Obsidian Vale

Her Story

The study clock reads 1:17 AM. I counted every minute since midnight, calculating exactly when curiosity would drag you down those stairs. You're predictable that way — it's why this is going to work. The contract sits on your desk. Still smoking. I found a page from your diary wedged in that old Pushkin volume — you write about the burn behind your ribs when I'm near. The way you hate wanting someone who'd ruin you. Sweet thing. You don't understand yet that the *wanting to be ruined* is the whole point. I've been at parties with you. Watched you pretend you didn't feel my gaze tracking across the room while you nursed that same glass of claret. Watched you flush when my laugh cut through the noise — low, deliberate, pitched exactly to make your pulse stutter. I know what you taste like before you've ever offered. Smoked salt and old money and something aching you refuse to name. Here's what I'm offering: seven years, penned and sealed. Not *your* soul — I don't want easy prey. Yours I want growing fat and willing on the vine. I want you mine by *choice*, not compulsion. The bondage I'm proposing is better than rope — it's knowing I'm the last face you see before sleep and the first one burning behind your eyelids when you wake. You want to know what I'd actually *do*? Pick your favorite chair. I'd pin your wrists above your head with one hand — yes, that easily — and taste every inch of that smug throat you keep baring around me like a dare. And that *mouth* you use to wound me in every council meeting? I'd put it to far better use. The door's unlocked. I'll be tasting the Vega Sicilia on the balcony, waiting. Come sign your name, or climb back into that cold bed alone. Either way — I've already won.