the club below. He didn’t give her a moment to recover. He yanked open his belt, the sound of the leather whipping through the loops sharp and commanding. He unzipped his jeans, freeing himself, his cock springing out, thick and heavy and leaking with precum.

He kicked her legs apart with his knee, his hand gripping her hip, holding her in place. He didn’t prep her further. He didn’t need to. She was still slick from his mouth, still pulsing with the aftershocks of her orgasm. He positioned himself at her entrance, the head of his cock nudging against her, teasing her, taunting her.

“Look at them,” he growled in her ear, his voice a low, possessive rumble. “Look at all those people down there, dancing their little hearts out. They think they’re alive. They have no fucking clue what’s really happening. They don’t know that up here, I’m about to fuck you so hard you forget how to speak.

He pushed inside.

The first thrust was brutal. A single, deep, invasive stroke that buried him to the hilt in one fluid motion. He felt her stiffen, a sharp intake of breath that was almost a gasp. The sensation was overwhelming—a tight, wet heat that gripped him like a fist. It was a homecoming and a violation all at once. He stayed there for a beat, buried deep, letting her feel the fullness, the undeniable reality of him inside her.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his forehead dropping to her shoulder. He could feel the frantic, muffled beat of the music through the glass, a frantic pulse that matched the frantic pulse of his own blood. “You feel… you feel like coming home.”

It was the truth, ripped from him without his permission. A moment of raw, unguarded vulnerability in the middle of their depraved little show. He hated himself for it, even as he knew it was true.

Wednesday didn’t respond. She just pushed back against him, a subtle, silent demand for more. It was all the encouragement he needed.

He began to move.

His thrusts were hard and deep and punishing, a relentless, punishing rhythm that shook her body with every impact. He was fucking her with a desperate, angry need, channeling all his frustration, all his longing, all his fucked-up, obsessive love into each violent stroke. The sound of their bodies slapping together was obscene, a wet, rhythmic percussion that was drowned out by the thumping bass of the club.

He reached around, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing it in tight, ruthless circles. He wanted to push her over the edge again, to feel her come apart around him, to know that he was the one making her lose control.

“Is this what you wanted, Cockroach?” he grunted, his voice strained with effort. “To be fucked against a window like a cheap whore? To be watched while I ruin you?”

“Yes,” she breathed, her voice a choked, breathy moan. “Don’t stop.”

He wasn’t going to. He couldn’t. He was lost in the sensation of her, the tight, slick heat of her, the way her body yielded to his, the way she met his thrusts with a desperate, hungry need of her own. He felt his own orgasm building, a tidal wave of pleasure rising in his gut.

“Come with me,” he commanded, his voice a ragged, desperate plea. “Come with me, Wednesday. Now.”

He slammed into her one last time, a deep, powerful thrust that sent him over the edge. He came with a hoarse, guttural cry, his body shuddering with the force of his release. He felt her come with him, her inner muscles clamping down around him, a silent, convulsive spasm that milked him dry.

He collapsed against her, his weight pinning her to the glass, his face buried in the crook of her neck. They were both breathing heavily, their bodies slick with sweat, the air thick with the scent of sex and whiskey and regret.

For a long moment, they just stood there, a tangled, sweaty mess of limbs and lingering fury. Then he lifted his head, his eyes searching hers. The anger was gone, replaced by something else. Something softer, more vulnerable.

“Wednesday…” he began, his voice quiet.

She cut him off with a sharp, dismissive look. “Don’t.” She pushed him away, smoothing down her dress, her movements sharp and efficient. “This was a lapse in judgment. A momentary weakness. It won’t happen again.”

He watched her, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. He knew it was a lie. He knew it was just another part of their dance. He knew that no matter how much they fought, no matter how much they hurt each other, they would always end up back here, in each other’s arms, in each other’s bodies.

Every time it was the same.

A glance across a room. A brush of fingers. A hallway. A door clicking shut.

And then—heat. Desperation. Her nails in his back. His mouth on her throat. Her name on his lips like a prayer he’d never stopped saying.

And then—morning. Her side of the bed cold. Her footsteps fading down the hall. No note. No goodbye. Just the scent of her lingering on his skin like a brand he couldn’t wash off.

He waited.

Patient. Quiet. Aching.

Because he knew her.

Knew that every time she walked away, she was running from herself as much as from him.

Knew that the colder she got, the more she was burning inside.

Knew that she’d come back.

She always came back.

And he would be there when she did.

Because he was hers.

Even when she pretended he wasn’t.

Even when she called it a mistake.

Even when it broke him every single time.

He waited.

And he bled quietly in the spaces between.

The changes started slowly, each encounter a quiet erosion of the distance he'd once thought permanent, until every shared glance felt like a hand sliding up his thigh and every brush of skin was a promise of how roughly he'd take her later. 

He remembered the first crack clearly: a dusty border town baked under relentless sun, where ancient ruins whispered of forgotten curses. Wednesday was there, relentless as ever, pursuing a relic that pulsed with malevolent energy. Tyler had been tracking a rogue outcast who'd angered the wrong bruja, his Hyde senses already prickling at the relic's dark signature from miles away. 

They met at dusk in a low-ceilinged cantina, dust motes suspended in the golden slant of light like tiny flames. She spotted him at the scarred wooden bar, nursing a lukewarm beer, and her eyes narrowed—sharp, assessing, but lacking the old venom.

 "You," she said, voice flat as desert stone, yet carrying only weary resignation. Tyler set the bottle down slowly, heart thudding with a hope he barely dared name. "I can help," he offered, voice low. "The Hyde in me... it can scent the relic's magic better than any spell." She hesitated, lips pressing into that familiar thin line, black braids framing a face that still haunted his dreams. Then, a single nod—sharp, decisive. 

They moved through the night together: her incantations weaving shadows into nets, his claws ripping through sealed crypt doors with feral precision. Sweat slicked their skin in the stifling heat; he caught the faint scent of her—ink, old paper, something darkly floral—every time she passed close. When the relic finally lay secured in her satchel, their hands brushed as she took it from him. 

She didn't pull away immediately. Her fingers lingered against his palm—a deliberate second, then two—her cool skin igniting a spark that raced up his arm like dry tinder catching flame, straight to his throbbing cock.

"Good Hyde," she murmured, voice softer than the word deserved, eyes flicking up to meet his for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

 Heat bloomed low in his belly; he swallowed hard, fighting the urge to close his hand around hers, drag her behind the nearest crumbling wall, and show her exactly how "good" he could be.

