Then his voice drops. “And you’re mine because you choose it. Not because anyone forced it.”
I nod again.
His forehead rests against mine. “I’ve got you.”
“I know.”
“No,” he says, firmer. “Hear me. I’ve got you. You say stop, I stop. You say slow, I slow. You say nothing, I check anyway. Understood?”
My heart squeezes. “Yes.”
He kisses me then. Not hard. Not like the first time. This kiss is slow enough to hurt, careful enough to undo me in a different way. His mouth moves over mine like he’s reminding me of every place love can be gentle without being weak.
I melt into him. Not because the pain disappears. Because for the first time since they took me, something else is stronger. Him. Us. My choice. His hand slides down my back, steady and warm, and I follow the movement, letting myself feel it instead of flinch from it.
This is Cobra. Not them.
Cobra.
The man who waits. The man who asks. The man who would burn the world but holds me like I’m something sacred when it matters. He lays me back slowly, keeping his body over mine but not trapping me. His weight is there, grounding, present, exactly what I asked for, but his eyes don’t leave my face. “You’re safe,” he says.
I inhale.
His hand touches my cheek. “You’re here.”
Another breath.
His mouth brushes my temple. “You’re mine.”
My eyes close. Not from fear. From relief.
“Say it,” he murmurs.
“I’m yours.”
His breath shudders. And then he kisses me again.
The rest unfolds slowly, fiercely, painfully tender in places and intense in others, each touch replacing a memory I didn’t want with one I chose. He keeps talking to me, voice low and steady, grounding me when my breath catches, asking without making it feel like I have to perform strength.
When my hands shake, he covers them with his.
When I go still, he stops until I look at him.
When tears spill again, he kisses them from my skin like they don’t scare him.
Nothing about him is careless.
Nothing about him is taking.
Even when the heat builds, even when the need sharpens, even when the possessive edge in him rises and wraps around us both, it is anchored in devotion. In love. In the truth that he is replacing fear with himself because I asked him to. Because I trust him to.And somewhere in the middle of it, I stop feeling like my body is a place they touched.
I start feeling like my body is mine. Held by him. Chosen by me. Loved. Afterward, I’m emptied out in every possible way. My body is exhausted. My throat aches from crying. My eyes feel swollen, and my limbs are heavy in a way that has nothing to do with restraints anymore.
Cobra holds me against him, my head tucked beneath his chin, one arm around my back, the other low across my waist. His hand moves slowly against my skin, a steady stroke that keeps me anchored even now.
I don’t know how much time passes. Minutes. Hours. It doesn’t matter. The room is quiet again, but not like before. This quiet is different. Safe. Real. I listen to his heartbeat. Strong. Steady.
Mine.
