The bedroom wasn't lit.
Just the dim glow of city lights bleeding through the windows, casting Rafael's silhouette in gold and darkness.
Aaria stood at the edge of the room, her breath unsteady. Her dress still smelled faintly of smoke and fire from the house she'd burned.
She had destroyed a piece of her past tonight.
Now… it was time to surrender to the part of her future she'd been denying.
He watched her like she was a secret he already knew—but wanted her to confess anyway.
"Take it off," he said, voice low.
She didn't flinch.
Instead, she reached behind and unzipped the black gown, letting it fall like water to the floor.
Beneath it, silk kissed her skin.
Black lingerie. Lace. Bare skin framed like a masterpiece.
He took a breath—sharp. Like a man on the edge.
"Come here."
She walked to him slowly, every step deliberate.
When she reached him, he didn't touch her. Not yet.
Instead, he unbuttoned his shirt with slow, controlled precision, eyes never leaving hers.
"I've imagined this moment in every possible version," he murmured. "But none of them compare to you standing in front of me like this. Real. Mine."
Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Then take me."
He closed the distance.
His hands were firm on her waist—possessive, grounding.
He kissed her like he wanted to erase every man that came before him. Like he wanted to rewrite every memory that had ever hurt her.
She melted into him, but he didn't let her fall.
He held her.
When he lifted her—hands beneath her thighs, breath hot against her throat—she didn't protest.
He laid her on the bed like something fragile… but worshipped her like she was made of fire.
Silk restraints appeared from the drawer beside the bed—black and soft. She looked at him, pulse racing.
He paused. "You say the word, and I stop."
Aaria stared into his eyes.
"I want to know what it feels like to be yours. Truly."
Rafael's gaze darkened with something ancient.
Not lust.
Not hunger.
Devotion.
He bound her wrists gently above her head, anchoring them to the headboard. Then trailed his lips along her collarbone, slow and reverent.
"You're not broken," he whispered. "You're divine. You've survived fire. Now let me show you pleasure that burns."
She trembled beneath him—not in fear, but anticipation.
And when he finally touched her—
When he explored her slowly, intimately, with fingers and lips and control that threatened to snap—
She forgot every scream from her past.
Because Rafael Viera worshipped her in a language only shadows could speak.
And she understood every word.
Later, as she lay beside him, breathless and unbound, she whispered into the quiet:
"Do you still see me as something you own?"
He turned to her, eyes softer now.
"No," he murmured. "Now I see you as something I don't deserve."
And that was the most dangerous truth of all.