She didn't come to me.
Not that night.
Not the morning after.
But I knew she would.
Seraphina wasn't built to submit—not because she didn't want to, but because no one had ever been strong enough to deserve it. And that's the difference between taming and earning.
I had no interest in taming her.
I wanted her fire.
I wanted her blade, dripping red and aimed at my throat—but shaking, because the hand that held it had already given me everything.
So I waited.
Not idly.
No—intentionally.
I made sure she saw me every day. But I never acknowledged her.
At breakfast, I'd speak to everyone but her.
At meetings, I'd issue orders in that same cold, measured tone—never letting my eyes stray, never showing the heat still trapped in my blood from the sight of her lips wrapped around my name.
And when she trained, I watched.
Hidden in plain sight.
I knew the effect.
Knew what I was doing.
She was used to being feared, desired, chased.
So I made her feel… unseen.
And it drove her mad.
She started wearing tighter clothes.
More deliberate steps.
Even the way she drank her coffee became an invitation—lips wrapped around the rim, eyes flicking toward me, just once, like a silent dare.
Touch me. Look at me. Break first.
But I didn't.
I wouldn't.
Because when she did come to me, I wanted it to be raw. Voluntary. Desperate.
I wanted to see her choke on the need she'd spent years burying.
Three days later, she snapped.
It was midnight when the knock came.
Not timid.
Not uncertain.
Commanding.
I opened the door slowly.
And there she stood.
Wearing nothing but black silk shorts and a matching tank that clung to every lethal curve. Her hair was down, a storm of waves around her face, and her eyes—God, those eyes—were wild.
"You think you're clever," she hissed, stepping inside like she had every right.
I let her.
"I know I am," I said calmly, shutting the door behind her.
She spun on me, fury in every line of her body.
"Do you get off on making people feel small?"
I raised a brow. "You're the only one who's shrunk herself."
Her breath hitched.
And I saw it.
The flicker.
Doubt. Shame. Desire.
"I don't want your games," she spat.
I moved toward her slowly.
"You came to me, Seraphina."
She backed up—only a step, but enough for me to notice.
I kept advancing, not touching, not even reaching.
Just pressing space between us until the room felt like a cage.
"You've killed men without blinking," I said softly. "But me? You can't even look in the eye without shaking."
"I'm not shaking."
"No?" I paused, just inches away. "Then prove it."
She clenched her fists.
I could see the way her thighs pressed, the pulse racing at her neck.
I leaned down, just enough for my lips to graze her ear—not touching.
"Take off your top."
Her breath caught.
"But don't touch me," I added. "Don't move. Don't speak. Just stand there and feel how badly you want it."
Her lip trembled.
"I hate you."
"I hope so," I whispered. "Hate sharpens need."
She stared at me for a long moment—then lifted her tank over her head, slow, deliberate, baring herself to me.
I didn't touch her.
I didn't even breathe.
I just stepped back, dragged my eyes over her like fire, and let silence fill the room like smoke.
"You're exquisite when you're undone," I murmured. "But you're not ready to surrender."
Her eyes flared.
And I turned, walking toward the door.
"Next time," I said, pausing with my hand on the handle, "if you want my hands on you, you'll have to beg."
Then I left her there.
Bare. Trembling. Furious.
Starving.