"Maybe all three," I admitted. "Maybe I need to know I can walk back into hell and choose to leave this time. Maybe I need those women to see that survival is possible. Maybe I just need to feel useful instead of used."
"You are useful. Your intel, your insights—"
"From a distance. Always from a distance." I laughed bitterly. "You know what? Gabriel was right about one thing. I am good at pretending. At becoming what people need me to be.The perfect victim. The grateful survivor. The healing lover." I met his gaze. "But I'm tired of pretending I'm not angry. That I don't want to hurt them the way they hurt others. That I don't need to feel powerful after years of powerlessness."
Something shifted in his expression. "Is that what this is about? Power?"
"Yes." The admission tasted like copper. "I need to feel it. Need to prove I have it. Need—" I broke off, frustrated by the inadequacy of words.
"Show me."
I blinked. "What?"
"Show me what you need." He spread his hands, offering himself. "I can't give you permission for tomorrow—that's yours alone. But tonight? Show me this power you need to feel."
The challenge in his voice sparked something primal. I moved before thinking, shoving him hard against the door. He let me, though we both knew he could stop me easily.
"You think you understand," I said, hands going to his belt. "Think because we fuck tender and you let me ride you sometimes that I'm getting what I need."
His breath hitched as I yanked the belt free. "Bunny—"
"Shut up." I dropped to my knees, fingers working his zipper with angry efficiency. "Just shut up and let me—"
"Let you what?" His voice was carefully neutral, but I could see his pulse jumping at his throat.
"Let me take something because I want it. Not because you offered. Not because it's healing or helpful or any other bullshit." I freed him from his underwear, already half-hard despite the tension. "Because I need to feel something other than helpless."
I didn't wait for permission. Took him in my mouth with none of the finesse I'd been taught, none of the calculated techniques designed to please. This was raw, angry, all teeth anddesperation and the kind of hunger that had nothing to do with desire.
"Bunny, wait—" His hands found my hair, not pulling but not encouraging either.
I pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "I need to feel powerful. You said to show you. This is me showing you."
I took him deep, deeper than comfortable, until my eyes watered and throat protested. But the discomfort was mine to choose, the pace mine to set. I was doing this to him, not having it done to me. The distinction mattered in ways I couldn't articulate.
"Fuck," he breathed above me. "Bunny, you don't have to—"
I pulled off again, anger making my voice rough. "Stop telling me what I have to do. Stop trying to save me from myself." Tears leaked from my eyes—from the physical act or the emotion, I couldn't tell. "Just let me have this."
Something broke in his expression. His hands gentled in my hair, not guiding but anchoring. "Okay. Okay, whatever you need."
I returned to my task with single-minded focus. Sloppy, uncoordinated, nothing like the performance art Gabriel had trained into me. This was need and anger and fourteen years of suppressed autonomy fighting to surface. Every time I took him deep enough to choke, I held his gaze, daring him to look away from what I was choosing.
He didn't look away. Watched me with eyes gone dark, chest heaving with more than physical response. When his hips started to move involuntarily, I pinned them with my hands, denying him even that control.
"Bunny, I'm—" His warning came out strangled.
I knew. Could read the tells in his body like a map I'd memorized. Instead of pulling back, I took him deeper,hollowing my cheeks and humming in a way that made him curse. When he came, I swallowed without blinking, holding his gaze through it all.
Only when he was spent did I sit back on my heels, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. We stared at each other, him wrecked against the door, me kneeling like a supplicant who'd forgotten how to pray.
"Feel powerful now?" he asked finally, voice hoarse.
"I don't know." Honesty seemed important after what we'd just done. "I feel something though."
He slid down the door until we were eye level. "Talk to me."
"I'm scared," I admitted, the words surprising me. "Scared of tomorrow. Scared I'll freeze when it matters. Scared I'll like it too much, the pretending, the being owned again." I looked at my hands. "Scared you'll look at me different after."
