I step out of the bathroom and he's still there. Leaning against the wall like he has all the time in the world, arms crossed, grey eyes tracking me from the moment I emerge. The towel is still in my hands. I realize I'm gripping it like a lifeline.
"Ready?" he asks.
No. I'm not ready. I'm ready to lock this door and drag him back to the bed and let him finish what he started. I'm ready to climb inside his skin and stay there until I forget my own name. I'm not ready to sit at a breakfast table with his family and pretend my thighs aren't still aching, empty, waiting.
"Ready," I say.
His mouth quirks. He knows. Of course he knows. He can probably smell it on me—the want, the need, the desperate heat I can't cool no matter how much cold water I splash on my face.
He leads the way downstairs. I follow because that's what I do now. I follow him. And he knows that too.
The smell of eggs hits me first. Then the sound of Liv's laughter, bright and piercing, and Elara's low answering murmur. I hear Soren's deep voice, the clink of silverware against plates, the comfortable rhythm of a family that's done this a thousand times before.
I'm the outsider. The wife who doesn't belong at this table, the woman who's been fucked on a desk and left aching, the one who said I'm yours and meant it with every cell in her body.
Kaelen's hand finds the small of my back as we round the corner into the dining room. A brief pressure. A claim. Then it drops.
The table is set for a crowd. Soren sits at one end, his wife Lena beside him, both of them mid-conversation. Elara is helping Liv into a chair, her movements patient and practiced. Amanda is here too—of course she is—sitting at the far end with a cup of coffee, her dark eyes finding me the second I enter.
And Margit. At the head of the table, regal in her wheelchair, her grey eyes sharp and knowing. She's positioned so she can see everyone. Command the room without moving. She's been doing it her whole life.
There's an empty chair between Liv and Elara.
There's an empty chair across from Kaelen.
I take the one between Liv and Elara. My hands are shaking as I reach for the coffee. The mug is warm, solid, real. I wrap both palms around it and let the heat ground me.
"Good morning, Dagmar," Margit says. Her voice is smooth, pleasant, a little too knowing. "You look flushed. Did you sleep well?"
Kaelen sits across from me. His grey eyes fix on my face, and I feel the heat of his promise like a brand on my skin. He hasn't touched his coffee. He hasn't looked at anyone else.
"Fine," I manage. "I slept fine."
It's a lie and we all know it. I slept in the guest room alone, his seed cooling on my skin, my hand pressed to my belly, trying to remember how to breathe. I didn't sleep at all.
"Eggs?" Elara offers me the platter. Her smile is warm, genuine, nothing like her brother's sharp-edged attention. "Grandma makes the best scrambled eggs in the county."
I take the platter. Scoop eggs onto my plate. The motion is automatic, my body moving while my mind is still caught in the upstairs bedroom, pinned against the door, his mouth on mine.
Under the table, my thighs press together. Still aching. Still empty.
I feel it like a physical wound—the need, the hollow space where he should be. I'm wet. I've been wet since he pulled me into that bedroom, and the cold water didn't fix it, and the walk down the stairs didn't fix it, and sitting here with his family doesn't fix it.
I take a sip of coffee. It burns my tongue. Good. Something I can feel that isn't him.
"Dagmar works with DNA," Liv announces to the table, apropos of nothing. She's looking at me with wide, curious eyes. "She finds bad guys with science."
Elara laughs softly. "That's right, sweetheart. Dagmar is a forensic analyst."
"Like on TV?" Liv asks me.
"Sort of," I say. My voice sounds thin, distant. "Less car chases. More waiting for machines to finish."
"That sounds boring," Liv decides.
"It is," I agree, and she giggles.
Kaelen is still watching me. He hasn't spoken. Hasn't touched his food. His grey eyes are fixed on my face like he's memorizing it, like he's cataloging every micro-expression, every flicker of want I can't quite hide.
I meet his gaze. Hold it. Something passes between us—a current, a wire, a promise that hasn't been fulfilled yet.
Tonight, he said. When the children are asleep. I'll lock the door, and I won't stop until you forget your own name.
The coffee cup trembles in my hands. I set it down before I drop it.
"Dagmar," Margit says, and I turn to her. Her grey eyes—the same shade as Kaelen's, but softer, warmer, more knowing—meet mine. "You look peaky, dear. Are you feeling unwell?"
"I'm fine," I say. The lie is getting easier. "Just tired."
"Long night?" Amanda asks from the far end of the table. Her voice is silky, deliberate, cutting through the breakfast chatter like a blade. Her dark eyes are on me, and there's something in them—jealousy, curiosity, hunger. She knows. She doesn't know the details, but she knows something shifted, something happened, something she was excluded from.
"Something like that," I say.
