What I'm going to do.
I turn the handle.
Open the door.
Cold air rushes in. She gasps, flinches backward, nearly loses her balance without her hands to catch herself.
I catch her instead.
Grip her upper arms. Steady her.
She freezes.
"Please," she whispers.
I don't answer.
Pull her forward. Over the threshold. Into my cabin.
Kick the door shut behind her.
The lock engages with a heavy click that makes her jerk in my grip.
"Please I—I don't?—"
I spin her around. Press her back against the closed door.
She's shorter than I expected. Top of her head barely reaches my collarbone.
Fragile.
Breakable.
Mine.
I lean close. Put my mouth beside her ear.
"Welcome home, Scarletta."
Her breathing is ragged. Fast, shallow gasps that make her chest heave against the door. She's trying to control it and failing.
I love that she's failing.
I stand behind her, close enough that my chest brushes her bare back with each breath she takes. She flinches at the contact but has nowhere to go—door behind her, me in front, hands cuffed and useless.
Trapped.
She knows it.
I reach up slowly, deliberately, and touch her cheek with two fingers. Gentle. Almost tender.
She freezes.
The contradiction destroys her. I can feel it in the way her body locks up, confusion warring with fear. Rough treatment she could categorize. Fight or flight. Simple equations.
But this softness wrapped around absolute control… she has no framework for it.
I trace the line of her jaw with my fingertips, feeling the tension thrumming beneath her skin. Her pulse hammers visibly in her throat—fast, frantic, beautiful.
