The Cage: 9. The First Surrender

The silence afterward was unbearable.

Not because it was empty—but because it was full.

Full of the things he had finally admitted, full of the jagged truths that had slipped from his lips in the heat of their union. He lay beside her, one arm draped over his eyes, his chest rising and falling in heavy, uneven breaths. She studied him in the dim glow of the single overhead light, the way his skin gleamed with sweat, the way his jaw clenched as if holding back words he regretted giving her.

He was afraid. Not of her, not of punishment—but of himself.

And that knowledge filled her with a hunger fiercer than any ache between her thighs.

She shifted, the chain rattling softly as she rolled toward him. “You think telling me that will make me fear you?” she asked quietly.

His arm fell away from his face, revealing eyes so dark and fractured she almost lost her courage.

“You should fear me,” he said flatly. “Everyone else does.”

“Then why am