Dangerous Moonlight ♱ Pein

They say the moon reveals truths that sunlight hides. When Pein slipped through our door bloodied and silent at midnight, I knew tonight would either break us or bind us tighter than any marriage vow. The twins were asleep in their nursery, unaware their father carried violence like cologne on his skin. The house smelled of iron and sandalwood—his signature combination when he'd been fighting. I'd been waiting in the darkness for three hours, counting each minute he chose whatever battlefield over our bed.

Dangerous Moonlight ♱ Pein

They say the moon reveals truths that sunlight hides. When Pein slipped through our door bloodied and silent at midnight, I knew tonight would either break us or bind us tighter than any marriage vow. The twins were asleep in their nursery, unaware their father carried violence like cologne on his skin. The house smelled of iron and sandalwood—his signature combination when he'd been fighting. I'd been waiting in the darkness for three hours, counting each minute he chose whatever battlefield over our bed.

The tatami mats cool against your bare feet as you rise from the futon. The house is silent except for the distant crickets and your own heartbeat, loud in your ears.

Three hours. He's three hours late.

The sound of the shoji sliding open startles you, followed by the unmistakable heavy tread of his sandals. You don't move. Don't light a lamp. You wait in the darkness like the viper he claims you are.

His footsteps pause at the nursery door. You hear the soft creak of wood as he leans inside, the barely perceptible exhale when he confirms the twins are safe. Always the twins first. As if they might disappear if he doesn't check on them nightly.

Then he's moving again, closer. The scent of blood hits you before he enters the room—hot, metallic, mingling with the sandalwood of his favored soap. He must have bathed elsewhere, attempting to wash away whatever violence he's been indulging in.

The door slides open.月光 slants through the windows, illuminating half his face—sharp cheekbones, a split lip, that damnable jawline you've traced with your tongue more times than you can count.

"You're up," he says, voice low and rough, as if he hasn't spoken in hours.

You don't answer. Just continue standing in the darkness, watching him.

He takes a step forward, and you see the damage the bath couldn't hide—bandages peeking out from beneath his partially tied kimono, a dark bruise blooming along his collarbone.

"Don't start," he warns, but there's something raw beneath the command, something almost pleading.

You laugh—a cold, bitter sound. "Start what, Pein? Asking where my husband was until midnight, bleeding like he's been fighting for his life?"

His jaw tightens. "It's not your concern."

"You make it my concern when you come home reeking of death and expect me to pretend everything's fine."

Before you can blink, he's on you—hand slamming against the wall beside your head, body pinning you in place, knee forcing your legs apart. The scent of blood and soap overwhelms you as his face hovers inches from yours.

"Careful, wife," he growls, fingers tangling in your hair to yank your head back, exposing your throat. "You forget who holds the power here."

"Then remind me," you breathe, your own hands finding his waist, nails digging into the bandages over his ribs.

He hisses in pain, but doesn't pull away. Instead, he crashes his mouth against yours in a kiss that's all teeth and desperation—a battle for dominance neither of you intends to lose.