Chapter 17: The Craving for More (Caspian’s Point of View)

I was losing myself in her.

Or perhaps I had already been lost.

Perhaps, from the very first moment she set her eyes on me, I had begun to unravel, thread by thread, until there was nothing left but this—

A man shaped by her hands.

A man who no longer knew where he ended and she began.

And gods help me—

I did not want to know.

Because whatever I had been before this, before her, before the moment she reached inside me and pulled out everything I had once called my own—

It had been nothing compared to what I was now.

Nothing compared to the way I ached when she touched me, the way I burned at the sound of her voice, the way my body, my mind, my soul twisted itself into a single, desperate thought:

Please.

I had never begged before her.

Had never even imagined such a thing.

And now—

Now I could not stop.

It was in the way I followed her, in the way I watched her, in the way I leaned toward her, even when she offered me nothing.

It was in the way I waited for her to call me, to use me, to make me hers in ways even she had not yet imagined.

It was in the way I longed for her attention—desperate, hungry, pathetic in a way I should have despised.

But I did not despise it.

I craved it.

I craved her.

And she knew.

Of course she knew.

She had made me this way.

And she was not done.

Because she let me wait.

Let me stew in my need.

Let me sink deeper, and deeper still, until the hunger in my chest became unbearable.

Until the absence of her touch, of her gaze, of her voice became agony.

And yet—

She gave me nothing.

She left me standing in her presence, ignored, discarded, abandoned to my suffering, my yearning—

And gods, how it hurt.

How it tore through me, how it left me raw, how it made me want to break just to have her look at me again.

And so I did.

I stepped forward.

A breath too close.

A moment too bold.

Her head tilted.

Slow. Measured.

And when her gaze met mine—

I shattered.

"Are you feeling neglected, Caspian?"

Her voice was soft. Sweet. A blade pressed to my throat.

I swallowed hard. "Yes."

The confession burned.

Not with shame.

With want.

She hummed, her fingers brushing the line of my jaw, her touch light, distant—not enough.

Never enough.

"You're learning," she mused. "Good."

Then—

She turned away.

Turned. Away.

And something inside me collapsed.

"No."

I barely recognized my own voice.

Low. Desperate. Begging.

She paused. Looked over her shoulder.

And waited.

For me to fall further.

And I would.

I would.

Because I could no longer stand without her.

Because I could not bear another second of her distance.

Because if she did not take me, did not claim me, did not remind me who I belonged to—

I would break.

And so I moved.

Kneeling.

Reverent.

Hers.

She smiled.

And finally—

Finally, she reached for me.

And I breathed again.

Chapter 18: How Much More Can He Take? (Main Character's Point of View)

I had him.

I had him completely.

And yet, I wanted more.

Because I knew—he knew—he had not yet reached the depths I desired.

He was unraveling, yes. Slipping further and further, falling so deep that he could no longer see the surface.

But he had not yet touched the bottom.

He had not yet seen just how much of himself he could lose—how much of himself he could give.

And I would take him there.

Drag him there.

Until there was nothing left but me.

He knelt before me, his breath uneven, his body taut with anticipation, with desperation. He wanted—ached—for anything I would give him.

And so, I gave him nothing.

I let him wait.

His breathing turned shallow. His fingers twitched. I could feel the question trembling on his lips, the silent plea—touch me, look at me, claim me—

I did none of those things.

Instead, I turned away.

And just like that, his world shattered.

"Wait," he breathed.

I kept walking.

"My lady—"

Still, I did not turn.

He rose to his feet so quickly I heard the sharp rustle of his clothing, the staggering catch of his breath as he moved too fast, as he nearly stumbled.

I paused.

Let him hear the silence.

Let him understand—if he wished to follow, if he wished to stay at my feet, it would not be by his own will, his own choice.

It would be because I allowed it.

I took another step.

And he broke.

"Please."

I turned.

He stood, rigid, tense, fists clenched at his sides, his jaw locked so tight I wondered if it hurt.

But I saw the truth in his eyes.

The plea.

The suffering.

The fear.

He thought I might leave him like this.

That I might cast him aside after all his surrender, all his devotion, all his desperate, pathetic longing—

The idea terrified him.

How beautiful.

I stepped toward him, slow, deliberate, until I was so close I could feel the heat of him, could see the war raging inside him—pride clashing with submission, resistance crumbling beneath obedience.

His breathing hitched.

"You're trembling, Caspian," I murmured.

His lips parted, but no words came.

"You hate this, don't you?" I said, my voice light, knowing.

He swallowed.

And I leaned in, my lips brushing his ear as I whispered, "You love it more."

A choked sound.

A confession in silence.

I dragged my fingers down the length of his arm, over his wrist, where his pulse pounded.

Fast. Unsteady. Weak.

"Tell me," I said, tilting my head, watching him with sharp amusement, deep satisfaction, dark delight.

He exhaled, shuddering.

And finally—

"I belong to you."

The words spilled from him, a breathless, desperate offering.

I smiled.

"Yes," I murmured, my fingers threading through his hair, tugging his head back so he had no choice but to look at me, to see exactly who he had given himself to.

"You do."

And when I kissed him, it was not gentle.

It was claiming.

