31. Elena
Elena
I wake to the soft pulse of the apartment, the quiet hum of machines somewhere in the background, the rain tapping against the window in a gentle, insistent rhythm.
Dublin is gray and damp outside, but inside, the air carries warmth and weight.
The kind that presses around you just enough to feel contained, accounted for.
The bedroom smells faintly of coffee and leather, a hint of Cormac’s cologne lingering somewhere near the doorway.
It feels familiar now. My bedroom now, though I know it’s his space as much as mine, though technically everything here belongs to him.
Still, it carries traces of me: the rising curve of the duvet from my stomach, my folded laundry at the foot of the bed, the book left open on the nightstand.
I stay in bed a moment longer than I probably should.
My body is third-trimester heavy, every movement deliberate.
I feel the baby shift inside me, the small, comforting flutter of life that’s become as much a part of me as Cormac has.
It’s strange, this feeling of being both so full and so open at the same time.
My hand drifts instinctively to my belly, and the baby stirs again, small and insistent, pressing softly against me.
I press back gently, a connection I don’t need to explain.
It’s ours. It’s always been ours, in a way that feels larger than contracts, larger than the program, larger than my choices or lack thereof.
I don’t always know how to carry this weight, how to prepare for what’s coming. But with Cormac, I don’t have to feel like I’m alone in it.
“You’re awake.”
His voice comes from the doorway, low and calm, carrying the authority he never has to insist upon. I feel him before I see him, his sheer physicality moving toward me.
“Yes.” My voice is rough with sleep but steady.
He comes closer, sliding the duvet across my shoulders with careful, precise movements.
I lift my arms without thought, letting him settle it around me, letting him mark the space as his.
The gesture is subtle, almost invisible, but I feel the reassuring press of certainty against me, and my chest tightens in acknowledgment.
He’s been cooking for me, reading to me at night, making me feel like his at any given opportunity. I have never had that before.
His hand rests gently on my shoulder as he kisses me again, deeper this time.
My pulse hammers so hard, I swear he can feel it.
His fingers trace a line down my back. The world around us hums with quiet, charged energy, that edge between control and giving in completely. I can’t think. I can barely sit still.
The next thing I know, he’s whispering against my ear, low enough to make me shiver. “Come with me.”
It’s not a command. It’s an invitation. A promise.
And when his hand finds mine, I don’t even hesitate. He leads me down the hallway, the city’s light spilling in from the glass walls, painting us both in gold. Every step feels slower than the last, heavier somehow. We’re walking toward something we can’t undo.
When he turns to look at me, there’s more than desire in his eyes. Want, yes, but more than that. It makes my breath catch.
I know this is still insane. I know this is dangerous.
But as his thumb brushes the inside of my wrist, all I can think is: I want him, anyway.
Once we’re there, he wraps his arms around me and lifts me like it’s nothing. I gasp in surprise, half laughing, half breathless, as he sets me down on the edge of the dresser. The cool glass of the mirror hits my back, and I can’t hold in the sharp sound that escapes me.
“Cormac,” I whisper, but it’s not really a word. It’s a plea.
He tilts my chin up, and then his mouth is on mine again, harder this time, hungrier.
There’s nothing polite about it. It’s all heat and pulse and want, and I’m drowning in it.
My fingers curl against his shoulders, clutching at him like he’s the only thing keeping me upright.
My body arches into his, desperate for more, but he keeps me right there, suspended between restraint and release.
I can feel my pulse in every inch of my skin.
I tilt my head, trying to catch my breath, but his mouth finds the curve of my neck, tracing a line that makes me shiver. His voice is a low growl against my skin. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
“Oh, Cormac…”
The mention of his name is enough to have him sliding my panties to one side and slipping a finger inside me, much to my relief.
Every time his hands move, my thoughts scatter.
He touches me like he’s learning a language he already half knows, patient but certain, coaxing reactions I can’t hide even if I wanted to.
I stop trying to think, to control any of it. I just let myself feel.
The room narrows to the sound of our breathing, the rhythm of his touch, the way my pulse stutters every time he exhales against my skin.
“Oh my goodness,” I pant, allowing myself to simply become consumed by him.
He slips in another finger, and another, until I feel completely powerless to him. Then, just as I start to fall into the pleasure, he pulls back. The absence of him is almost painful. The air between us feels too cool, too open, and I can feel my body trembling with the loss.
He watches me, his eyes dark, and I think he’s going to reach for me again. Instead, he stays perfectly still, waiting. Testing.
It makes my reckless side flare up.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I move, pushing him gently backward until he hits the edge of the bed, surprise flashing across his face before it melts into a grin. I can feel the shift in power between us—delicate, electric—and we both seem to like it that way.
He leans back, eyes locked on mine, the smile on his lips low and dangerous. “What are you doing?”
I just shake my head, a small, breathless laugh escaping me. “Returning the favor.”
He chuckles, but it fades almost instantly, replaced by that quiet intensity that always makes my heart stumble. For once, he doesn’t try to take control back. He lets me set the pace.
The space between us hums, thick with want and intense need.
He leans back on the bed, and for once, Cormac looks completely undone.
