by Mirai Bulma
She is a paradox, this woman.
She is weak, weak and soft and frail; a careless moment would break her in two. I've left, and will leave, marks on that pale skin, sometimes intentional, sometimes not, though never with intent to harm.
She is strong, strong and stubborn and proud; nothing I can do will make her bow down, it's always her own desires that make her yield, not mine.
There are times I find her an utter stranger, incomprehensible and maddening and more than any man should be made to bear, let alone a Prince like myself.
And still I stay.
She is the need to fight, without which I'd have no purpose, no shape, no name or reason for being; she is air and each breath I take, without which I'd suffer and die.
Infuriating. To be this caught up in another living being, to take even this casual notice of someone else--
But it's not casual. No, it never was. I lie to myself to even think it was.
I wanted her, the taste and the feel and the warmth of her; wanted to hold the fire of her soul in my hands as my own, utterly, absolutely. To master her, this wild one, who held back some part of herself even as I made her my mate.
I suppose I have. Certainly there's no other who can lay claim to her now. She says I've "spoilt" her for another man. As if she'd ever have another man.
There were others who came after me, who tried to entice her. I've found it out, piece by piece since my return. "A father for the boy," they said, "a protector for you, a woman like you shouldn't be alone in a world like this, how will you manage?"
She sent them away without a second thought.
And my second thoughts?
None.
The first sight of her after so long was almost my undoing, it was all I could do to not to take her in my arms and shelter her. That hasn't changed.
The greatest surprise of all. I am master…. and mastered. Possessor and possessed.
And I am proud of her, this woman, for taking hold of my heart and not letting go; for fighting the long years and even death itself for me; for daring to match herself to me… and winning.
Yes, look at you, half-fainting in my grasp, feeling this least edge of my desire for you. Weak little fool, you've no idea the power you wield.
My queen, my love…
My Bulma.