I perched on the couch beside him, careful not to touch except where his fingers circled my wrist like the world's gentlest shackle.
"Better?" he asked.
"Different." I watched his thumb move, mesmerized by the simplicity of touch without purpose. "Gabriel would have had me positioned by now. Kneeling, probably. He liked the height differential."
Nathan's hand stilled. "I'm not Gabriel."
"I know. That's what makes this terrifying." I met his eyes. "I know Gabriel's patterns. His preferences. What would trigger punishment or praise. But you're... unmapped territory."
"Then let's draw the map together." He turned my hand over, tracing the lines on my palm. "What else did Gabriel do?"
"Everything. Nothing. He'd touch me like I was precious porcelain, then leave bruises that lasted weeks. Said it was about control—teaching me to separate sensation from reaction." I shivered. "I learned to climax on command by the time I was done with his conditioning. Learned to stay silent through anything. Learned to beg prettily when that's what was required."
"But what did you want?"
"Want wasn't part of the vocabulary." I watched him map the scars on my fingers, tiny white lines from years of blade work. "He'd say 'good girl' when I performed correctly. Liketraining a dog. And I'd... I'd glow from it. The praise. Even knowing it was manipulation, I craved it."
"Everyone needs approval. That's human."
"But I wasn't supposed to be human. I was supposed to be perfect. His perfect weapon, his perfect doll, his perfect—" My voice broke.
Nathan lifted my hand, pressing it against his chest where his heart beat steady and real. "Feel that?"
I nodded, palm flat against warm skin and old scars.
"That's human. Flawed and real and continuing despite everything." He covered my hand with his. "You're allowed to be human with me."
"I don't know how."
"Then we'll learn." He leaned closer, slow enough I could track the movement. "Can I kiss you?"
My programming screamed eighteen different responses—seduce, submit, perform, please. I ignored them all, finding my own voice underneath.
"I... yes. But—" I swallowed hard. "If I say stop?"
"Then I stop. Immediately. No questions, no anger, no punishment."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
He kissed me like I was something that might shatter—not from fragility but from the force of being truly seen. His lips were soft, patient, asking rather than taking. When I made a small sound, he started to pull back.
"No," I breathed. "Not stop. Just... processing."
"Take your time."
I kissed him back, clumsy with the newness of choosing. He let me lead, let me learn the shape of this wanting that belonged to no one but me. When his tongue touched mine, it felt like revolution.
"Bedroom?" he asked against my mouth.
"I—" Old training said yes, said perform, said please. But underneath: "Scared."
"Of me?"
"Of me. Of what I might do. How I might... default."
He pulled back enough to see my face. "Then we go slow. And you tell me the moment something feels wrong. Deal?"