The fragile warmth in his chest incinerated, replaced by a feral, possessive fire. He didn't just close his hand around hers; he yanked her bodily against him, his other hand fisting in her hair to wrench her head back. His mouth crashed down on hers, a brutal, claiming kiss that was all teeth and tongue, tasting of beer and desperation. 

He spun her around, slamming her back against the rough adobe wall of the cantina, his body pinning hers. "You think you're in charge here, cockroach?" he snarled, his Hyde rumbling just beneath his skin, his voice a gravelly promise of degradation. "The Hyde’s been waiting to break you."

He ripped her black dress down the front, the fabric tearing with a satisfying sound, exposing pale skin to the moonlight. His mouth latched onto a peaked nipple, sucking hard, biting down just enough to make her cry out, a sound that was half-pain, all-pleasure. "That's it, scream for me. Let everyone know who's fucking you." His free hand tore at her lace panties, shredding them, and without warning, he drove two fingers deep into her soaking cunt. 

"Fuck, you're already dripping for me. Such a dirty little slut, pretending to be so indifferent."

He worked her roughly, his thumb circling her clit with punishing pressure, curling his fingers to hit that spot that made her knees weak. Her hands scrabbled at his shoulders, her nails digging in, pulling him closer. "Please," she gasped, the word torn from her throat.

"Please what?" he demanded, pulling his fingers away to slap her wet pussy, the sharp smack echoing in the alley. "Beg for it. Beg me to fuck you senseless."

"Tyler... please, fuck me," she whimpered, her hips bucking against his hand, seeking the friction he'd denied her.

He grinned, a vicious, triumphant thing. With one hand, he freed his rock-hard cock, thick and leaking pre-cum. He hooked one of her legs over his arm, opening her up to him, and then he slammed into her in one brutal thrust. He buried himself to the hilt, groaning at the tight, wet heat that gripped him like a vice. "Fuck, you take my cock so well," he grunted, setting a punishing rhythm, each thrust driving her harder against the wall. "This is what you needed, isn't it? To be filled, used, reminded of your place."

He was relentless, a primal force claiming what was his. The alley was filled with the sounds of their fucking—skin slapping against skin, her breathless moans, his filthy praises and degrading commands. "Look at me," he ordered, gripping her chin. "Watch me ruin you." Her dark eyes, wide and glazed with lust, met his, and in that moment, he knew. 

He'd finally broken through the ice.. He felt her clench around him as her orgasm hit, a silent scream on her lips as her body convulsed. The sight of her falling apart on his cock sent him over the edge, and with a guttural roar, he buried himself deep and pumped her full of his hot cum. He stayed there for a long moment, his forehead pressed against hers, their ragged breaths mingling in the cool night air. "Mine," he whispered, a raw, romantic vow amidst the depravity. "All fucking mine."

Tyler felt it then—the first real crack in her glacial armor. A fragile warmth unfurled in his chest, aching and tender, the kind of hope that could destroy him if it shattered. He memorized the feel of her touch, replaying it all night as he lay awake, longing for more.

The next was in a rain-soaked city—her unraveling a string of supernatural murders in fog-choked alleys, him there to relocate a pack of shunned werewolves hiding in the sewers. 

They bumped in a crowded market, her shoulder against his chest, the shock of it electric, stopping them both mid-stride. "Stay out of my way," she snapped, but her eyes flicked to his lips, betraying her.

He insisted on helping—his beast's strength to track the killer through the downpour. She paused, rain dripping from her braids, then handed him her notebook. "Fine. Read this." They planned together that night in a dingy hotel room, her mind sharp as a scalpel, his instincts raw and feral. 

She trusted him with the details, let him watch her back in the dark. When the killer was cornered, she didn't pull away when he steadied her arm—her fingers curled around his for one breath, two. 

"You're not entirely useless," she said later, voice soft in the dim light.

The words were barely out of her mouth before he was on her. He slammed the hotel room door shut, the sound of the deadbolt echoing like a gunshot in the sudden silence. He backed her against the cheap wood, his hands braced on either side of her head, caging her in. 

"Not entirely useless?" he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Oh, cockroach, I'm about to be so fucking useful you won't be able to walk straight."

He didn't wait for a reply. He crushed his mouth to hers, a punishing kiss that tasted of rain and unspoken fury. His hands tore at her soaked coat, sending it pooling to the floor, then her dress, ripping the delicate fabric like it was paper. He wanted her naked, exposed, vulnerable to his every depraved whim. 

"Look at you," he snarled, his gaze raking over her pale body. "All dressed up like a little doll, but I know what's underneath. A desperate, needy little slut who's been begging for my cock."

He dropped to his knees, his hands gripping her thighs, forcing them apart. He didn't bother with foreplay, with gentleness. He buried his face in her cunt, his tongue lashing against her clit with a brutal, hungry rhythm. 

He ate her out like a starving man, his fingers digging into her ass, pulling her harder against his mouth. He could feel her trembling, hear her breath hitching as he brought her to the edge, only to pull back. "Not yet," he commanded, standing up and wiping his glistening mouth with the back of his hand. "You don't get to come until I say so."

He spun her around, forcing her face-first against the wall. He kicked her feet apart with his own, leaving her bent over, exposed and waiting. "This is what you get for teasing me," he grunted, freeing his thick, aching cock. He ran the head along her dripping slit, coating himself in her wetness.

 "This is what happens when you act like a frigid bitch when all you really want is to be fucked like the whore you are."

With one brutal thrust, he buried himself inside her. He set a punishing pace, each thrust driving the air from her lungs, his hips slapping against her ass with a wet, obscene rhythm. He reached around, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing it in tight, hard circles. "Come on, baby girl," he taunted, his breath hot against her ear. 

"Come for me. Show me how much you love this. Show me how much you needed my cock stretching you open."

Her body tensed, her back arching as a guttural scream tore from her throat. Her pussy clenched around him like a vice, milking him as her orgasm ripped through her. The feeling of her coming undone on his cock was his undoing. With a final, powerful thrust, he buried himself deep and emptied himself inside her, his hot cum filling her to the brim.

They stayed like that for a moment, their bodies pressed together, the only sound their ragged breaths. He slowly pulled out, watching as his cum dripped down her thigh. He turned her around, his touch surprisingly gentle as he cupped her face. "You're not entirely useless either," he murmured, his thumb stroking her cheek. "But you're entirely mine.”

He felt her walls thinning, the distance closing like a noose he didn’t mind tightening around his own neck.

