Two a.m. becomes three, and I finally accept that I'm not going to sleep. That I need to go to him. Not just because my bodycraves the healing we've found in darkness, but because I hurt him today and I need to make it right.
I slip out of bed and pull on my silk robe. My feet are silent on the hallway floors as I make my way toward his room.
But when I open his door, the bed is empty. Untouched. Like he never even tried to sleep.
Where is he?
I move through the dark villa, following instinct more than logic. Down the stairs, through the foyer, toward the warm glow of light coming from his study.
I pause in the doorway, and what I see makes my breath catch.
He's sitting at his desk, still wearing the same clothes from today. A bottle of scotch sits within reach. A glass dangles from his hand. His head is tilted back, shoulders slumped, and in the pool of lamplight he looks utterly defeated.
Broken.
Like a man who's finally given up on something worth fighting for.
I watch him for a long moment, this powerful man who kidnapped me and manipulated me and now is trying so desperately to be better. Who made me laugh today. Who looked at me like I was the best thing that ever happened to him.
Who's sitting alone in the dark drinking scotch because I pushed him away because I’m a coward.
My heart breaks open.
I move silently into the room, my bare feet soundless on the hardwood. He doesn't hear me approach. Doesn't know I'm there until my hands settle on his shoulders, working into the tense muscles. He goes rigid under my touch.
"Camilla." My name is rough in his throat, disbelieving. "What are you—"
"Why weren't you in bed?" I whisper, leaning close to his ear, my hands slowly massaging the tight muscles across his shoulders.
He's quiet for a moment. "I thought you weren't coming tonight.”
The honesty in his voice—the raw defeat—does something to me.
"I'm here now," I say quietly.
He sets down the glass and reaches around, his hands finding my hips. Then he's pulling me forward, guiding me around the chair until I'm standing in front of him.
His eyes meet mine—dark, searching, vulnerable in a way I've never seen during daylight.
"Are you?" he asks. "Really here? Or am I too tired to think straight? I haven’t slept much since the day I brought you here."
Instead of answering, I let him pull me down onto his lap. Let him settle me there, my legs draped over his thighs, my body curved against his chest.
His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing across my cheekbone with devastating gentleness.
"I hurt you today," I whisper. "When I said no to the wine."
"You had every right to say no. You don't owe me—"
I grab his face with both hands and kiss him. Cut off his words with my mouth, pouring into it everything I couldn’t say earlier. Everything I was too scared to admit. Everything that's been building between us through perfect days and healing nights. The taste of him—warm, dark, like the first sip of wine after a long thirst—fills me, and I let myself drown in it.
My fingers tremble against his jaw, feeling the rough stubble that scrapes my palms, the sharp angle of his cheekbone.
He makes a sound low in his throat, surprise and desperate need all tangled together. Then his hand is in my hair, gripping just tight enough to make me gasp, and he’s kissing me back with an intensity that steals my breath. This isn’t like the nights we’ve spent wrapped in each other’s arms, silent and slow, focused on reclaiming what was taken.
Those were about survival, about stitching myself back together one careful touch at a time.
This is different.
