"The auction. The buyers. Kozlov's hands on me." My voice is steady despite the tremor in my hands. "I need you to replace those memories with something better."
Understanding dawns in his eyes, followed immediately by conflict. "Camilla, I don't think..."
"I'm not asking you to think. I'm asking you to touch me." I move closer to the bed. "To help me take back what they tried to steal."
"This isn't..."
"I know what this is. I know what I'm asking." I sit on the edge of his bed, close enough to feel the heat of his warm sheets. "And I'm choosing it. Not because I'm confused or traumatized or trying to manipulate you. Because I need this."
He stares at me for a long moment, and I can see the war playing out behind his eyes. The desire to give me what I'm asking for versus the fear of taking advantage versus the desperate need to be close to me in any way I'll allow.
"If we do this," he says finally, his voice careful, "it's because you want it. Not because you're trying to process trauma through sex. Because you genuinely want this."
"I want this."
"And tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow, we don't talk about it." I meet his eyes directly. "Tomorrow, we go back to whatever we were before. This doesn't mean forgiveness. It doesn't mean we're together. It just means I'm taking back what's mine."
"Your body."
"My choice." I reach out and touch his face, feeling the slight stubble on his jaw. "Will you help me? I need you."
I can see him processing, analyzing, trying to decide if this is the right thing or if he's about to make another terrible mistake.
But I don't need him to decide what's right. I need him to give me what I'm asking for.
"Yes," he says finally. "I'll help you."
Relief floods through me, mixed with anticipation and fear and something that might be desire. "Thank you."
"But Camilla?" He catches my hand, bringing it to his lips. "If at any point you want to stop, you tell me. You don't owe me anything. You can always stop. At any time."
"I know."
"And you leave when you want to leave. No questions, no pressure, no expectations."
"I know that too."
He nods, accepting my terms. Then his other hand comes up to cup my face, his touch gentle despite the calluses and the evidence of violence these hands are capable of.
"Come here," he says softly.
I move into the bed beside him, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Tonight, I choose who touches me.
Tonight, I take back my power.
And tomorrow, we'll pretend this never happened.
But tonight, I'm finally going to replace the memory of Kozlov's hands with something better.
Something I chose.
Something that's mine.
Chapter 40: Renato
