“Now?” I close the distance between us. “Now you think I don't want you?”
“I think maybe you wanted what the bond told you to want?—”
“Veyr’kai ves thral!” (You destroy me!) The words burst out. I grab her shoulders as gently as I can, forcing her to look at me.
“ The bond didn't make me want you, Lumi. You made me want you. Your fire. Your smart mouth. The way you fought me, even when you were terrified?—”
“Then why are you ashamed?!”
“Because I wanted it to be perfect!” My voice cracks. “I wanted to prove I could control myself. That I could give you everything you deserved without—without taking anything in return.”
She's trembling under my hands, or maybe it's me.
“What can I do? What can I do to prove it to you?” I plead.
Her eyes finally meet mine, searching for an answer.
My throat tightens. Something desperate claws up my chest, waiting for her to respond.
“What do you want from me, lúmina’ka?” I rasp. “Do you want me to beg? To let you bind me instead? To give you all the control so you can see, I'll take anything you give me?”
Her breath catches.
“Would that prove it?” My voice is barely above a growl. “Would that fix this?”
She stares at me for a long moment.
“Yes,” she whispers. “I think it would.”
32
FORGIVE ME
Lumi-
For a moment, his expression is one of stunned silence. That flicker of disbelief is swallowed whole by hunger so raw it’s intimidating to look at—the look of a monster terrified of his own power, yet desperate to hand me the leash.
“Our bedroom,” he says quietly. “If we’re going to do this, if you want me bound, it should be somewhere you feel safe.”
My heart hammers in my chest as I follow him down the hall.
The bedroom is dim, lit only by the dying embers in the fireplace. He stands at the foot of the bed, and for the first time since I’ve known him, he looks... uncertain. The air around him hums with a frantic, bottled-up chill, warring with the warmth of the hearth.
“How do you want me?” His voice is barely above a whisper.
I swallow hard. “On the bed. On your back.”
He moves without hesitation, settling against the blankets. His massive frame takes up nearly the entire space, antlers scraping lightly against the headboard.
“The vines,” I say. “Can you... make them yourself?”
His eyes widen slightly. He understands what I’m asking him to do. If he creates them, if he binds himself—it’s his submission, not the bonds.
Slowly, he nods.
Frost begins to spread from his fingertips, unfurling like lace—spiraling down his arms, pooling at his wrists, then shooting upward—wrapping around the base of his antlers in thick, crystalline vines. The ice groans under the tension of his strength, a cage made of his own breath and blood.
His arms are hauled back and anchored to the thick roots of his crown, bared behind his head like an offering. It’s a beautiful, terrible symmetry of ice and muscle... power and surrender.
