I moved to sit on the arm of his chair, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body but not quite touching him. "What do you ultimately want from me, Rafe? Not just physically, not just now, but... eventually. What's the endgame here?"
He looked up at me, his expression more vulnerable than I'd ever seen it. "I want you to choose me," he said simply. "Not because you have no other options. Not because you're afraid. But because you want me as much as I want you. Because you recognize what I recognized from the beginning—that we belong together. That we're... the same, in ways that matter."
The raw honesty in his voice, in his eyes, made my breath catch. This wasn't the answer I'd expected—some declaration of ownership, some vision of me as his permanent captive. This was something both simpler and more complex. More human.
"And if I never make that choice?" I asked softly.
Pain flickered across his features again, quickly masked but unmistakable. "Then we continue as we are. For as long as necessary."
"Forever?" I pressed.
"If that's what it takes," he confirmed, his voice quiet but certain.
The implications of that were staggering—a lifetime in this gilded cage, a permanent limbo of neither freedom nor complete captivity. The fact that he could contemplate such a scenario, could commit to it without hesitation, spoke to a depth of obsession I hadn't fully grasped until now.
I slid from the arm of the chair into his lap, my body making the decision before my mind could fully process it. His hands came to rest lightly on my hips, steadying me but not restraining, allowing me to maintain control of the contact.
Slowly, deliberately, I leaned in and kissed him—not the brief touch of before, but something deeper, more searching. His lips parted beneath mine, his tongue meeting mine in a dance that was more exploration than battle. I tangled my fingers in his hair, holding him to me as the kiss deepened, as heat built between us, as the bargain we'd struck began to blur into something else entirely.
When I finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard, his eyes dark with desire, his hands still resting lightly on my hips as if afraid to hold me too tightly.
"Next question," I whispered, my voice unsteady.
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
I took a deep breath, gathering my courage for the question that mattered most. "Did you ever plan to let me go? Was there ever a scenario where I would be free to leave?"
The question hung between us, heavy with implication. His expression didn't change, but I felt the slight tensing of his body beneath mine, the momentary hesitation before he answered.
"No," he said finally, the single word both devastating and oddly freeing in its honesty. "From the moment I decided I wanted you—truly wanted you, not just as leverage or a message—there was no scenario where I would willingly let you go."
The admission should have terrified me. Should have filled me with rage, with despair, with renewed determination to escape. Instead, it settled over me like a weight being lifted—the burden of uncertainty, of false hope, of wondering if there was some magic word or action that would earn my freedom.
There wasn't. There never had been. And knowing that, strangely, felt like its own kind of freedom.
"Thank you," I said softly. "For the truth."
He studied my face, clearly surprised by my reaction. "You're not angry?"
"I'm many things," I replied, trying to sort through the tangle of emotions his admission had evoked. "Angry, yes. Resigned, perhaps. But also... relieved, in a way. To know where I stand. To understand the parameters of my situation without illusion."
His hands tightened slightly on my hips, the first assertive touch he'd initiated since our bargain began. "And now?" he asked, his voice rough with restrained desire. "What happens now, Grace?"
I looked at him—really looked at him—seeing not just the captor, the criminal, the man who had taken everything from me, but also the human beneath. Complex, contradictory, capable of both cruelty and unexpected kindness. Obsessed with me, yes, but in a way that went beyond mere possession to something like recognition. Understanding. A seeing of something in me that matched something in him.
"Now," I said, my voice low, steady, like I was in control—like I wasn’t already burning for him. "I fulfill my end of the bargain."
I kissed him. My body pressed into his with intent, dragging him under with me. His mouth responded immediately—hungry, rough, and just restrained enough to remind me that I was only leading because he was letting me.
Still, I pushed.
My fingers worked at the buttons of his shirt—not carefully, not sweetly. I yanked them open, exposing warm skin, muscle, old scars. My hands were firm, possessive, staking a claim like I had a right to him, like I wasn’t just the prisoner granted a brief illusion of power.
"Grace," he warned, voice tight.
"Quiet," I said, biting at his lower lip. "You're not in charge right now."
He let out a rough laugh, low and sharp. “Aren’t I?”