Kaelen's jaw tightens. Just a fraction. I notice because I've spent eleven years learning the language of his face, cataloging every micro-expression, every flex of muscle. He doesn't like Amanda's attention on me. He doesn't like the implication.
Good.
"Dagmar's been helping with the logistics for the next shoot," Kaelen says, his voice flat, dismissive. "It's been demanding."
It's a lie. It's a cover. And everyone at this table knows it.
Margit's smile deepens. She takes a sip of her tea, her grey eyes never leaving my face. She knows. She's always known. She gave me her approval in that hallway, told me she saw the hunger in her son's eyes, told me I was exactly what he needed.
The heat rises under my skin. My cheeks burn. I can feel the flush spreading from my chest to my neck to my face, a telltale rose that betrays me every single time.
"It's warm in here," I murmur, and reach for my coffee again.
"Is it?" Elara says, frowning. "I thought it was a bit chilly."
It's not warm. It's me. I'm on fire, and everyone can see it.
Liv is telling a story about something that happened at school—a frog in a backpack, a teacher who screamed, the principal's office. Her voice is a bright, cheerful stream of consciousness that fills the gaps in the conversation, and I cling to it like a lifeline. Focus on the frog. Focus on the teacher. Focus on anything except the weight of Kaelen's gaze and the slick heat between my thighs and the knowledge that he promised me tonight and tonight is still hours away.
I take another sip of coffee. My hand is shaking. The mug rattles against the saucer.
"Dagmar?" Liv's voice cuts through the haze. "Are you okay? You look really red."
"I'm fine, sweetheart," I say, but my voice sounds strange. Distant. Like it's coming from somewhere else. "Just a little—"
The room tilts.
I blink. The table feels farther away than it should. The edges of my vision are going grey, closing in like a camera aperture, and I can hear my own heartbeat—loud, slow, wrong.
"Dagmar."
The voice is sharp. Familiar. Kaelen. He's saying my name, and it sounds like a command, like a demand, like he's trying to pull me back from wherever I'm going.
I open my mouth to say I'm fine. I'm always fine. I'm the invisible one, the quiet one, the one who holds things together while everyone else falls apart.
But the words don't come.
The ceiling spins. The chandelier blurs into a smear of light. I hear Liv's voice—high, worried—and Elara saying something, and then there's a crash, and I realize distantly that it's my coffee cup hitting the floor, shattering, sending brown liquid across the hardwood.
And then there's nothing.
I wake up to a hand on my face. Warm. Broad. Familiar.
"—mar. Dagmar. Open your eyes."
I open my eyes. Kaelen's face is inches from mine. His grey eyes are sharp, focused, cutting through the haze of unconsciousness like a blade. His jaw is tight. His hand is cradling my cheek, his thumb brushing the hollow beneath my eye.
"There you are," he says. His voice is quiet, controlled, but I can hear the edge underneath. The fear he's trying to hide. "Don't do that again."
I'm on the floor. The hardwood is cold against my back. Someone has shoved a throw pillow under my head, and there's a blanket—someone's cardigan, maybe?—draped over my chest. The ceiling is still the ceiling. The chandelier is still blurry. But the grey edges are gone, and I can breathe again.
"I fainted," I say. My voice is hoarse, thin, barely a whisper.
"You fainted," he confirms.
"Shit."
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. Almost. "Yeah."
Elara's face appears above me. Then Liv's, her eyes wide. Then Margit, wheeled close by Soren, her grey eyes sharp and assessing.
"Give her space," Kaelen says, and his voice is different now—colder, commanding, the Animal in control. "She needs air."
The faces retreat. Liv is crying—small, quiet sobs—and Elara is pulling her back, murmuring reassurances. Grandma appears with a glass of water, her lined face creased with worry.
"Can you sit up?" Kaelen asks me.
I try. The room spins. I grab his arm and hold on.
"Slowly," he says, and his hand moves to my back, supporting me, helping me rise. "Breathe. Take your time."
I breathe. The room stabilizes. The edges stop spinning.
I'm sitting on the floor of the dining room, surrounded by Kaelen's family, and I've just fainted from sheer sexual tension.
The humiliation is a physical weight. It presses down on my chest, makes it hard to breathe all over again. I can feel their eyes on me—Elara's concern, Liv's fear, Soren's quiet watchfulness, Amanda's knowing smirk, Grandma's maternal worry.
And Margit. Margit's grey eyes are fixed on me, and she's smiling. Not a cruel smile. A knowing one. Like she sees exactly what caused this and approves.
"I'm fine," I say. The words are automatic, hollow. "I'm sorry. I don't know what—"
"You're dehydrated," Kaelen says. His voice is flat, definitive. "You didn't eat enough yesterday. You need water and rest."
