The only light bled from a fat pillar candle on the mantel, painting the walls with liquid shadows. The air hummed with beeswax and sandalwood—Elara’s scent, the one that always meant the world was about to tilt.

Silas was already on his knees on the rug, head bowed, his breathing a quiet tide. Seeing him like that, all his usual sharp angles softened into devotion, sent a familiar thrill through her—part possession, part a fierce, protective ache.

She stood before him, the deep crimson silk of her robe tied loose. The hormones had finally carved a home for her soul; the curves were hers, the skin like something smoothed by a careful sea. She saw his eyes, when they flickered up, tracing the line of her hip, the weight of her breast beneath the fabric.

“Look at me.”

His gaze lifted, dark and wide. No fear. Just trust, so deep it was a physical thing.

“You’re mine tonight,” she said, the words a simple truth. “Every breath is a gift. Every feeling, my design. Understood?”

“Yes, Elara.” A whisper, frayed at the edges.

A smile touched her lips. She reached, her fingers hovering a hair’s breadth from his cheek. He shuddered at the almost-touch. God, she loved that—the exquisite ache of the almost.

“I want to see you. Undress. Make it an offering.”

His hands were reverent. Each button a small prayer, each piece of clothing folded neat. Soon he was bare, kneeling again. The candlelight loved him, gilding the muscles of his shoulders, the vulnerable bow of his back.

She let her robe fall. It pooled at her feet like spilled wine. His breath hitched, taking her in—the proud lines, the softness, the silver and moonstone adorning her like armor and crown.

She guided his hand, palm flat against her stomach. His touch was warm, hesitant, then firm as she pressed into it. A low sound escaped him, pure awe.

“You feel that?” she whispered, moving his hand over the curve of her hip. “Your devotion makes me powerful.”

Then she guided his hand away. He whimpered, a tiny, loss-filled sound. She smiled. “Patience.”

A strip of black silk followed. “Your eyes are a distraction.” She tied the blindfold, gentle but final. Darkness for him. For her, the sight of his other senses waking up, screaming.

She began her exploration. A peacock feather along his inner thigh made him jump. The cool, heavy smoothness of a river stone pressed to the small of his back. Then her mouth—lips on his ear, his neck, the soft skin over his ribs. He trembled, fists clenching, completely hers.

Heat radiated from him. But this wasn't about the end. It was the road there.

“On the bed. On your back.”

He moved like a man in a dream. She joined him, straddling his hips but keeping her weight just above. She leaned down, her hair brushing his chest.

“This body,” she whispered into his ear, “I built it with will and pain. It’s my temple. And you,” she lowered herself onto him, a slow, deliberate roll, “you are my most devoted worshipper.”

A choked cry was torn from him. The blindfold was a mercy now.

She set a rhythm, slow and deep, all control. She watched his face—the open mouth, the straining neck. Her own pleasure was a rising wave, fed by his surrender. She leaned forward, breasts against his chest, and kissed him. It was messy for him, reverent for her. She tasted his trust.

“You’re so good for me,” she murmured against his lips.

That was it. Her praise shattered him. He arched, a raw cry ripped from his throat as he fell apart beneath her. She held him through it, until he was boneless, panting.

Gently, she untied the blindfold. He blinked up, dazed, his eyes full of a love so profound it hurt.

Elara wasn’t finished. Her need was a live wire. She guided his limp hand between her legs.

“Now,” she breathed, her voice cracking. “Watch me.”

His hazy eyes locked on hers as she used his hand, her own climax fast and sharp, a cry echoing in the quiet room.

After, they lay tangled, slick and spent. The only sound was their breathing and the candle’s soft spit.

Silas turned, nuzzling her neck, his kiss a soft, grateful press. “Thank you,” he whispered, the words holding everything.

She held him close. The power dissolved, leaving only the quiet truth they’d built in the dark. It was never about domination and submission, not really. It was a language only they spoke, where letting go was the strongest thing you could do, and power was just another word for love.