I remember the first time I saw him truly angry. Not with me, but with a storm that threatened to keep a supply plane from reaching our island. He stood on the cliff, watching the dark clouds, his jaw set. I was terrified. Not of the storm, but of the cold, focused violence in his posture, the way his hands clenched. I thought that energy would be turned inward, that the house would become a tense, silent prison.

Instead, he came to find me. He didn't speak. He just took my wrist, his grip firm enough to leave marks, and led me to his study. The silence was thicker than the storm clouds. He sat in his chair, pulled me into his lap, and buried his face in the curve of my neck. I could feel his anger vibrating through him, a live wire. He didn't fuck me. He claimed me. It was rough, possessive, a physical vent for a fury that had nothing to do with me. My pussy was so wet for him, aching to be the receptacle for everything he couldn't control. He used my mouth, my cunt, my ass—whatever he needed, in whatever order he wanted. He came deep inside me with a groan that sounded like the storm breaking. And when it was over, the anger was gone, replaced by a heavy, sated warmth. He held me, kissed my forehead, and called me his good girl.

That's when I understood. His darkness doesn't scare me. It needs me. I am the sanctuary for his worst moods, the living proof that his control is absolute, even—especially—when he chooses to lose it with me. There is no safer place for his rage to go than inside my body. It's the purest form of trust.