He stepped close, brushing his fingers down her arms, slow and reverent.
"Take off the jacket."
She did.
He circled behind her again, and this time, he did touch—palms at her shoulders, sliding down her back. He pressed a kiss just below her ear, his voice a thread of breath:
"I want to see you. All of you. But only if you want it."
She whispered, "I do."
He guided her to the mirror.
Slow. Intentional. One palm at the small of her back, the other wrapped around her hip like he was grounding himself with her heat.
The lights in the room dimmed—not magically, just by design. As if the space itself knew something sacred was about to unfold.
They stopped just in front of the full-length mirror.
He stood behind her, their reflections side by side. Her chest rising in shallow breaths. His eyes locked on hers through the glass.
"Look," he murmured. "Not at me. At you. I want you to see what I see."
Her reflection stared back—powerful, undone, radiant.
She still wore his suit. Jacket long since discarded. Buttons half-undone. Skin flushed. Eyes bright with something raw and real.
But the wig—
He reached up. Gently. Carefully.
His fingers slid beneath the edge, undoing the illusion strand by strand.
When the chestnut fall came free, he let it drop to the floor.
And there they were.
Her auburn curls.
Messy. Real. Hers.
He stared at her reflection like it was a revelation.
"There you are," he whispered.
His hand slid into her curls, wrapping them around his fist—not to hurt, not to claim, but to anchor.
He tugged gently.
Her breath caught. Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment, then opened again.
He leaned in.
"That's better," he said. "I want to see you. Not the version of me you wore. Not the seductress. Not the shrine. Not the weapon."
"Just you."
He held her gaze in the mirror.
Every line of her posture—the tension in her shoulders, the tremble in her lip—told him how deep it all ran.
So he moved slowly.
Deliberately.
He reached around her—unfastening each remaining button with a reverence that made the air feel heavier.
Every touch was a promise.
Every pause, a question.
And every answer was still green.
"You don't have to be anything tonight," he said, voice low against her ear. "Not a survivor. Not a seductress. Not a goddamn symbol."
He pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder.
"You only have to feel."
She nodded.
Not just to him—but to herself.
To the reflection. To the moment.
And Malvor, hand still tangled in her hair, whispered:
"Good."
His fist tightened—just enough to make her breath stutter, her body still.
She met his eyes in the mirror.
Wide. Trusting. Ready.
"That's better," he said again. "Now listen closely, my love. Tonight, I control everything."
His voice dropped an octave.
"Where you look. What you say. When you come."
Her mouth parted.
He leaned down, lips ghosting the shell of her ear.
"Do you understand?"
She nodded.
"Words."
"Yes."
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, Sir."
That. That was the moment. His chaos stilled—not stifled, not masked, but refined into something razor-sharp and burning.
He guided her backward. No words now—just his hand in her hair, the other firm at her waist, walking her toward the bed like she belonged to him.
Because tonight?
She did.
And he was going to show her what that meant.
"On the bed. Knees. Hands behind your back."
She obeyed. No hesitation.
He moved slowly—not because he was unsure, but because he wanted to savor this.
Wanted her to feel every second of anticipation crawling across her skin.
He retrieved the silk ties. Ran them through his fingers, letting them whisper across her shoulder before reaching for her wrists.
"You can pull away at any time," he said, binding her hands behind her back.
"But you won't."
"Because you want this."
He cinched the knot. Kissed the inside of her elbow.
"And because I know how to give it to you."
He circled her once. Twice. Letting his presence wrap around her like a cage of fire and honey.
"Eyes down unless I tell you. You don't speak unless I ask. And when I touch you—"He stopped in front of her, lifting her chin with one finger. "You don't dare hold back."
Her breathing hitched.
"Color?" he asked.
"Green," she whispered.
"Good."
He stepped back, just enough to admire the view:
Her. Bound. Bare. Beautiful. Waiting.
And he smiled.
"Now let's begin."
She knelt on the bed.
Back straight. Hands bound behind her. Hair falling in soft waves around the silk. His silk.
Malvor circled her like a storm studying its favorite coastline. He wasn't rushed He was deliberate. Every step a choice. Every breath a claim.
"You look divine like this," he murmured. "Tamed chaos. Wrapped in silk. Waiting."
Her chest rose and fell with each breath—shallow, charged, needing.
"You want me to touch you."
Not a question. A statement.
She nodded.
"That's not how we do things now, is it?"
She swallowed hard.
"No, Sir."
"Good girl."
Her whole body reacted to those two words—like her blood remembered something her mind hadn't dared to hope for.
He stepped in front of her.
Lifted her chin again, just enough to see the pulse fluttering at her throat.
"I'm going to kiss you," he said. "But not yet."
Her lips parted.
He didn't touch her.
Just let her feel the absence.
"I want you to ache for it. To earn it. To crave it."
He leaned in—close enough that his breath brushed hers.
She tilted her face forward instinctively, desperate for his mouth.
But he pulled back.
"Not yet," he whispered.
She whimpered.
He smiled.
Malvor moved behind her again. His hands ghosted down her arms, over her ribs. Not grabbing—guiding. Reminding her who she belonged to right now.
His hands slid down her thighs, coaxing them open with gentle pressure.
"Spread."
She obeyed.
"Wider."
Another inch. The flush in her cheeks darkened.
"Perfect."
He kissed the curve of her neck, then her spine. Slowly. Methodically.
Like marking territory.
His hand slipped between her thighs—just a touch. A tease.
She gasped.
"Already wet," he murmured. "You really do love being told what to do, don't you?"
She moaned softly.
"Words, my darling."
"Yes. Yes, Sir."
"Such a good girl."