"You brokearule," he corrected, holding my gaze with those storm-gray eyes. "You faced the consequence."
His thumb kept moving across my cheek, gentle and grounding.
"The slate is clean," he continued, and there was something in his voice—patient, certain, like he was explaining something fundamental about the universe. "That's what punishment is for. Not to make you suffer endlessly, but to let you stop suffering. You messed up, you paid for it, it's done."
"So I don't have to start over?" My voice came out small, hopeful in a way that felt dangerous.
"No, baby girl. You don't have to start over." His other hand came up to frame my face, holding me steady, making sure I heard him. "When you break a rule and face the consequence I set, that specific incident is finished. Forgiven. We don't carry it forward. We don't compound interest on mistakes. You take your punishment, and then we move on."
Something cracked open in my chest at those words. All those mistakes I'd been carrying—every patient I hadn't saved, every diagnosis I'd missed as a resident, every time I'd been human instead of perfect. I'd been collecting them like stones, carrying them in a bag that got heavier with each passing year, never knowing I was allowed to put any of them down.
Fresh tears spilled over, but these were different. These were the tears of someone who'd been holding their breath for so long they'd forgotten what oxygen felt like, finally allowed to exhale.
"So the kiss," I managed, voice shaking. "The reward you promised..."
Something shifted in his expression, heat replacing the careful control.
"You've more than earned it," he said.
Then his mouth was on mine.
This kiss was nothing like our first one—that desperate, needy collision in his utility room. This was deliberate, claiming, a statement of intent made with lips and tongue and teeth. His hands stayed framed around my face, holding me exactly where he wanted me, angling me for deeper access.
I opened for him immediately, no hesitation, no resistance, just complete surrender to the heat of his mouth. He kissed like he did everything else—with total focus, complete control, devastating competence. His tongue swept into my mouth, and I tasted coffee and something darker, something that was just him.
A sound escaped me—half moan, half whimper—and he swallowed it, used it as permission to kiss me harder. One hand slid into my hair, tangling in the strands, using his grip to angle my head back further. The position left my throat exposed, vulnerable, and when he pulled back from my mouth to press his lips there, I gasped.
"Mine," he murmured against my pulse point, and I felt the word vibrate through my skin, into my blood, settling into spaces I didn't know were empty until he filled them.
"Yes," I breathed, because what else could I say? I was his—had been since he'd sat on my floor at three AM and made me feel not alone. Since he'd brought me soup and made sure I ate it. Since he'd structured my world when I couldn't structure it myself.
He pulled back, and I chased his mouth, shameless in my need. He let me catch him, let me press desperate kisses to his lips, his jaw, anywhere I could reach. When he finally stopped me—one hand gentle but firm in my hair—we were both breathing hard.
"This is the beginning," he said, and it sounded like a promise and a warning simultaneously. "We go slow. We build this right. But Maya—" He waited until my eyes met his. "You're mine now. Mine to protect, mine to care for, mine to discipline when you need it. Mine to praise when you're good. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Daddy," I whispered, and felt the truth of it settle into my bones.
I was his. He was mine. And for the first time since my life had imploded, that felt like safety instead of danger.
He kissed me again, softer this time, sealing the promise. When he finally pulled back, I was dizzy with it—with him, with submission, with the devastating realization that I'd found something I hadn't known I was looking for.
"Now," he said, shifting me carefully in his lap, mindful of my tender ass. "You're going to let me take care of you. Hold you. Make sure you're okay. And then, when you're ready, we're going to talk about what comes next."
I curled into his chest, feeling small and safe and thoroughly claimed. My ass throbbed. My lips felt swollen. My body hummed with satisfaction and anticipation simultaneously.
"Little bird," he murmured, "there's nowhere I'd rather be than right here, holding you, planning all the ways I'm going to take care of you."
And surrounded by his warmth, marked by his hand, claimed by his kiss, I believed him.
Chapter 12
KONSTANTIN
TheweightofMaya'sbody against my chest was nothing—she probably weighed less than a hundred and ten pounds—but it felt like gravity itself had shifted, like she was anchoring me to this bed, this moment, this impossible thing we'd done. Four hours I'd been lying here, watching the darkness outside my window slowly bleed into gray, and I hadn't moved once.
Couldn't move.
Her breath came in these small puffs against my skin, warm and steady, and every exhale felt like trust.