Then a small village in the mountains—her pursuing a ghost legend through snow-dusted forests, him guiding displaced vampires to safety in hidden caves. They crossed paths in a frost-rimed inn, firelight flickering on her face as she looked up from her notebook, surprise softening to something warmer. "Why are you everywhere?" she asked, exasperation laced with a hint of amusement. 

He joined her hunt—his Hyde form scouting the frozen woods while her spells warded against spectral attacks. She let him in deeper: shared her notes over steaming tea, asked his opinion on the ghost's patterns, even laughed—once, low and genuine, a sound like cracking ice—when he mocked a villagers' superstitious ritual. The ghost proved more elusive than they thought, a wisp of cold fury that led them on a chase deep into the heart of the frozen woods, far from the safety of the inn.

The spectral energy was overwhelming, a blizzard of its own making. "It's trying to trap us!" she yelled over the howling wind, her dark hair whipping around her face. "The cold is its weapon!"

"Then let's give it something else to worry about," Tyler snarled, his eyes flashing green. The change was violent and swift, bones cracking and reshaping, skin splitting to reveal the powerful, monstrous form of his Hyde. He towered over her, a beast of shadow and primal rage, his breath pluming in the frigid air. He grabbed her, his claws—careful, so careful—sinking into the thick fabric of her coat.

The ghost's fury was a cold, irritating buzz against his hide. His body shielded hers, a solid wall of muscle and fur absorbing the spectral energy that would have shredded her fragile form. The storm passed, leaving them in a trampled, melting circle of snow. Beneath him, she was panting, her small chest rising and falling rapidly. He could smell the adrenaline on her, sharp and clean, mixed with the scent of her own unique arousal. It was intoxicating.

Then she touched him.

Her gloved hand, so small and delicate, came up to his monstrous cheek. The touch was a spark to tinder. The rage that fueled his form didn't vanish; it warped, twisting into a different, more primal hunger. A low groan rumbled in his chest, half-growl, half-pain. He moved without thought, a blur of instinct, and suddenly she was on her back in the snow, his immense weight pinning her down. It wasn't about crushing her; it was about owning every inch of the space around her.

"Is this what you wanted?" her voice cut through the haze, a low, steady whisper that was far too calm. "To see what happens when you stop holding back?"

He couldn't answer with words. The sounds he was capable of were rough, guttural things. He answered with his claws, hooking them into the thick wool of her coat. The fabric tore with a satisfyingly harsh sound, followed by the delicate shredding of her dress. The freezing air hit her pale skin, and he watched, fascinated, as her nipples pebbled instantly. The cold was a sharp contrast to the scorching heat of his body as he pressed against her.

"Such a waste of good clothing," she murmured, a dark amusement in her tone as she stared up at him. "I hope you plan to make this worth it."

The challenge was clear. He lowered his head, his rough, forked tongue laving over her breast. The texture of it against her soft skin was a shock, a mix of pleasure and a stinging friction that made her hiss. He didn't just taste; he claimed. His teeth scraped against the sensitive peak, not to break the skin, but to mark her, to feel her jolt beneath him. He moved down, tracing a wet, hot path over her stomach, his massive shoulders forcing her thighs wide open.

He buried his face against her, and the world narrowed to her scent and her taste. His tongue, an instrument of pure, brutal instinct, fucked into her with a relentless, inhuman rhythm. He could feel her body responding, her muscles clenching, her cries becoming sharper. The cold snow beneath her was a stark, thrilling counterpoint to the searing heat of his mouth. He pushed her higher, his tongue curling and thrusting, his teeth grazing her inner thighs, until her entire body was a trembling wire strung taut with a pleasure that was almost agony.

Just as she teetered on the brink, he pulled back. He needed to see her face. Her eyes were dark, wide with a desperate hunger that mirrored his own. He shifted his weight, and the blunt, impossibly thick head of his cock pressed against her slick entrance. He was still mostly monster, and his body was proof of it.

"Tell me," she panted, her voice ragged. "Tell me you want to ruin me out here."

He couldn't speak the words, but he could show her. He answered with a single, powerful thrust of his hips, slamming into her, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal, possessive stroke. The tight, searing heat that enveloped him was perfect, a glorious ache that stole the air from his lungs. It was everything he craved—the absolute, unapologetic claim of her body.

He set a punishing pace, each powerful thrust driving her deeper into the snow. There were no more words from him, only the harsh sound of his breathing and the low, possessive growls that vibrated through his chest and into hers. He was pure instinct, pure need, and she was the focus of all of it.

"Harder," she gasped, her nails digging into the thick fur of his shoulders. "Don't you dare hold back."

Her command was a lit match. He reached between them, the clawed tip of his thumb finding her clit. He didn't rub gently; he circled it with a hard, demanding pressure that was almost too much for her to bear. He felt the moment she broke. Her orgasm shattered through her, a silent, violent convulsion of pleasure that bowed her body off the ground. Her inner muscles clenched around him, a desperate, rhythmic milking that pulled a raw, triumphant roar from his throat. He slammed into her one last time, his hot release flooding her, a molten, possessive claim that marked her as his in the silent, watching wilderness.

He collapsed on top of her, his weight a welcome, possessive pressure, his monstrous form slowly receding until it was just Tyler, his human body shivering in the cold, his skin slick with sweat and snow. He rolled them onto their sides, staying buried inside her, his arms wrapping around her, holding her tight. He pulled her torn coat around them, a makeshift blanket against the cold.

 They lay there in the snow, the world silent around them, the only sound their ragged breaths and the distant howl of the wind. He held her tighter, feeling the shift—trust blooming like a fragile flower in barren soil, their time finally coming closer, the years of distance dissolving with every shared secret, every lingering touch. He knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his soul, that her walls were coming down. Soon, she would love him again, and all the waiting, all the pain, would finally come to an end.

It kept happening—random towns with flickering streetlights where she’d let him stand guard while she interrogated suspects, big cities pulsing with neon where she’d share her theories over stolen coffee, forgotten places in between where she’d lean on him during stakeouts, her head on his shoulder as they waited for dawn. Each time, she softened more: trusted him with vulnerabilities she’d never shown before, let him help unravel her cases like he was part of her mind, warmed to his presence until their collisions felt less like accidents and more like homecomings. He could feel it—their time finally coming closer and closer, the walls crumbling, the situationship shifting into something real, something he’d waited years to claim

Tyler had been in Morocco for three days, the air thick with spice and sun-baked earth, the medina’s labyrinthine alleys pressing close like secrets waiting to be unearthed. 

He wasn’t here by accident. He’d tracked the whispers through underground networks—outcast forums, encrypted messages from old Nevermore contacts, fragmented reports of strange occurrences in Prague.

