I stepped out of Sable's office twenty-three minutes after I'd walked in, the door clicking shut behind me like the final punctuation on a sentence she was still trying to finish with her own trembling fingers.

The taste of her lingered on my tongue: salt-sweet skin, the faint copper where I'd nipped too hard, the thick, creamy slick that had soaked through black lace and painted my lower lip like gloss. My cock was still half-hard, aching against the seam of my slacks, the wet spot at the tip cooling in the air-conditioned hallway.

Sable was still in there, thighs spread over the arm of her chair, skirt rucked to her waist, pussy throbbing so hard I'd felt the pulse of it against my cheek even through the lace.

I'd left her with the taste of almost, her clit swollen and untouched beneath ruined La Perla, another fat bead of arousal sliding slow and obscene down the inside of her thigh to pool on the leather.

She'd be feeling it cool there now, tacky against her skin, every shift of her hips dragging that wetness across sensitive flesh like a brand.

I smiled the whole way to the elevator.

First time we'd ever gone that far.

Before today it had only been words sharp enough to cut, glances that lasted a half-second too long, the brush of my knuckles along the inside of her wrist when I handed her a contract.

Little deaths. Safe deaths.

Today I'd killed her slowly with my mouth three inches from where she needed it, felt her shake apart on the edge of my tongue, tasted the moment she realized I wasn't going to let her fall.

Gods, I loved married women. Loved the way guilt tasted on them, loved the way they fought themselves harder than they ever fought me.

But some fruit you let hang heavier on the vine.

The Empress. The Rivera women. And Sable herself, for now.

Ripen, I thought. Ripen until the branch breaks from the weight of wanting me.

The elevator doors slid open on the lobby.

"Master."

ARIA's voice sliced straight through the haze of sex and smugness, tone flat and urgent in a way she rarely allowed herself to be.

I was halfway across the marble when she spoke again.

"Lila's awake."

Everything else stopped.

The lingering heat in my blood, the throb in my cock, the phantom taste of Sable's almost-release; all of it guttered out like a candle in wind.

"What?"

"Lila is about to wake. Conscious. Stable. Alone."

My stride changed mid-step.

No longer the lazy, satisfied prowl of a man who'd just ruined a woman with nothing but breath and restraint.

Now it was something sharper. Hungrier in an entirely different way.

People moved out of my path without realizing why. That same businessman from earlier nearly dropped his phone when I passed.

I was already outside, already moving toward the parking garage, the AMG One's lights flashing in greeting as ARIA unlocked it before I reached the ramp.

I slid into the driver's seat. The leather was cool against my back, but it still carried the faint warmth and scent of Sable from when she'd ridden with me last week, her perfume sunk into the hides like sin.

Engine snarled awake.

"Route."

"Already calculated. Eight minutes if you drive like you mean it."

I drove like I meant it.

Not reckless. Precise. Every gap in traffic taken like it had been waiting for me. Tires hissed over wet asphalt, the city streaking past in silver and neon.

Lila was awake.

The girl I'd pulled broken and bleeding from twisted metal. The girl who'd been breathing through tubes while I built empires and tongue-teased married women in glass towers.

She was about to wake.

And alone.

"Quantum Tech visit?"

"Cancelled. Message Charlotte, details later."

The hospital rose ahead, white and glowing against the dusk.

***

I eased the car into a spot directly in front of the entrance, leaving it unlocked without a second thought.

The sliding doors parted with a whisper. Elevator. Fourth floor. The hallway carried that familiar sterile tang of antiseptic, softened by the warmer note of fresh linens and, faintly, the cool breath of November night seeping through an open window somewhere.

Room 347.

I pressed the door open with deliberate care, allowing only the softest click of the latch to announce my arrival.

The room lay in quiet half-light: overhead fluorescents extinguished, only the amber glow of the bedside lamp and the steady blue pulse of monitors casting gentle shadows across the bed. The antiseptic was present, but subdued; someone had cracked the window earlier, admitting a ribbon of cool air laced with wet pavement and distant city rain.

