Power comes from conquering.
From domination.
From bending others to your will until they forget they ever had choices of their own.
It’s taking what you want and making others thank you for the privilege of giving it. It’s the boot on the neck, not the neck that yields to avoid breaking.
This truth is written in my blood, carved into my bones since childhood.
But it doesn’t matter anymore. Because she just gave me what I was looking for all along.
Permission.
Permission to control her completely.
Permission to dictate every aspect of her existence—when she sleeps, what she eats, who she speaks to.
Permission to dominate her in ways as yet unimaginable.
To bend her will until it matches the shape of my own desires.
Permission to do anything I want with her—to remake her into whatever image satisfies the hollow space inside me that’s been growing since I was eight years old and learned that control is the only currency that matters in this world.
She’s handed me the keys to her cage and stepped inside willingly, her pale green eyes watching me with that strange mixture of fear and determination that makes my blood run hot in my veins.
It’s a surrender more complete than anything I could have forced from her, and somehow more unsettling because of it.
I crash my mouth against hers, pinning her harder against the door until I feel the solid wood at her back, her body yielding between it and mine. No more words. No more negotiation. No more of this maddening dance where she keeps surprising me with moves I never anticipated.
My fingers dig into her hip, anchoring her in place as if she might suddenly change her mind and slip away like smoke through my fingers.
When she responds—when she actually kisses me back—something short-circuits in my brain. My hand shoves under her shirt, finding her breast, soft and perfect in my palm. Her nipple hardens against my touch.
Her arms wrap around my neck, pulling me closer instead of pushing me away. Not just accepting. Participating.
This isn’t in the script. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.
I’m done with Emmaleen’s surprises. Every time I think I have her pinned down, categorized, she shifts. Defies expectation. It’s fucking exhausting.
“You want to be mine?” I growl against her mouth. “Then you’re going to take everything I give you.”
She makes a small sound—half whimper, half moan—that vibrates against my lips. It isn’t fear. It’s anticipation.
“I’m going to slide my fingers inside you.” My voice drops lower, rougher. “I’m going to feel how wet you are for me. And you’re going to be soaked, aren’t you? You’re going to be dripping down my hand while I work you open.”
She bites her lip, her eyes going wide. A deep flush spreads across her cheeks, down her neck, disappearing beneath the white T-shirt. Her breath catches, a little hiccup of air.
My hand slides down her stomach, past the elastic of her underwear. I push the fabric aside, finding her already slick and hot against my fingers. When I push inside, her head falls back against the door with a soft thud, a moan escaping her parted lips.
Fuck.
She’s wet. Ready. Like she’s been waiting for this. For me.
The thought sends a jolt of pure hunger through me. I curl my fingers inside her, watching her face as pleasure washes over it. Her hips rock against my hand, chasing the sensation.
My other hand moves to her hair, stroking it back from her face. A gesture too tender for what this is supposed to be. But I can’t stop myself.
I lean in, press my lips against her cheek. Her skin is feverish beneath my mouth.