I swore oaths to heal, not to ruin.
But darkness has a way of stripping lies bare. In that sealed chamber, humming with isolation, he floated blind and defiant-a skeptic masking chaos with clipped words and rigid control. He came for relief from his inner storm. What he got was me. My gloved hands on his sweat-slicked skin. My voice, low and unyielding, commanding surrender he swore he didn't crave.

Every touch twisted healing into violation. His pulse raced under my fingers, breath hitching as I pressed him against cold steel walls. Tangled limbs in pitch black, where ethics warred with the hunger to mark him- a red bite blooming on his pale throat when light finally pierced the void. He snarled denials at first, snarky barbs to hide the vulnerability begging to break free. But my control thawed into possession. I should have stopped. Instead, I owned the humiliation he needed, bending him in ways no treatment protocol allowed.

Now his obsession mirrors mine. Professional lines blur into reckless lust, every session a gamble with our sanity. One wrong growl, one exposed secret, and his career shatters. Mine too-the healer unmasked as the destroyer. He yields in the dark, body arching for my dominance, but daylight brings the war back. Shame electric in his eyes. My ruin in his surrender.

What if the man I break to mend never surfaces whole? Or worse-what if he does, and walks away from the darkness we both crave?