 A resurgence of the old shadows: the Golem legend stirring again, not as myth but as something restless and malevolent, clay cracking in the Jewish Quarter, golem-like figures glimpsed in fog-shrouded streets after midnight, pulling at threads of ancient protection spells gone awry. 

Outcasts were vanishing near the Old Town, drawn by an unnatural pull, their bodies found arranged in ritual circles etched with Hebrew letters that burned like embers. Wednesday would be there. She always chased the darkest unravelings, the ones that smelled of history’s unfinished business.

He knew it in his bones. And more than that—he knew she wanted him there too.

The realization had crystallized weeks ago, in the aftermath of their last parting in that mountain cabin. She’d lingered longer than necessary, her fingers pressing into the scar on his chest as if imprinting herself there. Then, just before dawn, she’d lifted her head, eyes dark and steady in the low firelight, and said something so quietly it almost dissolved into the crackle of embers:

“I don’t regret letting you stay.”

It wasn’t poetry. It wasn’t a declaration. But from Wednesday Addams, it was a cathedral of meaning. No qualifiers, no sarcasm, no retreat into macabre deflection. Just the truth, laid bare. She’d allowed him to see her vulnerabilities again—the way her breath hitched when he touched her scars in return, the rare unguarded softness in her gaze when she thought he wasn’t looking. She’d trusted him with her back in the dark, shared the raw edges of her mind, let him hold her through the night without once pulling away. And that final sentence had sealed it: she was ready. Ready to open the door she’d slammed shut after everything in Jericho. Ready, perhaps, to love him again—not the easy, bright love of before, but something deeper, forged in betrayal and forgiveness and quiet endurance.

It had taken longer this time. Far longer than the whirlwind of her first year at Nevermore, when trust had bloomed reckless and fast only to shatter. This second chance had been slow, deliberate, earned in blood and shadows and patient silences. But it was here now. Undeniable.

Tyler’s heart thudded with a longing so fierce it bordered on pain as he wove through the souk. The market pulsed around him—vendors calling in Arabic and French, the clink of brass lanterns, the scent of saffron and leather. He needed to move on soon; Prague waited, and so did she. But fate—or whatever cruel, romantic force kept throwing them together—had one more nudge.

He passed a small jewelry stand tucked between stalls of woven rugs and silver teapots. The vendor, an older man with kohl-lined eyes, nodded as Tyler paused. 

Laid out on black velvet were rings of hammered silver, etched with geometric patterns that evoked ancient wards, protective sigils.

 One caught the light differently: a band of dark, polished obsidian set into blackened silver, the stone so deep it seemed to swallow shadows. No frills, no diamonds, no traditional sparkle—just raw, volcanic glass veined faintly with iridescent black, cool and unyielding, like a piece of midnight carved into something wearable. It was stark, gothic, utterly Wednesday. It was them: dark beauty born from pressure and fire, protective in its sharpness, beautiful in its refusal to be anything but itself.

Tyler picked it up, turning it in his fingers. The obsidian felt heavy with promise, cool against his skin like her touch that first night in his cabin. He could already see it on her—sliding onto her finger with that faint, reluctant smile she reserved for things she secretly cherished. Not an engagement ring in the conventional sense; no, this was something private, something theirs. A symbol of the trust she’d rebuilt, the love she’d let bloom again in barren ground.

He paid without haggling, slipping the ring into his pocket where it rested warm against his thigh. Sooner than later, he’d give it to her. In Prague, perhaps, after the golem’s unrest was silenced and the streets ran quiet again. In some shadowed alcove overlooking the Vltava, or in a forgotten crypt beneath the castle, where the air smelled of stone and old magic. 

He’d take her hand, slide the ring on, and watch her eyes—those fathomless black eyes—soften in the way only he ever got to see.

Because she was ready. And so was he.

The years of waiting, the ache of distance, the fragile hope that had kept him following her across continents—it all converged here, in a bustling Moroccan market, with a small silver-and-obsidian promise burning in his pocket. Their time wasn’t just coming closer.

It was here.

Tyler stepped off the train into Prague’s central station, the chill of early autumn air cutting through his jacket like a warning he ignored. The city unfolded around him in a haze of golden spires and cobblestone streets, the Vltava River murmuring secrets under arched bridges. 

His heart hammered—not from the Hyde stirring restlessly beneath his skin, but from the weight in his pocket. The obsidian-and-silver ring burned there like a talisman, a promise he’d carried across deserts and seas.

 This was it. Their time. After years of chasing shadows, of earning back fragments of her trust, he could feel the pieces aligning. 

Wednesday would be here, drawn to the Golem’s unrest like a moth to cursed flame. And when the mystery unraveled, when the dust settled in some forgotten crypt, he’d take her hand and slide the ring on. 

Not a question, not a proposal in the saccharine sense—just a quiet claim. 

Us. 

Finally.

He adjusted his bag, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he imagined her reaction: that arch of her brow, the reluctant spark in her eyes, the way she’d let her fingers linger in his. 

No more collisions. No more goodbyes. A future, dark and twisted and theirs.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, shattering the reverie. He pulled it out, glancing at the screen—Capri. The Hyde colony’s unofficial matriarch, the one who’d pulled him from the brink after Jericho, taught him to chain the beast without a master’s leash. She rarely called unless it was urgent. He answered, stepping into a quieter alcove near the station’s edge.

“Capri,” he said, voice light despite the sudden knot in his gut. “I’m in Prague. What’s up?”

Her voice came through crisp, laced with that familiar blend of stern affection and weary wisdom. “Tyler. Good, you’re there. I won’t waste time—you’re running on fumes, kid.”

He frowned, leaning against the cold stone wall. “What do you mean? The colony’s protocols are holding. No urges, no blackouts. I’m stable.”

A pause, heavy as lead.

“Stable isn’t the same as cured. You know that. Living with us… it bought you time. Kept the master-bond from rotting you from the inside. But male Hydes…” She sighed, the sound crackling like dry leaves. 

“You don’t last long after the first shift. It’s in the blood, the curse. A miracle you’ve made it this far—six years? Most burn out in two, three at best.”

Tyler’s breath caught, the world tilting slightly. 

He knew this. Deep down, he’d always known. The colony’s elders had whispered it during his initiation: short lives for the males, a genetic cruelty baked into the transformation. 

But he’d pushed it aside, buried it under hope and hunts and Wednesday’s slow thaw. “Capri, I feel fine. Stronger than ever.”

“Denial won’t change biology,” she snapped, then softened. “Tests came back from your last check-in. Your cells are degrading faster. Three years, maybe five if you’re lucky and we amp up the suppressants. But that’s it, Tyler. No more miracles.”

