When he saw the bruises on my face from a fight in the yard, he clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white. "Aubrey, you've suffered so much because of me. I've made arrangements. This won't be a problem much longer."
Yet, despite his promises, his presence began to fade.
I still remember the last time I saw him through the glass partition in the visitation room. I had dressed neatly that day, my hair tied back, my uniform spotless. Cayden's expression was unusually stern.
"Aubrey," he said, his voice low but steady, "let's get married when you're out."
My heart swelled with a bittersweet ache. I nodded, holding onto his words like a lifeline.
But after that day, he never came again. His letters became shorter, his promises fewer.
Somewhere deep down, I had known all along. We were never meant to be.
I was nothing more than a sharp blade in his hand, a tool he wielded with precision and ease. Once, in our younger days, we had been like wounded cubs licking each other's wound, drawing strength from shared pain. But that was all.