I carefully disentangle myself from his embrace. He stirs, a low growl rumbling in his chest, but he doesn't wake. I slide out of bed, my feet finding the plush carpet. My hip protests, a sharp reminder, but I ignore it. The pain is a part of me now, a constant companion.
I walk to the full-length mirror, my reflection staring back at me. My hair is a tangled mess, my eyes are still heavy with sleep, but there is a new light in them. A cold, hard gleam of resolve. I touch the bandage on my hip, tracing the outline of the 'K' beneath it. It is not just his mark. It isourmark. A symbol of the pact we made in blood and fire.
I dress in the clothes he provided, tailored trousers, a soft cashmere sweater. They are no longer a costume for a prisoner. They are the uniform of a queen.
Breakfast is brought to the suite, as always, but this time, I eat with a hunger that is not just for sustenance, but for the power it represents. I am fueling my body, preparing it for the work ahead.
When Kaden finally wakes, he finds me sitting by the window, a book in my hands, a cup of tea steaming beside me. I meet his gaze, my eyes unwavering. There is no awkwardness, no shame. Only a quiet, shared understanding.
He walks to me, his eyes sweeping over my face, searching. I let him look. I have nothing to hide from him now. He is the only one who truly sees me.
He reaches out, his fingers tracing the line of my jaw, then moves to my hip, gently touching the bandage. "How do you feel?" he asks, his voice low.
"Powerful," I answer, the word a truth that resonates through every fiber of my being.
A slow smile spreads across his face, a look of pure, possessive triumph. "Good girl. Because today, your reign begins."
"Come," he says, rising. "A new day. A new beginning. A new ritual."
He leads me into the massive, opulent bathroom. The steam from the shower is already filling the air, rich with the scent of sandalwood and something else, something clean andmasculine. The walk-in shower is a cavern of dark marble and gleaming chrome, large enough for two, or three, or more.
He steps in first, letting the hot water cascade over his powerful frame. Then he reaches out his hand to me. It is an invitation, not a command.
I hesitate for only a moment. The old Wynter would have resisted, would have seen it as another violation. But the new Wynter sees it as a claim. A shared space. A cleansing.
I step into the spray, the hot water a comforting balm against my skin, washing away the last lingering traces of fear and uncertainty. He pulls me against him, his arms wrapping around my waist, holding me close. The water streams over us, mingling our scents, our bodies.
His hands move over my back, tracing the curve of my spine, then down to my hips, his thumbs brushing the edge of his mark. He takes a bar of soap, the same milled soap he used to clean my hands, and begins to lather it over my skin. His touch is slow, deliberate, possessive. He is not just washing me; he is reclaiming me, anointing me.
"Tell me what you want,cara," he murmurs against my ear, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through me. "Tell me how you want to be served."
I lean back against him, letting his heat, his strength, envelop me. I feel the smooth, cool skin of his back against my chest, the intricate landscape of his tattoos beneath my fingers. I trace the serpent, the geometric patterns, the raven, feeling the hard muscle beneath the artistry. He is a walking canvas of his own dark history, and I am now a part of it.
"I want to taste you," I whisper, my voice husky. "Everywhere."
He groans, a deep, primal sound. He turns me in his arms, facing him, his eyes dark with a hunger that mirrors my own. "Then take," he commands.
I look up at him, then slowly, deliberately, I drop to my knees. The hot water rains down on my hair, my face, my shoulders. My gaze travels down his body, over the hard planes of his stomach, past the intricate tattoos, to the proud, engorged length of him.
I reach out, my hands closing around him, the slick heat of him filling my grasp. I look up at him, my eyes challenging, inviting.
His breath hitches. "My queen," he rasps, his fingers tangling in my wet hair, pulling my head back slightly. "You are truly mine."
I take him into my mouth, slowly, deliberately, drawing him in deeper with each stroke. The taste of him is primal, intoxicating. The water streams down our bodies, mingling with the sounds of our shared pleasure. He groans, his head thrown back against the marble, his hands gripping my hair, guiding my movements. I feel his body tense, his hips thrusting into my mouth, a silent demand for more.
I give him more. I suckle and tease, my tongue dancing over him, my throat working to accommodate his impressive length. I want to consume him. I want to brand him, just as he branded me.
His release is a guttural roar, his body shuddering against mine.
He pulls me up, his hands gripping my waist, lifting me until my feet are once again on the slick marble. He doesn't release me. Instead, he pulls me flush against him, his body still trembling, and captures my mouth in a deep, possessive kiss. It is a kiss that tastes of water and him and my own triumph. It is a kiss that seals the pact, the new tradition.
"Mine," he murmurs against my lips, his breath still ragged. "Always mine."
He rinses me. His eyes are dark, intense, filled with a possessive tenderness that still sends a shiver down my spine. He takes the washcloth and gently, meticulously, washes myface, wiping away the last vestiges of sleep, the last traces of the night's intensity. He then moves to my hair, lathering it with a rich, fragrant shampoo, his fingers massaging my scalp. It is an act of profound intimacy, a silent promise of care and devotion.
When he is finished, he pulls me under the spray again, rinsing my hair, his hands tangling in the wet strands. He holds me close, his lips brushing against my temple. "Clean," he murmurs. "Pure. Mine."
We step out of the shower, the air cool against our damp skin. He wraps a thick, plush towel around me, then another around himself. He leads me back to the bedroom, where a fresh set of clothes is laid out.