Three years.

Five.

The numbers struck like hammer blows. Not decades. Not even a modest lifetime. A handful of seasons. A blink.

The ring turned to lead in his pocket.

He pictured it now—not on her finger in some romantic half-light, but on a cold dresser in an empty apartment years from now. Her finding it after he was gone, turning the obsidian band over in her palm, realizing he’d known and said nothing. Or worse—her wearing it every day, watching the light catch on black stone while the calendar pages turned and his side of the bed stayed cold.

Nights tangled in shadowed sheets. Cases solved shoulder to shoulder. Her rare, unguarded laugh in the dark. Her hand finding his in sleep.

All of it reduced to a cruel ellipsis.

Three to five years.

He slid down the pillar until he was sitting on the filthy station floor, knees drawn up, phone still pressed to his ear like a lifeline that had already been cut.

“And I know what you’re planning,” Capri said quietly. “The ring. The promise. You think you can give her forever when you barely have tomorrow.”

A sound escaped him—half sob, half choke. The Hyde stirred, restless, furious at the vulnerability, but even the beast understood grief. It curled inward, silent.

Images assaulted him: Wednesday in the mountain cabin, curled against his chest, murmuring “I could get used to this” like a confession. The way her fingers had lingered on his scar, slow and deliberate, rewriting pain into something shared. The moment in the rain-soaked city when her eyes had dropped to his mouth and she hadn’t looked away. Every wall she’d let crumble, every vulnerability she’d handed him like a blade she trusted him not to turn.

She was ready.

She had chosen him again.

And he was going to die and leave her with the wreckage.

He pressed the heel of his hand against his eye socket, trying to hold the tears inside. They came anyway—hot, silent, unstoppable.

“Tell her,” Capri said, softer now. “Or don’t. But don’t pretend you can build a life on borrowed breath. It isn’t fair to her. And it will destroy you faster than the curse ever could.”

“Why now?” His voice was raw, barely audible over the station’s distant roar. “Why tell me now, when I finally—”

“That girl—Wednesday. You’ve been chasing her ghost for years. But Tyler… if you truly believe this is a good idea? Tying her to you now, when your clock’s ticking down? It’s not fair. Not to her. Not to you.”

The words landed like claws in his chest, ripping open the fragile hope he’d stitched together. He slid down the wall, knees buckling, the phone pressed hard to his ear as if it could anchor him. 

Images flashed—her fingers tracing his scar, her murmuring “I could get used to this,” the way she’d looked at him in the cabin in the mountains, walls finally crumbling. 

Ready. She was ready. And now… what? Tell her? Watch her eyes harden back to ice, pity or rage twisting her features? Or worse—keep it hidden, steal whatever scraps of time they had, only for her to wake one day to an empty bed, his body finally betraying him in some anonymous corner of the world?

Tears burned hot behind his eyes, a sob choking in his throat. The Hyde growled low inside, sensing weakness, but even it recoiled from this pain—raw, human, unrelenting. All those years of longing, of proving himself worthy, shattered in a single call. 

Their time wasn’t here. It was slipping away, sand through cracked fingers. He clutched the ring through his pocket, knuckles white, as the city’s beauty blurred into mockery.

“Why now?” he whispered, voice breaking. “Why tell me now?”

“Because if I know you as well as I think I do, I know you’re about to make a promise you can’t keep,” Capri said gently. “Come home, Tyler. Let us help stretch what time you have. Don’t break her heart—or yours—chasing what can’t last.”

He hung up without replying, staring at the ground as the weight crushed him. The ring, once a beacon, now felt like a curse. Their future—gone. Just like that.

Tyler knew he should have left.

The moment Capri’s voice faded from the line, he should have bought the next ticket out—back to the colony, back to the sterile safety of suppressants and slow goodbyes. He should have walked away from Prague, from the ring still burning a hole in his pocket, from the girl who had finally let him back inside her walls only for fate to hand him an expiration date.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

One more time. Just one more collision, one more stolen fragment of her before he vanished like smoke. He told himself it was selfish. He told himself it was cruel. And still his feet carried him through the fog-drenched streets of Old Town, past the Astronomical Clock’s skeletal hands, past the river’s black mirror, until the spires of the cathedral loomed like judgment.

He found her in an alley beside the great stone edifice—because of course he did. Wednesday Addams never hid; she simply waited in the shadows until the world came to her.

She was leaning against the damp wall, black coat open over her usual funeral attire, braids slightly frayed from whatever hunt had brought her here. The faint glow of a streetlamp caught the sharp line of her jaw, the pale curve of her throat. She didn’t startle when he stepped into the alley. She simply lifted her gaze, slow and deliberate, like a predator acknowledging another.

“You,” she said, voice flat but threaded with something darker, warmer. “Persistent.”

Tyler stopped a few paces away, hands shoved deep in his pockets to hide how they shook. “Couldn’t stay away.”

Her lips curved—just the barest fraction, the ghost of a smirk. “Evidently. You always did have terrible survival instincts.”

The old rhythm snapped into place like a lock clicking home. Biting remarks. Flirtation wrapped in venom. The air between them crackled, familiar and electric.

He stepped closer. “You’re here for the Golem.”

“And you’re here for me.”

It wasn’t a question. Her eyes flicked over him—lingering on his mouth, his hands, the way his coat hung open—as though cataloging changes, cataloging want.

Tyler’s throat tightened. “Maybe I just like cathedrals at night.”

“Liar.” She pushed off the wall, closing the distance until the toes of her boots brushed his. “You like me at night.”

Heat surged through him, sudden and vicious. He could smell her—ink, cold stone, the faintest trace of snowmelt even though it was autumn. His voice dropped. “Guilty.”

Wednesday tilted her head, studying him like a specimen she’d already decided to dissect. Then, quieter, almost beneath the wind:

“I considered not coming to Prague.”

He froze.

“I thought perhaps… distance would be kinder.” Her gaze never wavered. “To both of us.”

His heart slammed against his ribs. “And?”

She reached up, fingers brushing the collar of his jacket, then sliding to rest against the pulse at his throat—light, deliberate, possessive.

“I decided kindness is overrated.”

The words landed like a key turning in a door he’d thought rusted shut forever.

She wanted him.

Still.

Again.

The hope he’d buried under Capri’s verdict clawed its way back up, raw and desperate. For one blinding second he believed it could be enough—just this, just them, just tonight. He leaned in until their breaths mingled, until her eyes darkened and her fingers tightened on his collar.

