A faint, broken sound left him.
“Sabine.”
“I am tired of being slowed by men who think danger makes my choices less mine.”
That undid him.
His hands went to the fastenings of her gown.
He did not tear. Did not rush. But his restraint had heat in it now, not distance. Each clasp opened beneath his fingers. Each layer loosened. Sabine stood still only until standing still became another kind of waiting.
Then she moved too.
His shirt. His belt. Her sleeves. His mouth at her throat. Her hands in his hair. The suite blurred into firelight and breath and the dull thud of her back meeting the bedroom wall because neither of them reached the bed at first.
Lucien stopped there, forehead against hers, breathing hard.
“Tell me if anything hurts.”
“Everything hurts.”
He flinched.
Sabine caught his face.
“Not like that.”
Understanding moved through him.
He kissed her again, slower now but no less hungry. His hands learned the places the trial had left sore and moved around them. That care almost broke her more than the urgency had.
They made it to the bed because Lucien lifted her and carried her there as if the floor itself had lost the right to hold her.
Sabine drew him down.
This time, there was no command in the bond.
No pressure against her tongue.
No sacred phrase collapsing love and obedience into one trap.
There was only Lucien’s weight braced carefully above her, his hand in hers, his mouth against her skin, and the deep pulse of the mark warming wherever they touched.
When he entered her, it was with her name against her mouth and her answer in his ear.
Yes.
Not vow.
Not surrender.
Answer.
The bond opened under them.
Not taking.
Receiving.
