Power changes its shape when you wield it with a smile.
Especially when you use the very thing they think makes you vulnerable—your body, your beauty, your softness—and twist it like a blade.
I waited until just past midnight.
The house had gone still again, the kind of stillness that felt intentional. Like even the walls were holding their breath.
He hadn't come to me again since the library.
Which meant he was waiting.
Good.
Let him wait a little longer.
I moved through the halls barefoot, silent, wrapped in nothing but a sheer black robe that slipped off my shoulder like an invitation no sane man should accept. Underneath, thin lace clung to my skin, the color of blood and shadow. Not for him. For me. Armor of a different kind.
When I reached his quarters, I didn't knock.
I just walked in.
The door was unlocked.
Another mistake.
He was sitting at his desk, shirtless, back turned to me. I could see the slope of his shoulders, the lines of muscle carved into his spine, the flex of his arms as he leaned over whatever file he was studying. He didn't turn. But I knew he felt me.
He always did.
"You should lock your doors," I said softly.
"I don't need to," came the low reply.
I moved closer. Each step slow. Intentional.
"You knew I'd come tonight, didn't you?"
He looked up then.
And fuck—the way his eyes landed on me.
There was no warmth in them. Just cold hunger. Calculating. Controlled. Like he was deciding if this was a trap, or a test, or something worse.
"You're playing a dangerous game," he said, voice low and rough.
I stepped into the dim glow of the desk lamp, letting the light catch on my skin. My robe slipped further down one shoulder.
"I thought that was your favorite kind."
He stood slowly.
He was all sinew and heat—broad chest marred by old scars, lean waist wrapped in loose black pants that clung low on his hips. And that look in his eyes… not just lust. Something darker. Need threaded with rage and restraint.
He didn't move toward me.
Which made it worse.
I took the final step.
Closed the distance.
His breath hitched—almost imperceptible—but I caught it.
I lifted one hand and placed it flat against his chest. His skin was hot, muscles taut, heart hammering beneath my palm.
"I'm not yours," I whispered.
"Not yet," he growled.
Then I dropped to my knees.
He stilled.
Tension snapped tight around us, wound like wire between our bodies.
His hand shot out—fingers tangled in my hair, not pulling, just holding. Like he needed the anchor. Like this was something he hadn't prepared for.
I looked up at him, slow and deliberate.
"You're always in control," I murmured. "But not tonight."
He didn't stop me.
Didn't say a word.
And when I unfastened the ties on his pants, his breath came through clenched teeth, sharp and broken.
I kissed the inside of his thigh first—light, teasing.
He was already hard.
Already waiting.
But this wasn't about his pleasure.
It was about mine.
Taking it back.
Making him feel what it was to be wanted and denied at the same time. To burn under the hands of someone who wouldn't break.
I let my mouth brush over the tip, then paused—lips parted, eyes locked to his.
He groaned, low and savage.
I licked him once, slow and intentional, then wrapped my lips around him.
He hissed through his teeth, hand tightening in my hair.
I set the pace—not too fast, not indulgent. Controlled. Purposeful.
Every motion said: I'm not yours. I'm not anyone's. But I could ruin you if I wanted to.
He trembled.
That perfect, fleeting loss of control.
I felt it.
And when I pulled back, lips swollen, eyes narrowed, I stood slowly and whispered against his mouth:
"Remember this."
Then I turned.
And left.
Leaving him hard, panting, and completely fucked.
Without a single touch in return.