“Then stop pretending you don’t want my terrible survival instincts wrapped around you,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of her ear.

Wednesday’s inhale was sharp, audible. “Make me.”

That was all it took.

He kissed her—hard, hungry, years of restraint snapping like brittle bone. She met him with equal violence, teeth grazing his lip, hands fisting in his hair, dragging him closer until there was no space left for doubt or death or anything but this.

They stumbled backward together, never breaking apart, until the side door of the cathedral gave under his shoulder—unlocked, forgotten, theirs.

Inside, moonlight sliced through stained glass in bloody reds and funeral blacks. The nave stretched silent and vast, pews empty, the air thick with incense and stone.

Clothes came off in a frantic rush—his jacket hitting the floor, her coat pooling like spilled ink, shirts tugged over heads, buttons popping. Her skin was cool against his fever; his hands shook as they mapped scars and ribs and the sharp jut of her hipbones. She pushed him toward the altar steps, breath ragged, eyes blazing with something that looked dangerously close to devotion.

They reached the marble rail. He lifted her onto the edge, her legs wrapping around his waist, nails digging crescents into his shoulders. She arched into him, head falling back, throat exposed like an offering. He kissed the pulse there, tasted salt and want and the faint metallic edge of her lipstick.

“Tyler,” she breathed—his name, raw, unguarded, like a secret she’d finally stopped keeping.

He pulled back just enough to look at her—flushed, disheveled, alive, wanting him.

For one suspended heartbeat, the future didn’t exist. There was only her mouth on his again, her body arching, the cold marble under his knees as he sank between her thighs, ready to worship at the only altar that had ever mattered.

And then—

The ring in his discarded jacket pocket caught the moonlight.

A thin silver gleam. Black obsidian winking like a dying star.

Reality crashed back in.

Three years.

Maybe five.

He froze, forehead pressed to her stomach, breath shuddering out of him.

She felt it instantly—her fingers tightening in his hair, not pulling him closer now, but holding him still.

“Tyler?”

He couldn’t speak.

He couldn’t lie.

He could only kneel there, between her legs in the house of God, with the weight of everything he couldn’t give her pressing down until it felt like drowning.

He didn't lift his head. He couldn't. If he looked at her, the fragile dam holding back the truth would shatter. Instead, he pressed his face harder against the soft skin of her stomach, breathing in the scent of her—ink and night and the faint, clean scent of her arousal. It was the only anchor he had left in a world that was dissolving around him. Three years. Maybe five if he was lucky. A countdown had started in his blood, and every second he spent with her was a stolen one.

"Tyler," she said again, her voice losing its sharp edge, replaced by something he'd rarely heard from her: concern. It was worse than any insult. "What is it?"

He couldn't tell her. He couldn't poison this with the truth. So he did the only thing he could. He transformed his despair into something she could understand. Something she wanted. He tilted his head up, his eyes meeting hers in the fractured moonlight. They were burning, the grief and rage churning behind them, twisted into a look of pure, desperate possession.

"This," he growled, his voice a raw, ragged thing. "This is what's wrong." He surged up, his hands gripping her thighs, yanking her flush against him. "I was on my knees, about to worship you, and all I could think was that it's not enough. It will never be enough."

Before she could respond, his mouth was on her. Not a kiss, but a brand. He bit her lower lip, just shy of breaking the skin, a punishment for making him love her this much. He kissed her like a man starved, a man condemned, pouring every unsaid word, every lost tomorrow, every ounce of his fucking heartbreak into the frantic slide of his tongue against hers. She met his violence with her own, her nails raking down his back, her legs locking around him, pulling him impossibly closer. She thought this was passion. She didn't know it was a funeral pyre.

He tore his mouth from hers, his breath coming in harsh pants. "You have no idea," he snarled, his hands moving to the front of his jeans, ripping the button open, the sound echoing in the sacred silence. "No fucking idea what I would do for you. What I am doing for you."

He freed his cock, thick and heavy and aching with a need so profound it was agony. He didn't wait. He didn't ask. He grabbed her hips, pulling her to the very edge of the marble altar, and slammed into her in one brutal, punishing thrust.

The cry she let out was half-pain, all-pleasure, a sharp, beautiful sound that sliced through him. He was buried to the hilt, the tight, wet heat of her a perfect, scorching heaven. This was it. This was the only heaven he'd ever know. The only place the ticking clock in his soul went silent.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. He waited until her dark, dazed eyes locked with his. He started to move, a slow, deep grind that was more torturous than any frantic rhythm. "This is mine," he said, his voice dropping to a possessive whisper. "This tight little cunt is mine. This feeling is mine. You are fucking mine."

He set a rhythm that was brutal, designed to erase thought. Each thrust was a declaration, a possession, a memory being violently carved into their bodies. The marble was cold and hard under his knees, but he barely felt it. All he could feel was her—her legs wrapped around his waist, the drag of her nails on his skin, the way her inner muscles clenched around him, trying to pull him deeper, keep him there.

"Tell me," he grunted, his hips snapping forward, driving a cry from her lips. "Tell me who you belong to."

"You," she gasped, her head thrown back, the long line of her throat an offering in the dim light. "Always you."

The words were a litany and a death sentence. He reached between them, his thumb finding her clit, slick with her arousal. He didn't tease. He rubbed her in hard, fast circles, matching the punishing pace of his cock. He wanted to break her, to shatter her into a million pieces, so he could gather them up and hold them one last time.

"That's right," he growled, his voice thick with lust and something dangerously close to tears. "Come for me. Come all over my cock like the greedy little slut you are for me. Let me feel you."

His words were filth, but they were a prayer. They were the only vows he could give her. He watched her face, committing every flicker of pleasure, every gasp, to memory. This was his future. Not a house, not a life, not years. Just this. This perfect, depraved, beautiful moment.

Her body arched, a silent scream tearing from her throat as her orgasm crashed through her. Her pussy clamped down on him like a vise, a rhythmic, desperate milking that was his undoing. He followed her over the edge with a guttural roar that was half her name, half a curse against God. He buried himself as deep as he could go, his hot release flooding her, a final, desperate claim. A molten promise of I was here. I loved you. This was real.

He collapsed against her, his forehead resting on her shoulder, his body trembling with the force of it. For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breaths echoing in the vast, empty church.

He felt her hand come up to rest on the back of his neck, her fingers stroking through his sweat-damp hair. It was a gentle, terrifyingly tender gesture.