And he—

He did not resist.

Chapter 19: Nothing Left But Me (Main Character's Point of View)

He had given me everything.

His pride, his resistance, his power—he had laid them all at my feet, piece by piece, until there was nothing left of the man he once was.

And yet, I knew—

There was still more I could take.

More that he could give.

He just didn't know it yet.

Not until I forced him to see.

I pulled back from the kiss, leaving him dazed, breathless. His lips were parted, his pupils blown wide, his entire body waiting for me to grant him the next command, the next touch, the next moment where he could prove himself worthy of me.

But I let him stand there.

Needing. Wanting. Aching.

I watched the torment in his expression, the way his fingers twitched at his sides, the way he fought the instinct to reach for me.

I had trained him well.

"Strip," I said.

A simple word.

And yet, his breath hitched.

His body shook.

He understood what I meant.

This was not an invitation.

This was a demand.

To bare himself.

Completely.

Not just his body.

His soul.

He swallowed. His throat bobbed, his pulse fluttering beneath fragile skin.

I said nothing.

I only waited.

I saw it in his eyes—the battle, the lingering remnants of the man he had been. The last shreds of his dignity, his carefully constructed sense of self, the illusion of power he had clung to for so long.

And I watched—

Savored—

As he tore it apart for me.

Slowly, his fingers moved.

Undoing the first button.

Then another.

Then another.

His hands shook as he slid the fabric from his shoulders, as he exposed inch after inch of himself, as he let go of the final barriers between us.

And when he stood before me, bared in every way imaginable, there was no defiance left in his gaze.

No pride.

No will of his own.

Only me.

Only the desperate, worshipping look of a man who had nothing left but the woman who had broken him.

I stepped closer, watching as he trembled beneath my gaze, as he stood there—vulnerable, stripped, undone.

And then, softly—

"Kneel."

His breath shuddered.

His body obeyed.

I lifted his chin with a single finger, forcing him to meet my gaze.

And I smiled.

"Good boy."

The words landed like a lash across his skin, but he did not flinch.

No—

He sighed.

A breath of relief, of pure, agonizing pleasure.

Because there was nothing left of him but me.

And he had never been happier.

Chapter 20: A Man Unmade (Main Character's Point of View)

He thought he had given me everything.

He thought there was nothing left to surrender.

But I knew better.

Because I could still see it—the faintest traces of who he had been.

Lingering embers of his former self.

The last remnants of resistance, buried deep within the way he hesitated before obeying, in the fleeting flicker of thought before he let me decide for him.

He still believed, on some distant level, that a part of him was his own.

He was wrong.

And I would prove it to him.

I circled him slowly where he knelt, savoring the way his breath hitched with every step, every second of my silence. His head was bowed, his hands resting in his lap, his body perfectly still.

Waiting.

He had become so obedient. So eager to please.

But not eager enough.

I dragged my fingers through his hair, gripping just tightly enough to make him tense.

He did not look up.

Not until I forced him to.

With a slow, deliberate tug, I pulled his head back, tilting his face up to mine.

His lips parted, his breath unsteady, his pulse pounding beneath fragile skin.

I saw it then—

The war inside him.

The last dying fragments of his former self, flickering in his gaze like a candle burning low.

I would snuff it out.

"Tell me," I murmured. "What are you?"

He swallowed hard. "Yours."

"That's not enough."

His brows furrowed, ever so slightly.

Good.

That meant he still had something left to lose.

I leaned in, my lips brushing against his ear as I whispered, "You think you've given me everything, Caspian?"

A slow shudder ran through him.

"Yes," he rasped.

A sharp, amused hum escaped me. "No. Not yet."

I tightened my grip in his hair, forcing his head back further, leaving him completely exposed, his throat bared, his breath coming in short, uneven pants.

"You're still holding onto something," I continued, my voice soft, almost gentle.

Lulling him deeper.

"You still believe you're a person."

His breath caught.

I watched the shock ripple through him, the instinctive resistance—the last, frail defense of a man who was about to lose himself entirely.

"You think you belong to me," I murmured, my fingers trailing down his throat, feeling the rapid, desperate beat of his pulse. "But you still think you exist beyond me."

He was shaking now.

His body tensed—as if he could still fight it.

Pathetic.

"You don't," I whispered. "Not anymore."

And then, softer—

"Say it."

A sharp inhale.

His hands curled into fists.

I waited.

And waited.

And just when I thought he might break—

He did.

"I…" His voice was barely a breath.

He struggled to say it.

To admit it.

Because this was the end.

The true end.

No more pride.

No more resistance.

No more Caspian D'Argent.

Only mine.

"Say it," I ordered.

His head fell forward, his body trembling beneath my touch, beneath my voice, beneath the sheer weight of my will.

"I don't exist without you," he whispered.

A confession.

A surrender.

The last flicker of who he had been—gone.

I smiled.

I lifted his chin once more, forcing him to meet my gaze.

"Good boy," I murmured.

And his entire body shuddered at the words.

Not in fear.

Not in shame.

But in pure, agonizing relief.

Because there was nothing left for him to fight.

Nothing left of him at all.

Only me.

Only the woman who had unmade him.

And he had never been happier.