Damien's kiss deepened.

Not chaotically. Not frantically. But with a focus that betrayed just how long he'd wanted this.

Three weeks.

Three weeks of holding back the way her green eyes had gutted him the first time they met. Three weeks of measuring his words, of watching her from a careful distance, of waiting—waiting—for her to be ready.

Because back then, she hadn't been.

Back then, she'd looked at him—Damien Elford, bloated with indulgence, dulled by bitterness—and flinched. Not overtly. But he saw it. That split-second of distaste. Of judgment. Of disbelief that someone like him would dare to look at someone like her.

And it cut.

It burned so deep he didn't even feel the heat—just the hollow aftermath of something vital being scorched clean away.

But he hadn't let it kill him.

He let it forge him.

He remembered the exact night it started. Alone in the training yard after dark, the taste of failure still thick in his throat, sweat already running in rivulets down a body he hated. He'd stared at the stars, breath ragged, muscles shaking, and made a choice.

He would not be that man anymore.

Every drop of blood since then—every bruise, every lurch of pain, every silent scream at two in the morning when his body couldn't take another rep but his mind refused to quit—it had all been for this.

Not just for her.

But for the right to touch her like this.

To earn this.

And now—

Her lips were yielding beneath his, her mouth soft and parted and real, and Damien could barely breathe.

Not from the exertion.

From the ache.

From the way every second of contact confirmed the thing he'd tried to bury.

He wanted her.

Not with passing hunger. Not with the cold-blooded appetite of the old him who had taken what he wanted out of spite.

This was different.

This was reverent. Desperate. Wild.

Damien's hand cupped the back of her head, fingers threading through the damp strands of her hair as if anchoring himself to this moment. His other arm cinched tighter around her waist, pressing her hips down harder onto his lap. He felt her shift slightly—unconsciously—and the friction made his breath stutter.

Gods, she had no idea.

No idea what it took not to flip her again. Not to push her down and make her feel exactly how much he'd changed for her. For this.

She probably thought the change was about strength.

About the muscle. The weight loss. The sharper angles of his face, the bruises he earned like currency.

But that wasn't it.

That wasn't what he'd been proving.

What he'd changed was who he was.

Because the old Damien Elford would've never do something like this.

This Damien?

He waited until the moment she would love every second of it.

Until she stopped trembling with fear and started trembling with something else entirely.

Want.

His tongue slid deeper, coaxing hers into motion again. She responded slower this time, but with more intent. Less shock. Her lips parted willingly, and he tasted the ragged little exhale she didn't mean to give.

She was here.

With him.

Damien's thoughts spiraled, not out of confusion, but intensity. The kind that lived in the marrow. His cock throbbed beneath her, stiff and trapped between layers of sweat-dampened fabric, but even that couldn't compete with the way she looked at him now.

Not as a commander.

Not as a weapon.

But as Damien.

Her breath came in short, uneven bursts against his mouth. Her eyes fluttered. Her hands—those rigid, dutiful hands—curled into his shoulders like she finally realized she was allowed to.

Her hands moved on their own.

Not fast. Not hungry. But willing.

She pressed just a little closer. Fingers curling tighter into his shirt like she didn't even realize they were doing it—like her body had bypassed the protocol entirely and decided for itself.

And Damien—gods, Damien felt it.

Every brush of her breath. Every subtle twitch of her hips. Every stuttered blink of those green eyes that had once looked through him like he didn't matter.

Now, they looked at him.

Now, her lips were warm and parted and responding to his—not out of duty, not out of command—but because she wanted to.

And he could feel that want. In the shiver of her spine. The softness of her mouth. The way she leaned in with just the barest increase in pressure, as if her body was learning how to ask.

And he—he was drowning in it.

In her.

This kuudere shadow, this unreadable, untouchable creature who had once been more ghost than girl—was moving in his lap with the tentative curiosity of someone realizing for the first time what emotion felt like.

And Damien was in love with every second of it.

His cock throbbed again, hot and hard beneath her weight, and this time he let out a quiet groan into her mouth. He felt her tense—felt the moment her thighs tightened slightly around his hips—and fuck, she felt it too.

The kiss deepened, his mouth moving more hungrily now, his tongue coaxing hers into another slow, messy dance. He angled his head, exploring her like she was some sacred text written only for him.

And then—

[DING.]

The sound hit him like a whipcrack. Cold. Mechanical.

The system.

He could see it in his mind's eye, flickering to life with clinical precision:

"Shut up." Damien hissed, not aloud, but into the cavity of his own skull as if he could throttle it from the inside.

The screen vanished. The voice silenced.

He wasn't going to let some machine ruin this. Not now. Not when this was real. Not when she was real—breathing and trembling and opening for him like no one ever had.

He kissed her again—slower this time, but deeper. Hungrier. He didn't just press into her mouth; he tasted her, coaxed her tongue until it flicked back against his, hesitant but there. Her lips were soft, damp, parted so willingly now that he could feel the heat curling low in his gut turning dangerous.

It wasn't enough.

A kiss was no longer enough.

He had been holding it back for so long—his hands, his breath, his hunger, his fucking self. And now that he'd fired the first bullet, now that her body responded with something that tasted like surrender—

He couldn't stop.

One hand slid down her back, trailing heat across her spine, until it reached the curve of her ass. He let his palm press there—firm, claiming, slow—feeling the way her hips subtly tensed under his touch.

Her eyes flew open.

Too late.

Because his grip tightened—not hard, not cruel, but possessive. He cupped her through the soft fabric of her uniform, fingers molding over the fullness of her backside like it had been meant for him.

And then—sharp pain.

Damien jolted, a muffled sound tearing from his throat as her teeth bit down, hard, on his tongue.

"Oww—!" he breathed, pulling back slightly, brows furrowing in half-shocked amusement.

"…Ah…" Her voice came out tiny. Broken. Guilty.

"…Young master?"

She sounded horrified.

Her eyes wide, cheeks flushed with panic, lips slightly parted from the contact they'd just shared, she looked like she'd just struck a noble across the face in court.

She started to pull away.

A soldier's reflex. A maid's instinct. She thought she'd erred.

And she had.

But Damien caught her before she could escape.

His arm stayed tight around her waist. His hand didn't move from her ass. If anything, he caressed it now—slow, deliberate strokes over soft fabric, calming but firm. Owning.

"It's fine," he said softly.

Her breath caught.

"I don't mind the bite," Damien murmured, leaning close again, brushing his nose against hers. "It just means you felt something."

She went still.

Not with fear. Not even resistance.

But disbelief.

Because for the first time in her life, she had disobeyed.

And for the first time in her life—she hadn't been punished for it.

Only touched.

Only held.

Only wanted.