"I will." She nods against the pillow, then adds more softly, almost desperately, "I trust you, Kruk."
Those words hit harder than any weapon ever has.
I release her wrists long enough to retrieve the cuffs from the table. The metal gleams in the lamplight. I test the mechanism once more, ensuring everything works smoothly, no sharp edges or faulty locks.
Colletta watches. Trembling slightly. Not from fear. I know fear. This is anticipation.
I return to the bed. She offers her wrists without prompting, holding them together above her head. The trust implicit in the gesture makes my pulse kick harder.
I secure the cuffs. Not too tight. Enough that she can feel the restraint, the weight of the metal, the knowledge that she can't free herself without my help.
Her breathing goes ragged. She tests the hold experimentally, pulling against the cuffs. They hold firm.
"Okay?" I ask, my voice dropping lower. I need to hear her confirm it. Need verbal confirmation that this is what she wants, that the restraints aren't causing discomfort, that her mind is still aligned with her body's reactions.
"More than okay." Her voice comes out breathless, thin and reedy in a way that makes the heat coil low in my gut. Wrecked already and I've barely touched her beyond securing the cuffs, beyond letting my hands ghost over her skin while I fastened the metal around her wrists. The knowledge that such minimal contact has reduced her to this state, trembling, panting, pupils blown wide, sends satisfaction surging through my chest. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."
I don't plan to. Not when she's looking at me like that, vulnerability and desire warring across her features. Not when every instinct I possess is screaming at me to claim, to protect,to make absolutely certain she understands exactly who she belongs to.
I finish removing her dress. Peel it slowly, exposing skin inch by inch. She shivers when the air hits her. Arches when my hands follow the path of the fabric, mapping the curve of her waist, the dip of her ribs, the soft swell of her breasts.
The strawberries sit forgotten on the table beside the bed, the bowl slightly askew from where I'd set it down earlier. I retrieve one anyway, selecting it carefully, perfectly ripe, deep red, the kind that promises sweetness with just the right amount of tartness. Bring it to her lips, watching as her eyes track the movement, as her breath catches in anticipation.
"Open."
She obeys without hesitation, without question. Parts those soft lips and takes a bite when I press the fruit forward. Juice runs down her chin immediately, a crimson trail that catches the dim light filtering through the curtains, and I catch it with my thumb before it can drip onto her throat. Bring it to my own mouth, sucking the sticky sweetness from my skin while maintaining eye contact, watching her pupils dilate further. Sweet. Sharp. Perfect. Just like her, unpredictable combinations that somehow work together flawlessly.
I eat the rest of the strawberry slowly, deliberately, letting her watch as I chew and swallow. Then I kiss her, slow and deep and thorough, sharing the taste between us until neither of us can tell where one ends and the other begins. Until the flavor mingles with the salt of her skin and the unique taste that is distinctly Colletta, coffee and chaos and something indefinably hers. Until she's whimpering into my mouth, straining against the handcuffs that keep her exactly where I want her.
This is not a contract. Not a mission. Not a temporary alliance with an expiration date stamped somewhere in fine print.
This is a treaty. Permanent. Binding. Sealed with strawberries and handcuffs and the trust that only comes when someone sees every violent, broken, dangerous piece of you and decides you're worth keeping anyway.
"Mine," I murmured against her throat.
"Yours," she agrees. "Always."
I believe her.
CHAPTER 15
COLLETTA
The handcuffs bite just enough to remind me I can't escape.
Not that I want to.
Kruk looms over me, all muscle and control and focused intensity. His eyes track every shiver, every breath, cataloging my reactions like he's memorizing the pattern of a lock he intends to pick. Heat radiates off his skin where it presses against mine, furnace-hot, overwhelming in the best possible way.
"You look so perfect like this," he says, voice pitched low and rough. Gravel scraped across nerve endings. "Helpless. Trusting me to take care of you."
I am helpless. The cuffs ensure that. But the word doesn't carry the weight it should. Doesn't fill me with panic or the urge to flee. Instead, something unfurls in my chest, warm and liquid and dangerously close to contentment.
"Then take care of me," I manage, though my voice cracks halfway through. Wrecked already and we've barely started. The metal digs into my wrists when I test the restraints again, an automatic response, my body checking the boundaries even as my mind surrenders completely.
His grin goes sharp. Predatory. He shifts position, moving with that eerie fluid grace that should be impossible for someone his size. Slides down my body until his face hovers above my stomach, breath ghosting over sensitized skin and making my muscles jump involuntarily.
"I intend to."
