When He Finally Touches Her
The weight of the collar had never felt heavier.
Not because it restrained her.
But because she'd put it back on herself.
Not for him.
For what it meant.
That she was no longer waiting to be commanded.She was choosing her cage.
And she was daring him to open it.
Damián didn't move from the shadows.
He watched her with the stillness of a predator who already knows the prey won't run.
When he finally stepped into the light, his eyes weren't cold.
They were focused.
Burning.
And unrelenting.
"Close the door," he said.
Her hands trembled—but only slightly—as she obeyed.
The door clicked shut.
And they were alone.
He crossed the room in silence.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Measured.
Deliberate.
Until he stood directly in front of her.
Closer than he ever had.
She tilted her chin upward, refusing to step back.
He reached out.
His fingers brushed the side of her throat—just over the collar.
A barely-there touch.
But Serena gasped.
Because his skin was warm.
And his hand… steady.
Unshaking.
"From now on," he murmured, "when I touch you, it will never be to take."
His thumb slid under the edge of the leather at her throat.
"It will be to claim."
Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
She was no longer breathing air.
She was breathing him.
His other hand came up.
Not to grab.
To cradle.
Her jaw. Her cheek. Her throat.
Every movement asked without asking.
And she answered without words—leaning in, just barely.
Enough.
His thumb stroked her lower lip.
Once.
Twice.
Then he spoke, his voice a low growl against her mouth.
"You will remember this. Not because it's the first time. But because it's the last time I'll be this gentle."
And then—
He kissed her.
Not softly.
Not cruelly.
Completely.
His mouth crushed hers with months of silence behind it. Of tension. Of restraint.
His hand fisted into her hair.
His body pressed hers back against the wall, one knee sliding between her thighs—commanding, not asking.
She moaned into his mouth—furious with herself for needing this, and furious that nothing had ever felt so earned.
He tasted like sin and sovereignty.
Like someone who never asked to be worshipped but knew exactly how to be.
When he pulled back, her lips were red. Bruised. Wanting.
Her breath came in stuttering waves.
But she didn't look away.
Neither did he.
"This," he said softly, brushing her bottom lip with his thumb again, "was the price of your obedience."
She swallowed.
"And what's the price of my defiance?"
His smile was slow. Wicked.
"I'll show you that next."