She's in my bed, and I'm terrified of doing this wrong.
Every instinct I’ve honed over years of blood and power screams contradictory orders.
Take.
Don’t take.
Devour.
Protect.
I’ve killed men with these hands. Now, I need to use them to make her feel safe.
"Come here," I say softly.
She moves into the bed beside me. Her body is tense with fear and determination, and my own breath shudders at the collision of those two things. I can see her hands shaking slightly, can feel the rapid beat of her heart when I pull her close.
"We can stop anytime," I remind her, needing her to understand that consent isn't a single moment but an ongoing choice. "You're in control here, Camilla. Always."
"I know." Her voice is steady despite the tremor in her hands. "But I need you to start. I need you to show me what it should feel like."
My throat tightens.What it should feel like.Not Kozlov’s filth. Not the cold, transactional hands of men who saw her as merchandise. Something chosen.
I cup her face in my hands, tilting her head up to meet my eyes. "Look at me."
She does, eyes wide and dark, drinking in my face like she’s looking for proof I won’t hurt her.
"You're not merchandise. You're not property.” My thumb brushes across her lower lip. "You're a woman making a choice. My only job is to honor that choice."
"Then honor it," she whispers. "Please."
The please cuts through me. Not because she’s begging—because she’sasking.Because she’s reclaiming. And because every monster part of me wants to take, but tonight I will only give.
“I’ve done terrible things, Camilla. I’ve made people kneel for me. I’ve made you kneel in front of me. But tonight? I’ll be the one kneeling. I want you to know what it feels like to be worshipped, not owned.”
Her eyes widen, a flicker of heat at the edge of fear. “Show me.”
I kiss her slowly, carefully, giving her time to change her mind. Her lips are soft under mine, tentative at first but warming as she relaxes into it.
No urgency, no demand.
Just the gentle exploration of someone learning what it feels like to be kissed by choice instead of calculation.
When I pull back, she's breathing harder.
"Okay?" I ask.
"More than okay." She touches my face, her fingers tracing along my jaw. "Keep going."
I ease her to the pillows, covering her without caging her, careful where I plant my hands. I want her to feel space around every touch—a thousand exits if she needs them. She needs to feel safe, needs to know she can stop this at any moment. My hands mapher body over her clothes—sides, hips, the gentle curve of her waist—learning her through touch.
“Tell me what you need,” I murmur against her throat, my voice grazing her skin.
“I need you to erase him. His hands. His eyes. The way he touched me like I was his.” Her fists knot in my shirt. “I need your hands to be what I remember instead.”
I breathe out. “Then that’s what you’ll have. By the time I’m done, the only hands you’ll remember are mine—because youchosethem.”
I take my time when I peel away her tank top. The fabric slides up, whispering over skin, and I hold her gaze the whole way so she can see what’s in my eyes. When she’s bare from the waist up, I gaze down at her, letting her see hunger restrained, violence turned into reverence.
