The First Time He Undresses Her
It started with silence.
Not tension.
Not command.
Just that breathless stillness between two people who had stopped pretending.
The fire in Serena's chamber was low. Shadows stretched across the marble floor, licking at the hem of her gown. Her heart beat louder than the wind against the glass.
And Damián stood before her.
No guards.
No crown.
Just him.
Prince. Punisher. Lover. Obsession.
"Take it off," she said.
He raised an eyebrow.
"The collar?" he asked.
"No," she whispered. "The mask."
She stepped forward, her fingers brushing his chest, eyes never leaving his.
"You don't have to be in control tonight."
A beat.
And then—
He smiled.
Not cruelly.
Not smugly.
Softly.
And that smile wrecked her more than all his punishments combined.
He didn't answer.
He simply lifted his hand and began to undo the clasp at the back of her gown.
Slowly.
Like it was sacred.
Each button was a breath.
Each breath, a surrender.
The silk slipped from her shoulders, baring inch after inch of flushed skin.
Her collar remained.
He didn't touch it.
Not yet.
His fingers dragged lightly down her arms, and the gown fell into a whispering pool at her feet.
She stood bare before him.
Unapologetic.
Unhidden.
Unbound.
He circled behind her, letting the heat of his body radiate over hers without touch.
"You terrify me," he said quietly.
She closed her eyes. "Because I don't break?"
"No," he whispered, brushing his lips against her bare shoulder. "Because you make me want to."
His hands finally touched her.
Palms flat on her hips.
Not rough. Not possessive.
Present.
His mouth trailed across her shoulder blade. Her spine. Lower.
Her breath caught—then broke.
When he turned her around to face him, his eyes searched hers.
One last chance.
To stop this.
To pretend.
But she reached up instead—fisted her hand in the collar—and held it between them.
"This," she whispered, "was never yours alone."
Then she tugged him down.
And kissed him like he was oxygen.
Like he was the war she'd waited her whole life to fight.
He laid her back on the bed like she was royalty.
Like she was danger.
Like she was the only thing in this godless world he would kneel for.
And he worshipped her.
With hands that learned every curve like scripture.
With lips that spoke no vows but made promises anyway.
When he finally entered her, she gasped his name like it was forbidden.
And he groaned hers like it was a sin.
There was no power between them.
No battle.
No surrender.
Only reverence.
And when it was over—when they were tangled in sweat, breath, and sheets—he didn't speak.
He simply pulled her against his chest, held her close, and let himself fall asleep with her in his arms.
Like it was the most dangerous act of all.