The door to her quarters was still open.
Rhys didn't knock.
He stepped inside like a man possessed, not by rage, but by the echo of her name still warm in his mouth from that first kiss—the one she gave and then stole away like a secret.
She didn't look at him.
She was at the vanity, removing her earrings like nothing had changed.
Like his world hadn't tilted and snapped in half the second her lips left his.
"I saw him touch you," he said.
She didn't flinch.
Didn't rush.
"Many men touch me," she said calmly, "You guard the door, remember?"
His voice cracked open, low and uneven. "Do you kiss all of them like you did to me?"
She turned then.
No mask.
No corset-tight control.
Just her. Glorious. Bare-footed in candlelight. A storm in a slip of silk and a mouth full of holy sin.
"No," she said. "They kiss me like they want me to remember them."
He took a step forward.
Another.
"You're not a goddess," he said, quiet now, "but I've never wanted to kneel more in my life."
She tilted her head, sharp and slow. "Then why are you still standing?"
He dropped to his knees.
It wasn't planned.
It wasn't clean.
It was inevitable.
And she came to him—slow and precise, like a queen granting mercy. She lifted his chin with two fingers and looked down at him like she'd summoned him from ash and silence.
His voice shook.
"I can't pretend anymore."
She bent down, her forehead brushing his, lips a breath away. "Then don't."
The kiss was a vow.
Not desperate.
Not rushed.
Just slow.
Full.
Deliberate.
He kissed her like a man who'd fought his instincts for too long and finally understood that submission wasn't weakness—it was surrender to something greater.
When they broke apart, she didn't speak.
She just walked toward the bed, untying the ribbon at her waist, her back to him.
And he followed.
Not because she called.
But because he didn't know how to walk away from her anymore.