Emma's eyes fluttered as the weight of the mental info dump settled. Her lips parted, then pressed into a thin line as she absorbed the implications.
"You… did all of that behind my back?" she said, not angry, but stunned.
"I prefer the term 'keeping promises,'." I said with a light smile. "I promised you I'd help reclaim what's yours. I just didn't see the point in waiting for you to finish training your powers."
She stood up slowly, gaze locked on mine. There was something almost feral in her eyes—a deep conflict between arousal, pride, and a bruised ego.
"You've essentially put me one step away from controlling Frost Industries."
"No, Emma," I replied, stepping closer, my voice low and unflinching. "We're one step away."
She tilted her head. "You're assuming I'd share power after this."
"I trained you," I said. "I know who you are Emma. And that's why I do not need to worry about such things. And do you really believe if I want Frost Industries you can stop me?"
I let the air still between us, then added softly, "But I'm not here to dominate you. I'm here to help you."
There was a beat of silence before she moved.
I leaned in. I didn't rush. Didn't seize. Just… closed the distance.
Her lips met mine with the kind of deliberateness that made it clear: she was choosing this. Not because of vulnerability. Not because of gratitude. But because, for once, she wanted to stop calculating.
Her kiss was everything she was—sharp, knowing, hungry without desperation. I responded in kind, letting her set the rhythm, my hand sliding to the back of her neck, anchoring her to me as her fingers gripped my shirt with the restraint of someone trying not to fall.
She deepened it—biting my lower lip, testing again.
I kissed her like I could rewrite her history with it. Like I could plant new memories in her mind, not with powers, but with touch. Trust. Truth.
When we finally broke apart, barely a breath between us, she rested her forehead against mine.
Her laugh was a low, sultry thing, edged with disbelief.
She just kissed me again.
Her lips lingered near mine, breaths mingling as she hesitated—caught in that fragile space between decision and doubt.
Then she pulled back just enough to look at me. Really look.
Not the surface gaze she gave to most. Not the appraising, calculating stare she wore like armor. This was naked. Raw.
"I've never done this," she said softly. "Not willingly. And maybe never will."
"What?"
She brought her fingers to my temple—barely brushing. "Letting it all out.."
I didn't move. I didn't press. Just waited.
Her voice was low, hesitant but steady. "Let me share all my life with you. Not filtered. Not curated. Just… everything."
A pause.
"You don't have to say yes," she added quickly, the faintest waver betraying how deeply this cost her.
I reached up, entwining my fingers with hers. Brought her hand fully to my temple.
"I'm here, Emma," I said. "Show me."
And then—
The world tilted.
No words. Just telepathy.
A mental barrage slammed into my mind like a tidal wave. Illusions, emotions, images of the past—her childhood, her fears, her scars. Her sisters. Winston's fists. The endless pressure of perfection.
Her mind bloomed open like a star collapsing in reverse, pulling me in, not crushing but surrounding. Not chaos, not a storm. A cathedral. Cold, regal, aching.
Memory by memory, she unfolded her life before me.
A five-year-old girl in lace and bruises, sitting too quietly at a piano bench as Winston's voice thundered from another room.
Tears she never let fall when her sisters turned their backs on her, when her mother flinched too easily.
The first time she realized she could hear thoughts—and the spiral of fear and guilt that followed.
Her teenage self staring into mirrors, perfecting smiles that weren't real. Faking warmth. Building masks.
And later—Emma as a 18 year old young girl hiding every flicker of pain behind wit and cruelty. Enduring things she shouldn't just to keep control. Leading, manipulating, surviving.
And always alone.
Always so alone.
But then—her gaze on me. Scenes from the past six months. Our training sessions. My endless patience, my subtle provocations. My refusal to treat her like she was broken.
And the moment she realized I wasn't afraid of her. That I never had been.
I stood in the center of it all, barely breathing. Not overwhelmed. Not recoiling.
Just there.
"I didn't want to need someone," she whispered into the space between us, her voice echoing through the psychic bond. "But I want you to know me. All of me. And still choose me."
I stepped forward in that mindscape—through memory and pain and silence—and took her hand.
"I already did," I said.
And in that moment, the walls didn't fall.
They simply… dissolved.
Because Emma Frost didn't break for anyone.
She opened—and only for me.
"I guess it's my turn then." I said with a faint smile.
"You don't have too Magnus. I wanted you to know but I don't expect you to do the same. We will still be together."
"You are right. I don't need to. But I want to."
I couldn't show her everything.. Not the System. Not the other life. Not the truth of what I was.
But I could give her this world. Every moment before and after I arrived. Though with a bit of difference.
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