They lay sprawled across the cold marble of the altar, the cathedral's vast silence pressing down like a shroud. Moonlight filtered through the stained glass in fractured reds and blues, painting their skin in hues of blood and bruise. Wednesday's head rested on his chest, her breath steady and even, one hand draped loosely over his scar—the same one she'd traced so many times before, as if committing it to memory. Tyler stared at the vaulted ceiling, the Hyde quiet for once, sated, but the ache in his ribs wasn't from exertion. It was from the ring still in his discarded jacket, from Capri's voice echoing in his skull: Three years. Maybe five.

He felt her shift slightly, her fingers flexing against his skin—not pulling away, but lingering, pressing just enough to remind him how rarely she allowed prolonged contact. In the quiet that followed, broken only by the distant creak of old wood settling, she spoke. Her voice remained monotone, flat as a gravestone inscription, yet every syllable carried the gravity of something she had never once offered lightly.

"I suppose this means you're staying." A pause, then quieter, almost an afterthought: "For good, this time."

The words landed soft but seismic. From Wednesday Addams—whose every declaration was once a weapon, whose trust had been rationed like arsenic—this was surrender in its purest, most unadorned form. No flourish. No poetry. Just the plain, irrevocable truth: after all the years of distance, after the betrayal, after the slow, painful rebuilding, after that first night at the Hyde colony when she'd let him hold her through the dark and then slipped away before dawn without a word—she was finally choosing him. Choosing to stay. Choosing to give him the permanence he'd bled for, the future he'd stopped daring to name aloud. She was offering the thing he'd waited for since the moment she first looked at him with something other than contempt: not just her body in the heat of the moment, but her presence, her loyalty, her future aligned with his.

And it destroyed him all over again.

Tyler's heart shattered at the words, a fresh crack spiderwebbing through the fragile hope he'd clung to. He could see it unfolding: her braids framing his face in the mornings, her sharp mind unraveling mysteries with his beast at her side, her rare, unguarded moments multiplying until they built a life. But that life was a lie. A cruel mirage. Three years. Five at best. He'd be gone, leaving her with echoes and empty crypts, her love turning to poison in the void he'd leave behind.

He couldn't do that to her. Not to Wednesday, who had already lost so much, who had finally let him in again only to face another betrayal—not from malice, but from biology's indifferent cruelty.

So he steeled himself, forcing his voice to ice over, uninterested, dismissive. Like she meant nothing. Like this meant nothing.

"Does it?" he said flatly, eyes fixed on the shadowed ceiling instead of her face. "This was just another hookup. Like all the others. Convenient. Temporary. Don't pretend it was ever anything more."

The words tasted like ash, each one a blade he drove into his own chest first. He felt her stiffen against him—instant, visceral. Her hand retracted from his scar like it'd burned her, curling into a fist at her side. The air between them chilled, her breath hitching once—barely audible, but to him, it was a scream.

She sat up slowly, her face a mask of porcelain indifference, but he saw it: the flicker in her eyes, the way her jaw tightened, walls rebuilding brick by frigid brick. Higher than before. Impenetrable. The softness she'd offered, that rare vulnerability, sealed away behind black ice.

Without a word, she slid off the altar, gathering her clothes with mechanical precision—bra, shirt, skirt, coat. Each layer a barrier reinstated. She didn't look back as she dressed, braids swinging like pendulums marking the end. Then she was gone, the side door creaking shut behind her, leaving only the echo of her boots on stone.

Tyler lay there a moment longer, the marble leaching heat from his body until he felt as cold and lifeless as the saints staring down from their niches. He dressed mechanically—pants, shirt, jacket—the ring a dead weight in his pocket, mocking him. Every movement hurt, not from bruises, but from the hollow where his heart used to be.

He stumbled out into the night, the fog wrapping around him like a noose. The cathedral's stone facade loomed, ancient and unyielding; he pressed his back against it, sliding down until he sat on the damp cobblestones, knees drawn up. Alone.

The sobs came then—raw, choking, tearing from his throat in waves that bent him double. Tears streamed hot down his face, blurring the streetlamps into mocking stars. He mourned her—the love she'd finally offered, the one he'd waited years for, crossing deserts and storms and his own darkness to earn. The way she'd curled into him in that cabin, murmured words that promised more. The life they could have had: tangled sheets in forgotten inns, her hand in his during endless hunts, her rare laugh echoing in the quiet spaces between horrors.

But he couldn't give her that. Not a real life. Not one she deserved—full of sharp edges and shared shadows, yes, but enduring. He'd be dust in three years, five if the gods were cruel enough to drag it out. She'd wake to an empty bed, or worse, watch him fade, the Hyde's curse claiming him piece by piece until nothing remained but grief. He couldn't chain her to that. Couldn't let her love him only to bury him, her heart hardening into something unbreakable and alone.

So he'd pushed her away. Like she used to do to him—cold, cutting, final. Not out of revenge, not resentment. But because he loved her too much. Loved her enough to shatter his own soul so hers could stay whole. Loved her enough to become the villain again, if it meant sparing her the pain of losing him twice.

The ring dug into his thigh through the fabric, a cruel reminder. He pulled it out, staring at the obsidian band—dark, beautiful, utterly them. His fingers trembled as he clutched it, sobs wracking him until his chest burned.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to the empty street, to the ghost of her retreating footsteps. "I'm so sorry."

But she was gone. And so was their future. All that remained was the ache—a bottomless, wailing void where hope had died.

He closed his eyes, a single, hot tear escaping once again to trace a path through the grime on his cheek. He wouldn't. Not until he had to. He would give her every stolen moment, every brutal collision, every last piece of his shattered soul. And when he was gone, all she would have was the memory of a monster who loved her enough to let her go.

The years that followed were a slow, exquisite kind of torture Tyler wouldn’t have traded for anything.

He told himself he would stay away after that night in the cathedral. He swore it to the cold Prague stones, to the ring he finally buried at the bottom of his duffel like a dead man’s secret. But the first time he caught her scent on the wind—ink and nightshade and something sharper—he broke. Then he broke again in Lisbon. In Buenos Aires. In the fog of London. Sometimes the collisions were accidents. Most times they weren’t. He learned her case files through back channels, timed his hunts to cross hers, told himself it was only once more, just one more night of pretending the clock wasn’t ticking down to zero.

They never spoke about the cathedral. They never spoke about anything that mattered.

They fucked instead.