His fingers curl tight in the sheets, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths, and the sight of him like that sends a rush through me so strong, I can barely breathe.
It’s strange, seeing him surrender, even just a little. The man who commands rooms without trying, who walks through the world with an unshakable kind of power, now sitting here, eyes half closed, hands trembling, waiting for me.
And I love it.
I move closer, tracing my fingers along the sharp lines of his hips, feeling the tension coil beneath my touch.
He shivers, just barely, but enough to make my pulse quicken.
Then, to let him really see where I’m going with this, I run light kisses all over his erection.
The mere feeling of my breath and my lips upon him seems to drive him wild, so by the time I wrap my lips around him and take him back in my throat, flicking my tongue all over him, I can sense that he’s about to lose control.
“Oh, fuck… oh, shit,” he cries out, really starting to lose it. “Oh, fucking hell.”
He begins tugging on my arms, so I allow him to simply grab me and pull me onto his lap, where we can start kissing once more.
His mouth is all over mine, and his cock is teasing my entrance, making me grow hotter by the second.
I need him—I need him right now—and the guttural groan that bursts from my chest seems to tell him that.
Finally, after what feels like forever, Cormac makes his move and thrusts hard inside me. I wrap my arms even tighter around his neck, clinging on for dear life. He feels incredible, and the pressure is already starting to build in my stomach.
As Cormac grinds inside me, hitting all of the right spots, I feel like I’m floating to cloud nine. My body is trembling, flooding with desire, and I can already feel those intense waves starting to crash over me, sending me straight into the abyss of sheer joy.
“Oh, fuck!” I cry out, showing Cormac what he’s doing to me. “Oh, shit!”
With that, Cormac picks me up and throws me back on the bed, where he can thrust more powerfully within me. I grab onto him, his hands running everywhere all over me, and it isn’t long until I’m fully shuddering, buckling, screaming out as I feel my release.
If this is a mistake, then I really don’t know how we’re going to stop making it.
Afterward, he no longer avoids. He stays. Holds me carefully. Not tender, exactly. Possessive. Satisfied. Domestic in ways that should not feel comfortable but do. His body, a warm weight against mine, anchors me here, like he needs to feel me breathe. Needs to feel the baby move beneath my skin.
His arms are around me, but it’s not out of softness.
It’s a grip that’s secure, like he’s claiming the space between us, making it his own.
I don’t mind. Not anymore. I’ve stopped fighting against his undeniable presence, the constant pull of his control.
I’m not sure when it happened, but at some point, I realized that the things I fought hardest for—my independence, my choices—were the very things he’s made me feel safer without.
The silence in the room wraps around us, thick and quiet, with only the sound of our breathing filling the space.
His hand rests on my belly, his palm flat and warm against my skin.
He’s feeling the baby move again, his fingers gently tracing the small, insistent kicks that have become so familiar to me.
His touch is steady, unwavering. It feels possessive, almost like a promise.
I close my eyes, my hand resting over his, feeling the gentle pulse of life beneath my skin. The baby shifts again, and for a moment, everything else fades. The apartment, the rain outside, the looming questions about the future. It’s just us. Just this moment.
His voice breaks the silence, low and smooth. “I’ll take care of you. Of both of you.”
I just nod into the pillow, letting my body relax in his arms. The soft thrum of his heartbeat, the warmth of his body next to mine, anchors me.
In this strange, dangerous space between us, I’m not alone.
He’s here, and somehow that has come to mean something more than just his presence. It’s a promise.
I’m not sure when it happened, but I’ve stopped questioning the cage.
It still exists. It still surrounds me, but I’ve learned to accept it.
There’s comfort in the routine, in the precision with which he controls everything.
The schedule he sets, the activities he approves, the diet he dictates—all of it is a kind of protection.
I’ve stopped fighting it. In fact, I crave it now.
The steady rhythm of it, the certainty of knowing what’s expected, what’s allowed.
I know the cage is still a cage. I feel it around me every day. But now, I choose it. Every single day.
* * *
When the insomnia hits, as it often does now with the pregnancy settling deeper into my bones, he’s there.
He reads to me in the quiet darkness of the room, his voice a low, steady comfort.
Sometimes it’s a book, sometimes it’s just his voice filling the air, speaking the things I need to hear.
Offering distractions from the restlessness that fills the spaces between my thoughts.
I listen, letting the sound of his voice soothe me as the night stretches on. His hand never leaves my belly, never stops feeling the baby’s subtle movements. We both know the life growing inside me is the most real thing between us now. The baby. Our baby. There’s no denying it.
His control is still there, still constant in the way he watches over me.
He never wavers in his decisions, in his need to ensure everything is just as it should be.
But it no longer feels like a battle. I no longer question him in the same way.
My body has learned the comfort of his power, the cadence of his care, and now it feels like a strange partnership between us.
When he decides what I eat, where I go, what time I sleep, I accept it without argument. I still question it in my mind, still feel the brief flare of rebellion, but the fire is gone. The desire to defy him has been replaced by something quieter, more resigned.
I want this. I want him. The cage is still there, but in his arms, it doesn’t feel like one anymore. It feels like a place I’ve made my own. A place I’ve chosen.
And maybe I’m starting to believe that it’s enough.