“Fighting what?”
“This.” His hands frame my face, forcing me to meet his eyes. “You. The way you make me feel like I’m losing my mind.”
“Then stop fighting.”
Something shifts in his expression—surrender mixed with fierce determination. When he kisses me again, there’s nothing hesitant about it. His mouth claims mine with an intensity that steals my breath, his hands roaming over my body with reverent exploration.
I’ve never wanted anything the way I want this—want him. The careful control I’ve maintained my entire life feels not just unnecessary but actively harmful, a barrier between me and something vital.
“Upstairs,” I manage when we break apart for air.
“Are you sure?” His eyes search mine, looking for doubt or hesitation. “Because once we?—”
“I’m sure.” I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life. “I want this. I want you.”
He stands in one fluid motion, lifting me with him, my legs wrapping around his waist automatically. The stairs are a blur, then we’re in the master bedroom—another surprise of warmth and comfort in this hidden sanctuary.
He sets me down beside the bed with careful gentleness, his hands framing my face again. “If you change your mind?—”
“I won’t.” I silence him with another kiss, pouring all my certainty into the contact. “But Rafa... I need you to know. I’ve never...”
Understanding dawns in his eyes. “Never?”
“Never.” Heat floods my cheeks, but I force myself to maintain eye contact. “I’ve never found anyone worth?—”
“Worth the vulnerability,” he finishes softly. “Worth the risk of losing control.”
“Until now.”
The admission hangs between us, loaded with implications that terrify and exhilarate me in equal measure. I’m offering him something I’ve never given anyone—not just my body, but my trust, control, and carefully guarded heart.
“We can go slow,” he says, his voice rough with restraint. “As slow as you need.”
“I don’t want slow.” My hands find the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head. “I want to feel alive. I want to feel something other than fear, calculation, and the weight of other people’s expectations.”
His response is wordless but eloquent—hands, mouth, and heated skin, clothes disappearing urgently. When he lays me back on the bed, his touch is reverent but demanding, awakening responses I didn’t know my body was capable of.
“Tell me if I hurt you,” he whispers against my throat, and I realize he’s trembling too, not with fear, but with the effort of holding back, of making this perfect for me.
“You won’t hurt me,” I breathe, arching into his touch. “You couldn’t.”
He took a bullet for me.
Everything else—my name, my legacy, this arranged marriage we both swore we didn’t want—blurred into white noise the second I saw the blood on his side. It wasn’t bad, he said. Just a graze. Just adrenaline.
But hebledfor me. Shielded me like I was something worth protecting.
And when I kissed him, when I pressed my lips to his like I was afraid I’d lose him, he didn’t hesitate.
He kissed me back like itkilledhim not to.
Now, we’re in his sanctuary. It’s dark. Quiet. Smells like gunpowder and sweat. The adrenaline still humming in my bloodstream.
His chest is rising fast.
Rafa’s jaw clenches. His whole body goes tight, like he’s barely holding something back, something dangerous. He steps toward me slowly, as if he moves too fast, he’ll ruin me.
“You don’t know what that does to me,” he growls. “Hearing that. Knowing I’m your first.”
