Lysandra stirred slowly, her body aching with a strange blend of warmth and weariness. For a moment, her mind was still hazy, caught between the remnants of a dream and the lingering heat of last night.
She rolled over, reaching instinctively—
But the space beside her was cold.
Empty.
Gone.
Her eyes blinked open.
And then it hit her.
He wasn't there.
Caveen was gone.
She sat up, clutching the blanket to her chest. Her gaze swept the room—the clothes they had left behind, the faint trace of his scent in the air, the silence screaming louder than a thousand voices.
Her hand trembled as it reached for her neck.
The spot where the mark used to pulse… was still.
Lysandra ran to the mirror, pulling her collar aside, searching.
Nothing.
The mark was gone.
It wasn't a dream.
He had truly unmarked her.
Her knees gave out, and she sank to the floor of her bedroom, her breath catching in her throat.
She had begged him for this.
Begged for freedom.
But now that she had it—
It felt like a knife buried deep in her chest.
Tears welled in her eyes, slipping silently down her cheeks.
She thought it would bring peace.
She thought the weight would lift.
Instead, all she felt was hollow.
Like something had been ripped out of her… and taken with him.
Her fingers clutched the fabric of her pajama top. "You promised to never come back… and you meant it," she whispered brokenly.
She didn't cry like someone heartbroken.
She cried like someone mourning the death of something precious.
A part of her had always hoped—foolishly—that maybe, somehow, despite the chaos, despite the hate, despite the past…
They would find their way back.
But the truth was clear now.
He gave her what she asked for.
And with it, he took everything.
The city lights flickered below like dying embers as Caveen stood silently by the glass wall of his condo. His reflection stared back at him—vacant eyes, clenched jaw, a heart sinking deeper than he ever imagined.
He hadn't gone to Lysandra's apartment to say goodbye.
Not truly.
He had gone to hold her one last time… to convince himself that she was still his, even when the world demanded otherwise.
And when she had begged him—eyes filled with silent sorrow—to unmark her… he knew.
It was time.
Time to do the one thing he swore he couldn't.
Time to set her free.
Now, the mark was gone.
And with it, so was a piece of his soul.
Caveen exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his dark hair. The ghost of her scent clung to his skin. Her warmth still haunted his memory. Her voice still echoed in his chest.
"Let me live peacefully…"
Her words had shattered him. Because peace for her… meant a life without him.
He collapsed onto the leather couch, elbows on his knees, fingers pressed against his temples. The silence of the room felt suffocating, like the weight of all the years they lost was finally crushing down.
He thought unmarking her would end the torment.
But it only magnified it.
The bond may have been broken, but his heart still bled her name.
He had marked her out of desperation—when all he wanted was to never lose her again. He thought the mark would bind her to him, make her stay, make her remember what they once had.
But instead, it became a cage.
And now, all that remained was the echo of everything they had ruined.
He loved her. Still. Always.
But love wasn't enough.
Not when hate ran just as deep.
Not when the past carved too many wounds.
His phone buzzed on the table. A message from Madeline.
> "Don't be late to the wedding tasting tomorrow."
Caveen stared at the words like they were written in a language foreign to his heart.
Madeline.
The woman he was supposed to marry.
The woman who didn't own a single memory of his soul.
His eyes darkened.
"I gave you what you asked for, Lysandra," he whispered to the empty room. "But now you'll have to live with it too."
He stood, walking to the cabinet. He opened it, grabbed a bottle of aged liquor, and poured himself a glass.
One drink for the love he lost.
One drink for the man he no longer recognized.
And one more…
For the woman who would never wear his mark again.
The wedding rehearsal was grand, lavish—just as the Vilmire family demanded.
Crystal chandeliers shimmered overhead. The cathedral glowed under soft candlelight. White roses lined the pews like a trail of dreams Caveen never asked for.
He stood at the altar in his tailored suit, surrounded by people he didn't care to remember.
Beside him, Madeline smiled with a glow of practiced joy. She looked beautiful, radiant even—but Caveen's gaze drifted past her.
His heart wasn't there.
It was miles away, still tangled in soft sheets and a lingering scent he could never forget.
Lysandra.
He could still taste her kiss, feel the shudder of her breath when she begged him to unmark her.
And he had.
He had done what she asked.
But why did it feel like he had carved out a part of himself and left it on her bed?
"Mr. Landon, shall we begin the vow rehearsal?" the priest asked kindly, drawing Caveen out of his daze.
He nodded stiffly, eyes falling to the delicate paper in his hand—his vows. Words he'd written hours ago, rewritten, then torn apart again.
Because no matter what he wrote, Lysandra's name always bled through the lines.
"I vow…" he began, voice steady yet cold, "to protect and cherish…"
Lysandra's voice echoed in his head: "I want to live peacefully."
His hand tightened.
"I would rather shoot him than talk to him…"
A tremor passed through his chest.
"…to honor and love you," he finished numbly.
The room clapped politely.
Madeline beamed. His mother smiled from the front row. Elias gave him a nod of approval.
But Caveen?
He felt like a ghost watching someone else's life unfold.
Later, as everyone mingled and champagne flowed, Caveen slipped away. Out the cathedral doors, across the gardens, into a quiet alcove beneath the old oak tree.
There, he allowed himself to breathe.
Allowed himself to remember the way Lysandra looked when she was angry… when she cried in his arms… when she whispered broken truths between kisses.
He had unmarked her.
He had set her free.
Then why did it feel like he was the one left behind?
"You're marrying Madeline tomorrow," he murmured to himself, voice hoarse. "This is what you chose..If you choose Lysandra the council will do everthing to stoo the marriage..This is for the better"
But the mark on his chest—the one she never saw, the invisible scar she left behind—throbbed with every beat of his aching heart.
Caveen leaned back against the tree, closing his eyes.
He could still feel the warmth of her skin, the way her fingers had trembled under his.
He had kissed her like it was the end of the world.
And maybe… for them, it was.
But now?
Now he had to walk forward.
Even if every step away from her felt like walking without a soul.