It's a lie. We both know it. I'm not dehydrated. I'm flushed and lightheaded and my heart is racing because he promised me tonight and I want it so badly my body can't hold the wanting anymore.
But I don't correct him.
"I'll take her upstairs," he says, and his hand is under my elbow, helping me stand. My legs are shaky, unreliable. I lean into him because I don't have a choice, because my body knows where it wants to be.
"Should we call a doctor?" Elara asks.
"No," Kaelen says. "She just needs rest."
He's already guiding me toward the stairs. His hand is on my back, steady, warm, possessive. I can feel the eyes of his family on us, watching, cataloging, drawing conclusions.
Let them.
We reach the staircase. He doesn't slow down. His arm slides around my waist, half-carrying me up the steps, and I let him because I don't have the strength to pretend I don't need him.
"Your family," I manage, as we reach the landing. "They're going to—"
"Let them talk," he says. His voice is low, rough, different from the controlled tone he used downstairs. "I don't give a fuck what they think."
He guides me down the hallway. Past the guest room. Past the library. To the master bedroom door.
He opens it. Pulls me inside. Closes it behind us.
The lock clicks.
"It's not tonight," he says, his hands on my shoulders, steadying me. "But you need to lie down. You need to—"
I kiss him.
I don't mean to. I mean to be sensible, to drink water, to rest, to wait for tonight like he promised. But his mouth is right there, and he's looking at me like I'm the only thing in the world, and I can still feel the floor spinning under me, and I need something solid to hold onto.
He's solid.
He kisses me back. His hands find my waist, pull me close. His tongue slides against mine, and the taste of him—coffee, something darker—floods my senses.
Then he breaks the kiss. His forehead presses against mine. His breath is ragged.
"Not like this," he says. "Not when you can barely stand."
"I can stand," I say.
"You fainted."
"Because I want you too much." The words spill out before I can catch them. "Because you promised me tonight and I've been sitting at that table for an hour thinking about your hands on me, your mouth on me, the way you—"
He kisses me again. Harder. Deeper. His hand fists in my hair, tilting my head back, and I make a sound—a whimper, a moan, I don't know—that vibrates against his lips.
Then he pulls back. His chest is heaving. His eyes are dark, hungry, barely controlled.
"Rest," he says. His voice is a command. "Drink water. Eat something. I'll be back in a few hours, and then—"
He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't need to.
He guides me to the bed. The same bed where he pinned me against the door, where he promised me tonight, where his niece knocked and broke the spell. The sheets are rumpled, still carrying the ghost of our bodies.
I sit on the edge. He kneels in front of me, takes my shoes off, sets them aside. His hands are careful, gentle, nothing like the Animal I've seen on screen.
"Water," he says, and points to the nightstand where a glass is waiting. "Drink it all."
"Yes, sir," I say. It's meant to be a joke, but it comes out honest.
His eyes darken. He looks at me for a long moment, and I see the hunger there, barely leashed.
"Good girl," he says, and my breath catches.
Then he stands. He walks to the door. He pauses with his hand on the handle.
"Rest," he says again. "I'll be back."
The door closes behind him. The lock doesn't click—he didn't lock it from the outside, leaving me free to leave if I want.
I don't want.
I lie back on the bed. The sheets smell like him. I pull them up to my chin, wrap myself in his scent, and wait.
Tonight can't come fast enough.
My hand moves before I tell it to, sliding under the waistband of the sleep shorts he found for me before he left—soft cotton, grey, smelling faintly of his laundry detergent. The fabric is loose, easy. My fingers find the slick heat waiting there, and I gasp.
I'm still wet from earlier. From the door. From his mouth, his hands, his voice. The arousal hasn't cooled—it's been simmering under the surface all through breakfast, through the fainting, through the walk upstairs. It's pooled between my thighs like an open wound, and my fingers slide into it like a confession.
The touch is electric. My hips buck, just slightly, and I bite my lip to keep quiet. The house is full of people. Liv's voice drifts up from downstairs, bright and chattering. Silverware clinks. Someone laughs—Elara, probably. They're all down there, having breakfast, and I'm up here with my hand in my shorts, trembling.
I circle my clit slowly, teasing myself, feeling the slickness spread. It's not the same as his fingers. Not the same as his voice in my ear, his weight pinning me. But it's something. It's the closest I can get to him right now.
I close my eyes and imagine it's his hand. His thumb, rough and certain, pressing exactly where I need it. His mouth on my neck, teeth grazing, breath hot. His voice—good girl—still echoing in my skull.
My breathing quickens. I push my shorts down just enough to give myself room, my fingers working faster, slicker. The heat builds low in my belly, coiling tight, and I let myself chase it because I need something—I need release, I need him, I need to feel anything besides this hollow ache.
