Before Syra could gather her thoughts, his mouth was already on her neck, dragging heat up her pulse before she could catch her breath. One hand had found her wrist, pinning it above her head. The other? Between her thighs—confident, practiced, merciless.
"You waited for me?" Lou's voice was lower than she remembered. Rougher. It vibrated down her spine.
Syra could barely nod, her words caught behind her teeth.
His eyes never left hers. Dark. Burning. A monk's restraint peeled back and replaced with something untamed. Every inch of him radiated heat and command. He wasn't gentle. Not tonight.
"Then take it."
He kissed her like a man starved, like devotion had given way to hunger. His body pressed her deep into the mattress, hips locked against hers with terrifying precision. His teeth grazed her bottom lip. She moaned into him, gripping his shoulders, but he didn't slow. Didn't soothe.
His hand slipped beneath her nightdress, dragging it upward, baring inch after inch of her skin to the cold air and the heat of his body.
"You think I don't see it?" he whispered against her collarbone. "The way you ache when I'm not near you. The way you look at me like I'm air and ruin."
She whimpered when he thrust against her, only the thin fabric of her underwear separating skin from skin.
"Say it," he growled. "Say you missed me."
"I missed you," she gasped. "I missed you so much—"
"More," he demanded, pulling her legs around his waist, grinding harder. "Say you wanted this."
"I wanted you."
"Not just me," he said, his teeth scraping her earlobe. "You wanted to be ruined by me."
His kiss was ravenous, open-mouthed and claiming, like he'd been starving for years and only just realized she was the feast.
Her robe slipped off her shoulders, pooling at her feet. The stone floor was cold, but his body was blistering hot. One large hand cupped her jaw, the other slid down her spine and pressed her closer, grinding against her like he was trying to melt her into himself. When she moaned, he swallowed it, growled softly into her mouth.
"You think I can wait," he said, voice low and dangerous, "but I can't. Not when you look at me like that."
She tried to speak, to say his name, but he kissed her again—deeper this time, dragging his mouth down her throat, sucking gently where her pulse jumped.
Her legs wrapped around his waist before she even realized it, and he lifted her like she weighed nothing, carried her to the wooden bench and laid her down like a man who had fantasized about this a thousand times and remembered every single detail.
"Tell me if it's too much," he whispered, his lips brushing her ear. "If I lose control... I won't be able to stop."
But she didn't want him to stop. She was trembling now. Needy. Drenched.
He was no longer the man who tiptoed around her fragility. Here, he was fire—unapologetic and molten, fingers tugging at the tie of her underdress, mouth trailing over her chest, stomach, thighs, worshipping her with the intensity of a prayer that had waited too long to be spoken.
He pushed into her slowly, but not carefully. It was possessive. Raw.
She arched her back with a cry as her name fell from his lips like something holy, and his hands pinned her wrists above her head once again —not to restrain, but to keep himself from shattering.She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Only feel.
Then his mouth dropped to her chest, and she cried out—
—only to jerk upright in bed, drenched in sweat, heart slamming against her ribs.
Syra woke with a gasp, her body flushed, sheets tangled around her legs. Her heart slammed against her ribs like it had been kissed too hard. The morning light crept across the ceiling, soft and gold. She sat up, hand pressed to her chest. It was morning.
Her breath came in shallow bursts, the memory of heat still clinging to her skin. The room was soft and bright, sunlight creeping through the half-drawn curtains. Birds chirped somewhere beyond the window. Her old bedroom. Her childhood desk. Her mother's embroidered throw pillows. Reality.
She sat motionless for a long moment, hand on her chest, trying to remember how to breathe.
That hadn't been a dream—it had been a possession. A vivid, full-body memory that didn't exist. Lou Yan had never touched her like that. Not even close.
But her body remembered it now like it had happened. Every inch of her tingled with the aftershocks.
"God," she whispered.
Heat flared across her cheeks as she slowly climbed out of bed, wrapping herself in a robe. Her legs were shaky. Her mind, worse.
What the hell was that?
Lou Yan had always been careful with her. Soft-spoken. Respectful. Reverent even in silence. But this version—the one from the dream—he had taken without hesitation. Possessed her. Dominated.
And the worst part? She'd wanted it. Every searing, punishing second of it.
Syra told herself it was just her body reacting to distance, to missing him. Nothing more. She had just seen a part of Lou Yan she hadn't met yet. And she wasn't sure she'd survive him if she did.
Syra sat still for a long time, the memory of the dream burning behind her eyes. Her nightgown clung to her skin, damp with sweat. She pushed the sheets away slowly, as if afraid that any sudden movement might make the feeling disappear—the ghost of his mouth on her throat, the weight of his body above hers, the growl of his voice when he said he couldn't wait.
It shouldn't have shaken her so much. But it did. Because Lou Yan was always careful. Always restrained. Always gentle to a fault. But the Lou in her dream—he was fire. Possession. Want, without apology. And she hadn't just wanted it. She had craved it.
With trembling fingers, she reached for the glass of water on her nightstand. Her reflection in the window startled her: flushed cheeks, parted lips, pupils wide like she'd just been touched. It was still early. Her parents were likely still asleep. She stood, wrapped a robe tightly around herself, and padded into the bathroom, turning the faucet to cold. She splashed her face. Once. Twice. A third time, but it did nothing to quiet the storm inside.
Her body remembered too well. The ache lingered in her hips, the heat behind her knees. She braced her hands against the sink and leaned forward. "It's just a dream," she whispered to herself.
But it hadn't felt like a dream. It felt like a preview. Like her subconscious had peeled back the calm layers of the man she loved and shown her what lay beneath. And now she couldn't unsee it.
She dressed slowly, choosing soft fabrics, loose clothings. She couldn't bear the thought of anything tight across her chest. As she moved through the house, the normalcy of it felt absurd. Her mother was humming in the kitchen. The scent of cardamom and tea leaves drifted through the hallway. Her father was already watching the news in the living room.
And she—she was falling apart because of a dream.
Syra helped her mother set the table, tried to listen as they discussed their plans for the day, but her mind was elsewhere. At one point, her mother touched her wrist. "You look pale, azizam. Are you allright?"
"Just didn't sleep well," Syra said. It wasn't a lie.
She escaped to her room an hour later, needing solitude. Her sketchbook lay where she'd left it, open to the drawing of Lou's hands. She stared at it, then picked up a charcoal pencil and began to draw again. But this time, she didn't stop at the hands.
She drew his neck. His shoulders. The curve of his back.
The tension in his arms.
She had never drawn him like this before—not just as she saw him, but as she felt him. As she imagined him. With every stroke, her chest tightened. Her breath shortened.
She missed him. Not just in the way lovers miss each other. But in the way souls ache for the other half of their silence.
She had given him space. Because she knew he needed it. Because she wanted to honor the discipline that kept him upright. But this dream, this morning, had undone something quiet inside her.
Syra stared down at the sketch when it was done, her throat thick with longing. She wanted to see him. Hear his voice. Sit close enough to feel the quiet tremble of his breath when she got too close. She wanted to say, "I dreamed of you last night."
But what would she say after that?
She touched the edge of the paper, fingers lingering on the curve of his jawline. Then she did the only thing she could. She sent him a message:
"I miss you. It's okay if you're not ready. But I just wanted you to know."
And then she waited, the echo of her dream still pulsing low and warm beneath her skin.