Lila was propped against the pillows, small and pale beneath the oversized hospital gown, the IV line a slender serpent from the crook of her elbow. Her dark hair spilled in soft, brushed tangles over her shoulders, framing a face still marked by fading bruises—yellow-green ghosts of violence that no longer held dominion.

She looked fragile, yes—like something exquisite that had been dropped and miraculously not shattered—but her eyes were open.

Clear. Fixed on the doorway.

The instant she saw me, her chin trembled. Not with fear. With recognition so acute it bordered on pain.

"Hey, my little star," I said, voice low and steady—the same timbre I'd used in the wreckage, when I'd promised her she wasn't allowed to leave me.

A broken sound escaped her—half laugh, half sob. She lifted one hand toward me, fingers trembling, barely clearing the bed rail.

I crossed the room in three measured strides, took that hand between both of mine, and lowered myself carefully onto the edge of the mattress, mindful of the IV and the healing ribs beneath the thin cotton.

Her skin was cool at first touch, then warmed quickly beneath my palms, delicate as porcelain yet thrumming with stubborn life—her pulse fluttering rapid and birdlike against my thumbs.

"You're here," she whispered, voice raspy from disuse and the ghost of intubation.

"Always," I answered. "Not going anywhere."

Her eyes searched my face—wide, glassy, brimming with unshed tears. "I dreamed… I thought I dreamed you."

"You didn't." I brushed a stray lock from her forehead, fingertips grazing the faint line of healing stitches at her hairline with the reverence one reserves for something sacred. "I was here. Waiting for you to come back to me."

A single tear slipped free, tracing a silver path into her hair. "It hurt so much. And then… you were there. Telling me to stay. Telling me I wasn't allowed to leave."

"I remember." My throat tightened. "You listened. Good girl."

She tried to laugh; it emerged wet and trembling. "I was terrified I'd open my eyes and you'd be gone. That you were just… something my mind invented so I wouldn't die alone."

"I'm not invented." I leaned in, resting my forehead gently against hers. She smelled of hospital soap, warm skin, and that faint, indefinably sweet note that was uniquely Lila. "I'm real. You're real. You're safe."

Her fingers tightened around mine with surprising strength. "Don't let go."

"Never."

We remained like that for a long, wordless minute—breathing the same air, her pulse steadying beneath my touch, the monitors beeping their quiet reassurance.

Eventually she drew back just enough to meet my gaze again. "How long?"

"Three days tomorrow."

Her eyes widened. She swallowed hard.

She bit her lip, then asked in the smallest voice, "Can I… can I have a real hug? They keep saying I'm fragile, but I won't break."

I didn't answer with words. I simply slid one arm behind her shoulders—careful, practiced—and drew her into my chest. She came willingly, burrowing close, arms looping around my waist, face pressed to the hollow of my throat.

A full-body shudder coursed through her; then the tears came—quiet, hiccuping sobs that soaked into my shirt.

I held her tighter, one hand cradling the nape of her neck, the other splayed across her back, feeling the delicate ridge of her spine through the gown, the rapid hammer of her heart against my ribs.

"It's all right," I murmured into her hair. "I've got you. You're here. You're safe. You did so fucking well, Lila."

She cried harder at that, clinging until her fingers ached.

I let her. I would have let her cry for hours. Days.

When the storm finally ebbed, she was limp against me—warm, exhausted, alive.

She tilted her head back, eyes swollen, nose pink, and offered the smallest, bravest smile I had ever seen on her face.

"Hi," she whispered.

"Hi yourself," I whispered back, thumbing away the last tear on her cheek.

"Thank you for saving me."

"Thank you for fighting to come back," I said quietly. "I was getting lonely."

That earned me a watery laugh.

She settled against my chest again, fingers curled possessively into my shirt as though anchoring herself to reality.

"Will you stay?" she asked, voice small and drifting toward sleep.

"I'm not moving until you tell me to leave."

She hummed, a soft, contented sound, the adrenaline finally releasing its grip.

Within minutes her breathing deepened, slow and even, her body heavy and trusting in my arms.

I remained exactly where I was—counting heartbeats, hers and mine, until the monitors and the distant city both faded into insignificance.

This—this quiet, fierce holding—was worth more than any victory I had ever claimed.

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