"Kaelen," I whisper. His name on my lips like a prayer.
I'm close. I can feel the edge approaching, the tension gathering in my thighs, my stomach, my chest. My back arches off the bed. My fingers press harder, faster, desperate—
The door opens.
I freeze. My hand stops. My eyes snap open.
Kaelen stands in the doorway, one hand on the frame, the other holding a glass of water. His grey eyes find mine, then drop to my hand—still caught in my shorts, still wet, still unmistakably there.
The glass of water goes onto the nightstand. He closes the door behind him. The lock clicks.
"Don't stop," he says. His voice is low, rough, stripped of the controlled tone he used downstairs. His eyes are dark. Hungry. "On my account."
I don't move. My heart is hammering so hard I can hear it in my ears. My hand is still pressed against myself, caught between shame and desire, frozen in the act.
"I—" My voice cracks. I swallow. "You said you'd be back in a few hours."
"Changed my mind." He steps closer. Each step is deliberate, predatory. He stops at the foot of the bed, looking down at me—sprawled on his sheets, hand in my shorts, flushed and trembling. "I wanted to check on you."
"You checked," I manage. "I'm fine."
His mouth curves. Not quite a smile. Something darker. "You were touching yourself."
The flush that spreads across my chest is so hot it burns. "I was—"
"Don't lie to me." His voice is soft, but it cuts. "I saw you. I saw your hand move. I saw your hips buck." He takes another step, rounding the bed. "I heard you say my name."
I can't breathe. He's next to the bed now, looking down at me, and I feel like prey—caught, exposed, utterly at his mercy.
"Do you want to finish?" he asks.
The question hangs in the air between us. My hand is still there, still pressed against my slick heat, still waiting.
"Yes," I whisper.
"Then don't stop." His voice is a command. "I want to watch."
My hand moves before I can think about it. My fingers find my clit again, circling, pressing, and my eyes stay locked on his. He watches me without moving, his gaze burning into mine, and the intensity of it pushes me toward the edge faster than my hand ever could.
"That's it," he says. "Let me see you."
I'm close again. The coil is tightening, the pressure building, and I can feel the orgasm gathering in my thighs, my stomach, the base of my spine.
"Kaelen—" His name breaks from my lips, desperate, aching.
"Come for me," he says.
And I do.
The orgasm crashes through me, hot and sharp, and I cry out—a sound I can't control, can't contain. My hips buck against my hand, my back arches off the bed, and through the haze I see him watching, his grey eyes fixed on my face, cataloging every twitch, every gasp, every surrender.
I come down slowly, breathing hard, my hand still pressed against myself. The room swims back into focus. The ceiling. The chandelier. His face, inches from mine now—when did he move that close?
"Good girl," he says, and the words send a fresh shiver through me.
He's kneeling beside the bed. His hand reaches out, finds my wrist, and pulls my hand away from my shorts. My fingers are slick, shining in the dim light. He brings my hand to his mouth, and I watch, transfixed, as he licks my fingers clean—slow, deliberate, tasting me.
"Mine," he says. And it's not a question.
I can't speak. I nod.
He releases my wrist, then stands. He takes off his shirt in one motion, then his jeans, his boxers—undressing methodically, without hurry, his eyes never leaving my face. His body is exactly what I remember from the screens: broad shoulders, defined chest, the lean muscle of someone who uses his body for a living. He's hard—I can see the evidence, thick and aching, and the sight of it makes my mouth go dry.
He climbs onto the bed, over me, his body blocking out the chandelier's light. He settles between my thighs, and I can feel the heat of him, the weight of him, the promise of what's coming.
"I was going to wait," he says, his voice low, rough, his lips brushing my ear. "I was going to let you rest, let you recover. I was going to be patient." His teeth graze my earlobe. "But I heard you say my name through the door, and I couldn't wait anymore."
His hand slides down my body, over my stomach, into my shorts. His fingers find me, still slick, still sensitive, and I gasp as he presses inside—two fingers, deep, curling.
"You were right there," he says, his mouth against my throat. "Right on the edge. I heard it in your voice." He pumps his fingers slowly, deliberately, watching my face. "Did you finish?"
"Yes," I breathe.
"Good." His thumb circles my clit, and I moan. "Now I'm going to make you come again. And again. And again. Until you can't remember your own name."
His mouth claims mine, and I melt into him, my hands finding his shoulders, his neck, his hair. His fingers work me steadily, building the pressure again, and I give myself to it—to him—because that's what I am now.
His. Mine. Ours.
The world narrows to his touch, his voice, his breath against my skin. The family downstairs, the breakfast table, the fainting spell—all of it fades into static. There's only this. Only him. Only the promise he made and the way he's keeping it, inch by inch, touch by touch, until I forget everything except the way he says my name.