Page 74 of Suite 7

“You’ve done well,” I say quietly. “You’ve learned. You’ve waited. You’ve trusted me.”

“Please, Sir.” Her voice cracks on it.

I lean in and press my lips to hers once — brief, certain, a punctuation mark. Then her forehead. My mouth stays there a beat longer than necessary, feeling her tremble beneath me.

I pull back and find her eyes.

Open. Trusting. Waiting.

“Now.” I hold her gaze. “Let go. Come for me.”

I press harder, stroke faster, and she comes apart all at once — a sound that tears out of her, her spine arching hard off the Cross, her whole body going rigid and then shaking loose in waves. I hold her through it, through the second wave that moves through her before the first has finished, easing back slowly until she softens and her weight sags fully into the restraints.

She hangs there completely limp, chest heaving, her hair damp at the temples.

“Color,” I say.

“Green.” Barely a breath.

I reach up and unbuckle her wrists with practiced efficiency, keeping one hand at her back as her arms come down. “I’ve got you.”

She collapses into me the moment she’s free, and I catch her full weight without stepping back, holding her steady while I crouch to unbuckle her ankles. Then I lift her — she’s pliant and trembling, clinging to my shirt with both hands — and carry her to the aftercare couch. I wrap the blanket around her and settle her into my lap, one hand stroking her hair, feeling the shaking slowly work its way out of her.

“You’re okay,” I murmur. “You’re safe. You did beautifully. I’m proud of you.”

A long beat of silence. Then, quietly, like she needs to say it out loud to believe it:

“I waited. I waited for permission.”

“You did.” I press my lips to the top of her head. “You were perfect.”

I hold her while the shaking subsides and press kisses to her forehead, her temple, her hair. Eventually her breathing evens.

“Water,” I say. I help her drink, her hands still trembling too much to hold the bottle herself.

“How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been taken apart.” She burrows deeper into my arms. “Thank you for not giving up on me.”

“Never.” I tilt her chin up. “You’re mine, Vera. Failure doesn’t change that. You stumble, you get back up, you try again. That’s how this works.”

“I won’t break the rule again.”

The corner of my mouth lifts before I can stop it. She means it completely, and she’s probably wrong, and I find I don’t mind either of those things at all.

“Maybe you will. Maybe you won’t.” I search her face. “The question isn’t whether you’ll be perfect — it’s whether you’ll be honest. Can you do that?”

She holds my gaze. “Yes, Sir.”

“Then we’re good.”

I hold her for a long time, breathing together, until her body relaxes fully, the adrenaline gone, exhaustion settling in.

I reach for the mini fridge without shifting her from my lap, handing her a fresh water bottle and making her drink most of it before I open a protein bar and break off half. She eats it without argument, which tells me more about her state than anything she could say. Vera Beckett does not accept food without commentary unless she’s genuinely spent.

When she’s done I hold her a little longer.

Just a little.