The wine burned on its way down, but not nearly enough. I wanted it to hurt, to sear the ache hollowing me from the inside but it didn't. Nothing did anymore.
It had been a couple of weeks since I took over. The power gave me a thrill, the control. But it felt like the hole withing continued to expand day by day.
I sat in the dim quiet of the lounge, the crystal glass pressed to my lips, red wine staining the rim like blood. The city glittered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, it was beautiful and distant, like something I'd never be a part of.
The silence was thick tonight, too heavy even for me. There was no noise; just the hum of the air conditioning and the occasional creak of the old wood beneath my chair.
I hated nights like these, when the walls closed in and the past came crawling out of its grave. When every mirror whispered truths I'd buried too deep.
I'd stared at my reflection for more than an hour, and I realized I had changed a lot over the last seven years. My hair was darker, my eyes, colder, and my skin, paler.
I poured myself another glass and leaned back, my silk robe fell off one shoulder. In the mirror, I had seen that my body was flawless; sculpted, honed, dressed in satin and silks. But it felt like a costume, like I was merely playing a part.
I thought of everything I could've been. Everything I could've had if life had been kinder. A husband who loved me. A family who cherished me. A home that felt like safety instead of a cage.
Sex that didn't feel like torture; A kiss that didn't leave me cold. A touch that didn't bruise.
I tilted my head back and let the wine sit heavy on my tongue before swallowing. It burned sweet and sharp all the way down, but the fire it stirred wasn't from the alcohol; it was lower, deeper.
The heat settled at the pit of my stomach, pulsing, spreading between my thighs. It had been there for days, maybe weeks, maybe even years. I'd just grown used to the ache like it was a part of me, an unwanted tenant I had no strength to evict.
But tonight… tonight it gnawed louder.
The hunger, the sexual kind, it wasn't new. I'd just never let myself dwell on it. There was no point. Desire had no place in a life ruled by obedience, violence, and survival.
Gideon never made room for it, and when he took me, it was always rushed, always one-sided. He started, and just when I started to feel something, he'd finished, and I lay still, staring at the ceiling, sometimes counting cracks just to stay present.
I used to think that was all there was. That maybe the pleasure women talked about was just another fairy tale for girls who got to dream. I wasn't one of them. But I had seen the way the maids giggled behind doors, the way they whispered about being fucked against cool stone walls by one of the guards.
And the books... God, the books.
They told of slow hands, of breathless gasps, of raw and devouring hunger. Of women crying out in pleasure, not pain. Of men falling to their knees just to taste. I used to read them and scoff.
But something in me remembered those stories tonight. Something ached to know. To feel what it was like to be wanted. To be seen not as a weapon or a crown or a liability, but as a woman.
My mind flicked to Elias. Stoic, siilent, and controlled Elias.
He always did want I asked if him without question, but what if I wanted to be touched?
No. More than that, what if i wanted to own the moment? I didn't want tenderness, I wanted power. I didn't want love, I wanted control.
Something inside me cracked open, something molten, and suddenly I needed it. Needed him. Not for affection. For the thrill of knowing he would obey.
Because he belonged to me.
The wine sloshed in my glass as I stood, the silk of my robe whispering against my thighs. I walked across the room and reached the button on the wall that connected me to him. My finger hovered for a second. Then I pressed.
"Come upstairs," I said, my voice smooth, low, commanding.
That was all I said. That was all I needed to say. A few minutes passed. I heard the firm knock; one sharp rap, no hesitation.
"Enter," I said, not turning.
The door opened and closed with a soft click. I didn't look at him. Not yet.
"Lock it," I commanded.
Another click followed.
Only then did I turn slowly, glass in hand. My hair fell over my shoulders in soft waves, untamed. The silk robe clung to my frame, the slit showing the smooth line of my thigh. The neckline dipped low enough to tease, but not enough to satisfy.
Elias stood tall, dressed in black, his usual outfits. His face, as always, gave away nothing.
But his eyes betrayed him. It was just a flicker, but I saw it; A linger at my throat. The line of my collarbone. The slip of bare skin above my knee. He looked, even if he didn't mean to. Even if he didn't want to.
I stepped closer, slow and deliberate. We were inches apart now. I could smell his cologne; clean, subtle, masculine. He didn't move. His body was rigid, like a soldier awaiting orders.
I took a sip of wine and met his gaze.
"I'm tired, Elias," I said softly, my tone almost bored.
He said nothing, but his jaw flexed, just once. A flicker of tension beneath the calm.
"So very tired."
Still, he said nothing. But his eyes stayed on me now, sharp, attentive, waiting.
I tilted my head and studied him, really studied him. His broad shoulders, the way his chest rose and fell in a perfectly measured breath.
There was something thrilling in knowing he would stand there and take whatever I gave him. That he would obey, not because he wanted to, but because I wanted him to.
A quiet power coiled inside me, bold and alive.
"I want something tonight," I said.
He didn't blink. Didn't speak.
I stepped even closer, so close I could feel the heat radiating off him. The air between us thickened.
I wanted to know what was going on in his head. I wanted to know what he was thinking, but I never would, so I forced myself to lose interest in his thoughts. He didn't need to think, he only ne
eded to do as I asked.
I didn't look away as I spoke the words;
"Take off your clothes."