More words appeared on the vellum—my request, his agreement, the commitment to ongoing negotiation woven into the permanent structure. The magic accepted it, incorporated it, made it as binding as any other clause.
"What about intimacy?" I asked, and my cheeks heated despite my attempt to stay clinical. "Sexual access?"
Caelus's expression went serious, and he took a moment before answering—clearly choosing words with care. "The Pact grants me access to your pleasure. I can touch you, bring you toorgasm, use your body for our mutual pleasure. I have the right to initiate, to take what I want when I want it."
My breath caught. The words should have frightened me, but instead heat pooled low in my belly, want coiling tight.
"But," he continued, and his hand came up to cup my cheek, thumb brushing my lips, "that right comes with profound responsibility. I will never take without care for your emotional state. Never use you when you're not present, not ready, genuinely unwilling rather than just nervous. The safewords override everything, even my rights under the Pact. Your submission is a gift you give me every time, not an obligation you fulfill."
I leaned into his touch, processing the weight of what he was saying. Total access balanced with total care. The freedom to take what he wanted tempered by the responsibility to ensure I wanted to give it.
"And if I'm genuinely not ready?" I asked. "Not just nervous but actually not okay with something?"
"Then we don't do it. I can read you through the bond, Wren. I'll know the difference between healthy nerves and genuine distress. And if I'm ever unsure, I'll ask. Consent isn't something you give once and I get to keep forever. It's something we negotiate continuously, every time, through words and bond and the trust we build moment by moment."
The rightness of his answer made my eyes burn. This was what I'd needed to hear—that submitting didn't mean erasing myself, that his dominance required my agency to function properly.
"I'm going to test you," I said quietly. "Push boundaries, see if you mean what you're saying. It's what I do—what I had to do to survive."
"I know." His smile was fond. "And I'll handle it. Set consequences, enforce them consistently, show you that the boundaries are real and I'm not going anywhere. That's my job."
We stood there for a long moment, his hand still cupping my face, both of us feeling the weight of what we were building. This wasn't just a contract—it was architecture for a life, foundation for a bond that would last as long as we did.
"Anything else you need in the contract?" he asked.
I scanned the glowing script, reading through clauses about safe spaces and aftercare and the promises we were making to each other. It was thorough, thoughtful, clearly built over centuries of considering what his future mate might need.
"Just one thing," I said. "At the end, after all the formal language. Can we add something less official?"
"What did you have in mind?"
"That we'll figure out the rest as we go. That this is a starting point, not a cage. That we trust each other enough to evolve."
His kiss was soft, brief, full of promise. "Consider it added."
More words appeared on the vellum—not a formal clause but a covenant, the magic recognizing the spirit behind the letter. We would figure it out together. We would grow together. We would build something that worked for both of us, day by day, moment by moment.
Hourshadpassedinhis study—the light outside shifting from morning clarity to afternoon gold—and my body was starting to rebel against sitting still. We'd gone through every clause of the contract twice, discussed implications I hadn't considered, negotiated details I didn't know I'd need. My mind felt full to bursting with information, and beneath that fullness, restless energy coiled tight in my muscles.
I'd been good all week. Perfect Little following every rule, accepting every boundary, trusting completely. Now I was Bigagain, the bond burning clean and hot between us, and part of me wanted to test these structures we'd just built. See if Caelus really meant what he said about discipline and consequences and following through.
He was organizing the contract pages into neat stacks, preparing to take a break for lunch. His movements were efficient, controlled, giving no indication that the past week had cost him anything—though I could feel through the bond the exhaustion he was carrying, the vigilance that had left him scraped raw.
"You know," I said, tone deliberately casual, "I think some of these rules are a bit excessive."
His hands stilled on the parchment. He didn't look up, but I felt his attention sharpen, focus on me with the intensity of a dragon who'd spotted prey.
"Which ones?" His voice was carefully neutral.
"The one about asking permission before leaving the Nursery." I leaned back in my chair, affecting an indifference I definitely didn't feel. My heart was already racing, anticipation making my palms damp. "I'm an adult. I should be able to go where I want without checking in like a child."
Caelus set down the pages he'd been holding, gave me his full attention. Those storm-gray eyes saw right through me—saw the testing, saw the need underneath it, saw exactly what I was doing and why.
"That rule exists for your safety," he said, voice still even but edged with something that made my breath catch. "While you were Little, it was absolute. Now that you're Big, it's more flexible. But it still stands."
I shrugged, forcing my shoulders to stay loose despite the tension coiling in my belly. "Still think it's excessive. Maybe I'll just ignore it. See what happens."
The air in the study changed—charged with potential, with the weight of boundaries being tested and authority preparing to respond. Through the bond, I felt his amusement mixing with interest, with approval that I was pushing, that I needed to see if he'd follow through.