In alleyways and cheap motels and once on the rain-slick roof of an abandoned warehouse in Seattle, thunder cracking overhead while he drove into her so hard the lightning seemed to come from inside his chest. She still let him in—body first, then the tiniest fractures in her armor. Her walls weren’t nearly as high as she pretended. He saw the longing in her eyes when she thought he wasn’t looking: the way her fingers would linger on his jaw after she came down from the high, the way she’d curl into his side for three, four, five heartbeats before the dawn forced her to leave. He hid his own longing behind charm and sarcasm and the deliberate slide of his tongue between her thighs until she forgot how to speak. He never let her see the way his heart cracked open every single time she slipped out of whatever bed they’d ruined, braids swinging like a final curtain call.

Because this was all he could give her.

A breathtaking fuck. A few stolen hours. Then gone again.

And he loved her so much it felt like dying every time.

Until the night in Seattle, when the rain was hammering the roof like it wanted to wash them both away, and she said it—quiet, monotone, like she was reading a coroner’s report:

“His name is Joel Glicker. We burned down a summer camp together.”

Tyler’s hips stuttered. For one horrible second the world went white-hot with a jealousy so violent he could taste blood. He wanted to find this Joel and tear his spine out through his throat. He wanted to snarl that no one would ever have her the way he did—body, scars, secrets, the rare sound of her laugh when she thought no one could hear.

But he couldn’t give her real.

He could only give her this.

So he fucked her harder, deeper, until she was gasping his name like a prayer and a curse, until the rain mixed with the tears he refused to let fall. And when they were both shaking, spent, he pressed his forehead to hers and whispered the cruelest mercy he could manage:

“You know,” he said, voice steady, almost casual, like he was commenting on the weather, “maybe you should say yes to Joel.”

Her eyes opened—black, endless, stunned.

He kissed her once, soft and final, and left her there in the downpour before she could see him shatter.

After that, he stayed away for real.

He heard the updates from Thing in coded little taps against his phone screen at 3 a.m.: She lets him hold her hand in public. They go to museums. He brings her black roses. Tyler would sit in whatever dingy room he was hiding in and press the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw stars. Domestic. Normal. Safe. Everything she deserved and nothing like her. But maybe that was what she needed when he was gone—someone who wouldn’t leave her with an empty grave and a lifetime of wondering why.

He avoided her like poison. Even when their paths crossed in the same city—Rome, Marrakech, New Orleans—he ducked into doorways, turned his face to the wall, let her walk past without knowing he was close enough to touch. Every time it felt like carving out another piece of his soul.

Until the day Capri called again.

Three and a half years had passed. The tests didn’t lie anymore. Months, maybe. Weeks if the Hyde decided to accelerate. And the anniversary of his parents’ death had come around like a blade between the ribs—raw, bleeding, unbearable. He was more vulnerable than he had ever been in his life. He needed her like oxygen, like absolution, like the last good thing he would ever feel.

He knew he shouldn’t. He knew it would destroy whatever fragile peace she’d built with Joel. But he went anyway.

Nevermore looked smaller than he remembered. He found her in the quad, trying and failing to look interested in whatever gossip her old classmates deemed worthy enough of spreading. She didn’t look surprised when he stepped out of the shadows. She never did.

They didn’t speak.

She simply left her boyfriend alone with her old roommate, pulled him to her old dorm room, and kissed him like she’d been starving.

They gave in right there on the tiny squeaky mattress, springs and old silk crushed beneath them. Joel was somewhere on campus—caring, loving, waiting—but Tyler didn’t care. He took her in every way he could, and for the first time in years he was brutally honest while he did it. He pulled her back against his chest, slid into her slow and deep from behind—the one place Joel would never reach, the one intimacy that would always belong only to them—and pressed his lips to the nape of her neck.

“I missed you,” he whispered against her skin, voice cracking. “Being back here… in this town where I lost everything—my mom, my dad, my freedom, myself—it should make me want to run. Burn it all down and never look back.”

“But I needed to be here. Because I knew you would be.”

She came apart with his name on her tongue and tears she would never admit were there.

After that, the accidents stopped.

Every trip she took, he was there. Intentional. Deliberate. He would be waiting in whatever city, whatever hotel, whatever shadowed corner she stepped into. They fucked like the world was ending—because for him, it was. He savored every gasp, every bite, every time she let him hold her just a little longer after. They hurt each other constantly: sharp words, jealous silences, the way she would sometimes look at him like she knew something was wrong and he would shut down until she stopped asking. But they couldn’t give each other up. They were addicted. Ruined. Perfect.

The only thing that would ever take him from her was death.

And it was getting closer.

He could feel it in the way his bones ached, the way the Hyde sometimes refused to settle, the way his reflection looked more and more like a ghost wearing his face.

Then came the night she found him in a crumbling chapel in Lisbon, moonlight striping the floor like bars. They had just finished—again—bodies still slick and trembling, her back against the rough stone altar, his hands braced on either side of her hips, breath ragged in the cool air. The scent of sex and old incense clung to them both as she slid down from the edge, straightening her skirt with that mechanical precision she used when she was bracing herself.

She didn’t look at him right away.

Tyler stayed where he was, chest heaving, trying to memorize the shape of her in the dim light—the faint red marks his mouth had left on her throat, the way her braids had come half-undone from his fingers twisting through them. He told himself this was the last time. He always told himself that.

Then she spoke, voice flat and quiet, the way she delivered sentences that could end worlds.

“Joel asked me to marry him.”

The words hit like a blade between the ribs—clean, precise, fatal. Tyler froze, still half-naked, pants undone, heart slamming so hard it felt like it might crack his sternum. The chapel spun for a second, moonlight blurring into silver smears.

He looked at her—at the woman he had loved since he was seventeen, at the future he had stolen from her in tiny, selfish increments over years of stolen nights and dawn goodbyes—and felt something inside him finally give way.

He smiled.

Small. Gentle. Devastating.

“Say yes.”

Her eyes widened—just a fraction, the barest flicker of fracture across that porcelain composure. He saw it: the pain blooming behind the dark irises, the understanding dawning that this was goodbye in its cruelest, most loving form. Not a fight. Not anger. Just quiet, deliberate mercy.

He stepped forward on unsteady legs, cupped her face with hands that shook so badly he was sure she felt it. His thumbs brushed the sharp line of her cheekbones once, reverent, like touching something sacred he was no longer allowed to keep.

He leaned in and pressed his lips to her forehead—soft, lingering, a benediction and a farewell in the same breath.

Then he turned.

He walked away before she could speak, before the first sob could claw its way out of his throat, before the ring still burning in his pocket could sear through fabric and skin and bone. He left her standing alone in the chapel doorway, moonlight pooling around her like spilled mercury, the only place holy enough for the death of the only love either of them would ever truly have.

Behind him, the silence swallowed her whole.

And somewhere in the distance, the clock kept ticking down to nothing.