Married To Darkness-Chapter 506: His and Hers

Salviana said nothing.

She dipped the needle, tested the ink, steadying herself. Whatever Anne-Marie was—whoever she had been—it belonged to Alaric’s past. If he wanted to share it, he would. If not, she would not tear it from him.

She moved closer.

"Where?" she asked softly.

He shifted, exposing his shoulder, muscle flexing beneath her gaze. "Here."

Her breath caught—but she nodded, professional, controlled. She cleaned the skin, the scent of ink rising faintly between them. The room seemed to grow smaller. Quieter.

"Mmm," she hummed absentmindedly as she prepared, more to steady herself than anything else.

Alaric’s eyes fluttered closed.

The needle touched skin.

Not painful—just sharp enough to be real.

He hissed softly, then laughed under his breath. "You’re gentler than I expected."

She smiled despite herself. "I don’t enjoy hurting what’s mine."

His eyes opened at that.

Mine. The word settled deep.

She worked slowly.

Even with her thoughts drifting—questions curling and uncurling in the back of her mind—Salviana did not rush her hands.

She never did when it came to creating something that would stay. Each letter deserved intention. Each line deserved respect.

She wiped the skin again, steadying it with her fingers, and began.

A.

A clean stroke. Confident.

She paused, checked the angle, then continued.

n. n. e.

She leaned closer, breath careful, shoulders relaxed. The room seemed to hold still with her, candles flickering softly as though aware this was not just art—it was memory, devotion, permanence.

–

The dash came next, delicate but deliberate.

M. a. r. i. e.

She traced each curve with patience, adjusting pressure where needed, perfecting edges, correcting nothing because she had taken her time from the start.

The name bloomed against his skin like it had always belonged there.

Throughout it all, Alaric stayed impossibly still. Not because it hurt—but because he trusted her. Because he felt something sacred in the way she touched him, as though she were not merely marking him, but listening.

When she finished, she cleaned the area carefully, then leaned back to examine her work. Satisfaction softened her expression. The lines were sharp. Balanced. Beautiful.

She straightened, a small smile lifting her lips.

"Done," she said.

Alaric opened his eyes and looked down at his arm. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. Then he lifted his gaze to her, something warm and reverent shining there.

"Now," he said lightly, though his voice carried depth, "please draw a flame, fiery wife."

Before she could reply, he leaned in and stole a quick kiss—warm, brief, affectionate.

She giggled, startled and smiling.

"The fire," he added softly, brushing his thumb along her wrist, "and the warmth you brought into my life."

Her laughter faded into something tender. She reached for the ink again, heart full, hands steady—already imagining the flame that would carry her name without ever needing letters.

She did not think this one.

If the name had required steadiness, this required feeling.

Salviana dipped the needle into blue ink first—not the bright sky blue of innocence, but something deeper. A shade that carried quiet intensity. She positioned her hand just beneath the name she had written, close enough to belong to it, far enough to stand on its own.

"A flame?" she murmured softly. "Flames are usually red."

He watched her, curious. "Are they?"

"Not always," she said.

The needle touched his skin again.

This time she moved slower.

She curved the base first, letting the flame rise in a soft, dancing shape—not wild, not chaotic. Controlled fire. A living thing that leaned upward, stretching, yearning.

Her fingers steadied his arm as she layered the blue, giving it depth, shading it carefully so it seemed almost to glow.

She paused often. Adjusted. Refined.

Alaric noticed. "You’re taking longer," he said quietly.

"Yes." She did not look at him when she answered.

Because this one mattered differently.

When the body of the flame was complete, she cleaned her needle and reached for red ink. Just a small amount.

At the center of the blue fire, she placed a single droplet-shaped dot of red.

Small. Precise. Intentional.

A heart within fire. A wound within warmth.

A spark that could not be extinguished.

She leaned back again, studying it, her chest rising slowly.

It was beautiful. Not loud. But alive.

"Done," she whispered this time.

Alaric looked down at his arm, eyes tracing from the name to the flame beneath it. His expression shifted—not playful now. Not teasing.

Moved.

"It’s blue," he murmured.

"You’re not destruction," she replied softly. "You burn differently."

He lifted his gaze to her.

"And the red?"

Her fingers hovered over the tiny droplet but did not touch it. "That’s the part that feels."

Silence fell between them.

Heavy. Intimate. He stood slowly.

She suddenly felt very aware of how close they were.

Very aware of the ink still staining her fingertips.

Very aware of his eyes on her.

He stepped forward until the space between them vanished, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his skin before his hands ever touched her. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted both palms to cradle her face—fingers splayed wide, thumbs brushing the fragile skin just beneath her cheekbones as though she, not the fresh lines still stinging across his own chest, were the thing most in danger of breaking.

"You see me," he said, voice so low it barely stirred the air. The words weren’t a question; they were a long-held breath finally released.

"I always have."

The confession hung there a heartbeat longer than it should have.

Then he kissed her.

Not the crash of hunger that had lived between them for months. Not the frantic collision she’d half-expected. This was slower, fuller, almost reverent—like he was trying to memorize the exact shape of her mouth with his own.

His lips settled over hers with a gentle, deliberate pressure, warm and unhurried. He tasted faintly of salt and the metallic edge of adrenaline still fading from his bloodstream, and underneath that something sweeter, something that was only him. She felt the first soft exhale leave his nose against her upper lip and it made her own breath stutter.

His hands slid from her face in a slow, savouring descent: one palm tracing the side of her throat, the other drifting to settle at the small of her back. Long fingers spread wide there, pressing her forward until her breasts brushed his bandaged chest and he hissed—barely audible—against her mouth. He didn’t pull away. If anything, he drew her closer, as though the sting only anchored him more firmly to the moment.

Her own hands moved without conscious permission. The right slid up the warm column of his neck, fingertips threading into the short hairs at his nape; the left rose more carefully, mindful of the fresh tattoo still weeping faintly beneath the clear wrap. She settled her palm over his left shoulder, thumb stroking the unmarked skin just above the edge of ink, grounding herself in the steady thud of his pulse.

The kiss deepened—not faster, not more desperate, but deeper in the way roots sink into soil after rain. He caught her lower lip between his and drew it in, suckling with a slow, rhythmic pull that felt like thirst finally being answered. A soft, involuntary sound slipped from her throat. She melted forward, boneless, her weight trusting him to hold.

Her right hand left his neck and found his wrist—the one still cradling her jaw. She wrapped her fingers around it, not to guide or stop him, but to tether herself to the tremor she could feel running through his forearm. He was shaking, just a little. Not from pain. From the enormity of finally being seen.

He answered by sliding the hand at her back higher, fingers threading beneath her shirt to splay across bare skin. The contrast of his callused palm against the cool dip of her spine made her arch instinctively. He swallowed the tiny gasp she made, drinking it down like it was oxygen.

When they finally parted—just enough to breathe—foreheads pressed together, noses brushing, he kept her locked against him. One thumb traced the swollen curve of her bottom lip, following the path his mouth had taken.

"Still see me?" he whispered, voice rougher now, cracked open.

She tilted her head so her lips grazed his when she answered.

"Every shadowed inch."

His next exhale was almost a laugh, almost a groan. Then he kissed her again—still slow, still certain—just a little less careful this time, as though he finally believed she wouldn’t disappear if he held on tighter.

They kissed the kind that steadies rather than consumes.

When they parted, their foreheads rested together again, breath mingling.

"You’re my flame," he murmured.

She smiled against his lips. "And you’re my beautiful canvas."

He laughed softly, brushing his nose against hers.

’Who is Anne-Marie" a voice echoed the question in her mind.