The morning after felt like a trap disguised as comfort.
Soraya sat at the marble kitchen island, legs crossed, coffee untouched, her eyes fixed on the man across from her like he was both hers and something broken she wasn't sure she wanted to fix. The floor-to-ceiling windows behind her let in too much light. It made everything too visible.
Jace stood barefoot, shirtless, confused.
He hadn't left her bed. Had barely slept. She hadn't touched him again, not really. Just curled up beside him like nothing had happened, like she hadn't pulled him apart with a kiss and left him gasping.
Now he hovered near the doorway, unsure whether he was allowed to sit.
"Drink something," she said coolly, without looking at him. "You look pale."
He moved to the counter obediently, fumbling for a glass. She watched his reflection in the window, lips curving into something unreadable.
"You didn't say much last night," he said after a long silence.
Her gaze slid to him.
"You didn't earn much."
That stung. He tried not to show it.
"Soraya, I—"
"No." Her voice was sharp enough to snap through him. "Don't start with the apologies. They're boring."
He clenched his jaw, looked down at the glass in his hand.
"Why did you come find me if you're just going to punish me for disappearing?"
"I'm not punishing you, sweetheart," she said, rising from her stool, slow and graceful like a lion stretching. "I'm reminding you who you belong to."
He couldn't meet her eyes. "That's not normal."
She laughed — low, dark, beautiful. "Since when have I ever promised you normal?"
He didn't answer. He didn't need to.
She walked over, placing her hands on either side of his hips, boxing him in against the counter. "You think I came to drag you back because I was lonely?"
Worse, he thought. She had come because she couldn't tolerate losing control.
"I needed space," he said, trying to stand his ground. "I didn't even leave for long."
"You left without telling me."
"I didn't think I had to report to you."
"Oh, Jace." Her fingers curled slightly against the edge of the counter, knuckles whitening. "That's where you're wrong."
She leaned in close, voice lowering. "You're mine. That doesn't change when I'm quiet. It doesn't change when I let you breathe."
He swallowed, hard. "And what if I don't want to be?"
Her hand snapped out, gripping his jaw — not roughly, but firm enough to stop the thought from blooming further.
"You do. You just haven't admitted it yet."
His breath hitched. Her touch wasn't cruel. That was the worst part — it was careful. Intimate. The kind of touch that made you forget it was still a cage.
"Tell me I'm wrong," she whispered.
But he couldn't.
Not with her lips so close. Not with the fire in her eyes. Not with his chest aching in ways he didn't understand.
She stepped back, satisfied.
"You'll stay here for a while," she said, turning away, already bored of his rebellion. "Until I'm sure you won't run again."
"That's not your decision to make."
"Of course it is."
He didn't argue. He didn't leave either.
She poured herself a fresh cup of coffee like the conversation hadn't happened. Like controlling someone was just part of her morning routine.
Jace stared at her, a thousand words choking on the edge of his tongue. But in the end, he said nothing. What was there to say?
He was still here.
And she knew he would be.