Her thighs were still trembling. Her hands gripped the armrests like they were the only things keeping her upright. A tear clung to her lashes, catching the light, and I watched it track slowly down her cheek.
I'd kissed away the others. Tasted salt and shame and surrender. And now I just… stood there.
Hungry.
Uneasy.
Unsure what the hell to do next.
This wasn't how it was supposed to go. I'd planned every step—the control, the dominance, the way I'd make her come apart. I'd won. She'd broken exactly the way I wanted her to.
So why did her trembling get under my skin?
Why did leaving her like this—flushed and vulnerable and afraid—feel wrong?
I didn't do guilt. Didn't do regret. I took what I wanted and made no apologies for it. That was the deal. That was who I was.
But looking at Belle now, I felt something shift. Something I couldn't name. Something that made my hands itch to touch her again—not to take, but to… what? Comfort? Reassure?
Fuck.
She needed something.
I could see it in the way her fingers trembled against the armrests. In the way her breath hitched when I moved. In the tear she tried to blink away before I noticed.
She needed something, and every instinct I had—the ones I'd spent years honing, the ones that made me dangerous on the ice and ruthless everywhere else—screamed at me to be the one who gave it to her.
Not because she asked.
Because I wanted to. Because the thought of anyone else touching her, comforting her, seeing her like this made rage crawl up my spine.
I stepped forward.
Slowly.
Her eyes tracked me, wary but too exhausted to run.
"Belle," I said quietly.
She didn't answer. Just watched me with those half-lidded eyes, waiting for whatever came next.
I turned and walked to the kitchen. She needed something, and standing there watching her tremble wasn't it.
The kitchen was spotless. Everything in its place. Exactly how I liked it.
I pulled open the fridge, scanned the contents without really seeing them. My hands moved on autopilot—bread, butter, cheese. Simple. Warm. The kind of thing that settled in your stomach and grounded you when the world tilted sideways.
I didn't know if she liked grilled cheese. Didn't know her favorite foods or what she ate when she was upset or what her mother used to make her when she was sick.
I just knew she needed to eat.
The butter sizzled in the pan. I pressed the sandwich down with the spatula, watching the bread turn golden. The smell filled the kitchen—rich and familiar and uncomplicated.
When it was done, I plated it carefully. Cut it into triangles the way my mother used to before everything went to hell. Added a glass of water because she was probably dehydrated and wouldn't think to ask for it.
Then I carried it back to her.
She hadn't moved. Still slumped in the chair, arms wrapped around herself now, staring at nothing. Her eyes were red-rimmed. Her breathing had evened out, but the trembling hadn't stopped.
