"I know." I press a kiss to her forehead, gentle, almost chaste. "I know. But the first time I have you, it's not going to be in a back office with your brother twenty feet away. And it's not going to be because you're scared and looking for something to hold onto. It's going to be because you chose it, clear-headed and certain, with nothing driving you but want."
She's quiet for a moment, her breath warm against my throat. Then she laughs, a shaky sound that's half frustration and half something else.
"You're going to make me work for this, aren't you?"
"I'm going to make sure it's right. There's a difference."
She pulls back far enough to meet my eyes. The anger has faded, replaced by something softer, more vulnerable. But the fire is still there, banked but burning.
"When I'm ready," she says slowly, "I'm going to walk through that door on my own terms. And you're going to be there."
"Yes." The word comes out like a vow. "I will."
She holds my gaze for a long moment, searching for something. Whatever she finds makes her nod, a small, decisive motion.
"Then we do this your way. For now." She steps back, smoothing down her shirt, composing herself. "But Will? Don't make me wait too long. I've spent four years waiting for permission to want things. I'm not interested in doing it again."
She walks out of the office before I can respond, leaving me standing alone with the taste of her still on my lips and the echo of her words ringing in my ears.
I sink back into the chair and press my hands against my face.
Craig Burns is still out there, circling closer. And Gemma Holloway just declared war on her own fear.
I don't know which one is going to break first. I just know I'll be standing between them when it happens.
10
GEMMA
Ispend three days thinking about that kiss.
The way his hand slid to the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair, gripping just enough to tilt my head where he wanted it. The way his mouth moved against mine, firm and present, showing me what it felt like to be held without being trapped.
And the way he stopped.
That's what I keep coming back to. The moment when he pulled away, breathing hard, forehead pressed against mine. He wanted me. I could feel it in the tension of his body, the rough edge of his voice, the way his hands shook when he let me go. He wanted me, and he stopped anyway.
Craig never stopped. Craig took what he wanted when he wanted it, and if I wasn't in the mood, that was a problem for me, not him. He never asked permission. He never checked in. He never looked at me after and asked if I was okay.
Will did all of those things in the space of five minutes, and then he walked away because the timing wasn't right.
I'm not afraid of my desires anymore. That's what I realize on day two, staring at the ceiling while the morning light creepsacross the walls. The shame that used to wrap around my wanting like a stranglehold has loosened its grip.
I spent years believing that what I needed made me damaged, that my submission was a flaw to be exploited rather than a gift to be honored. Will showed me otherwise. The Forge showed me otherwise. The research I've done, the conversations we've had, the way he looks at me like I'm strong instead of broken—all of it has chipped away at the lies Craig planted in my head.
The wanting doesn't scare me anymore. Trusting the wrong person with it does.
But Will stopped. Will asked permission. Will has done nothing but show me respect from the moment I walked through that door. He's been patient when I needed patience and honest when I needed honesty and steady when I needed something solid to hold onto. He's earned my trust in a thousand small ways, and I've been too scared to notice.
And then, finally, I decide.
I'm going to claim this part of myself. I'm going to stop letting Craig's shadow define what I'm allowed to want. And when I'm ready, I'm going to give that part of myself to Will. Not because I'm broken and looking for someone to fix me. Because I'm healing, and I want to heal with him.
But first, I need to close the door on Craig for good.
I open my laptop and start typing. The words come faster than I expect, pouring out in a rush of anger and grief and four years of silence finally breaking.
Craig,
