Chapter Eight
Draco
"You ever wonder what it feels like to breathe for yourself?"
The question slips out before I can stop it.
Charity's still sitting on the sofa, one hand absently scratching Lucky's ear, the other gripping her knee like she's holding herself together. She looks like she’s been holding her breath for years—eyes red, shoulders locked tight, trying to look calm and not quite pulling it off.
She'd told me everything. About Grace. About being born as a replacement, living in a house that worships a ghost. She hadn't even cried, not really. Just unraveled, word by word, until the truth lay there between us like broken glass.
And now silence stretches, heavy and suffocating.
Her gaze flicks to me like she's not sure she's allowed to answer.
"Breathe for myself?" Her voice sounds scraped raw as she truly ponders my question. "No. I don't think I ever have."
Something tightens in my chest. Different worlds, different centuries, but pain? That I know.
"I didn’t get freedom," I say quietly, "I got… survival. No one cared enough to control me, that’s all. When no one’s watching, you can go where you want, but you can also disappear and nobody notices.”
"You were free because no one cared."
"Yeah." I meet her eyes. "You're trapped because they care too much."
She doesn't argue. Doesn't deny it. Just folds in on herself, hands pressing into her lap like she wants to disappear. Lucky lifts his head, licking her wrist like he's trying to glue her back together.
Something inside me cracks. She's not built for cages, not really. That restless energy she hides behind her perfect posture? It's the same twitch in a stray dog's shoulders before it bolts.
"You want out?" My voice drops, low and rough. "Just for one night. You want to see the world without anyone telling you who to be?"
Her head jerks up. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," I say, standing, "want to see the real world? My world? Not the estate. Not the safe little box they built for you. The city. For one night."
Her lips part, then close again. For a second she looks like she might faint—or say yes too fast.
"That's insane," she whispers, blue eyes so wide they're almost wild.
"Probably."
"What if—"
"Charity." I stride over and crouch in front of her, close enough that Lucky opens a sleepy eye. "The cage will still be here tomorrow. But tonight?" My smile feels sharp. "Tonight you could breathe."
Her pulse flutters in her throat. Fingers twitch against Lucky's fur. She's terrified and hungry all at once.
"Where would we even go?"
"Brooklyn Bridge," I say without hesitation. "Best view in the city at night. Wind in your hair, the whole skyline laid out like it belongs to you."
"You've done this before."
"Every time I needed to remember I was still alive."
The silence after that is filled with the sound of Lucky's tail patting the sofa like he approves. Charity's staring at me like she's trying to memorize every detail—like I'm dangling keys in front of her prison door.
Finally, she whispers, "Show me."
We don't leave right away. She's buzzing, too nervous to sit still, and I can tell she needs a softer landing before I drag her into the chaos outside her gates. So I pull a deck of cards from my bag and flick them between my fingers, the familiar snap and rustle grounding me.
Her eyes widen. "You carry cards around?"
"Always. Can do a hundred tricks with these."
"Show me."
I shuffle, palms a blur, then flick the deck into a perfect bridge that snaps back into my hands. She claps like a kid at her first circus.
"That wasn't even the trick," I say, grinning despite myself.
Her laughter spills out, unguarded and bright. She leans forward, elbows on her knees, eyes shining like she forgot to be sad. "Do another."
So I do. A card vanishes and reappears under Lucky's front paw. Cards slide from one hand to the other like liquid.
None of it's complicated—sleight of hand I picked up centuries ago to distract angry drunks long enough to slip their coins. But here, with her? It feels different. Like I'm not hustling. Like I'm performing for the first real audience I've ever had.
"You're incredible," she breathes.
"Practice." I shrug, but heat crawls up my neck.
Her gaze doesn't waver. "No. It's more than practice. You… you make it feel like magic is real."
The words gut me. Nobody's ever said that before. Not without suspicion, not without wanting something. Just wonder.
Lucky shifts to the floor, thumping his tail doing a little drumroll, as if agreeing.
"Want to learn one?" I ask, flipping the coin across my knuckles before vanishing it into my palm.
Her eyes go wide. "Could I?"
I settle near her on the sofa, and she scoots closer, tucking one leg under her. Lucky shifts at her feet but doesn't budge otherwise.
I hold the coin flat in my palm. "It's not about speed," I tell her. "It's about making someone look where you want instead of where the coin actually goes."
She nods solemnly, as if I'm teaching her state secrets.
"Here's the move." I slide the coin into my other hand, close my fist, then open it empty. Her gasp is instant. The coin reappears between my fingers.
"Wait—how—"
"Relax," I chuckle. "You're looking at the wrong hand. That's the trick. Misdirection."
I place the coin in her palm and fold her fingers over it, my hand covering hers a beat longer than necessary. Heat jumps between us, sharp and impossible to ignore.
"Now," I say, softer, "pretend you're putting it in your other hand. Keep your eyes steady—don't look down. Make me believe."
She mimics the motion, transferring the coin. But she glances at her fist at the last second, and we both laugh when I catch her.
"See? You told me where to look." I touch under her chin, guiding her gaze back to mine. "Look at me, not the coin. Make me believe the lie."
Her throat works as she swallows. "Okay. Again."
This time, she keeps her gaze locked on me. Our faces are close—too close—and for a second, the coin trick is secondary to the feel of her breath brushing my cheek.
When she opens her fist to reveal emptiness, her startled delight bursts out of her like champagne bubbles. "I did it!"
I grin. "There she is." The real Charity, not the perfect daughter they tried to create.
Her laugh softens, the coin forgotten on her palm. Her gaze catches mine, unguarded and curious, and it lights a slow fire under my skin, daring me to move.
"Want to see the world for one night?" The question leaves before I second-guess it. "Not the museum version. Mine. Noise, lights, people who don't care about your last name."
Her throat works. "I shouldn't."
"You should." A half-smile. "First rule of misdirection? Stop asking permission."
Her smile tips, reckless for once. "Okay. Show me."
"Tomorrow night," I say. "Midnight. Side gate by the roses. Gives you all day to prepare, to think of an excuse for your parents. Wear something you can walk in."
She exhales as if she's been holding her breath for years. "Okay."
Silence settles—not empty, charged. The cottage window throws moonlight across the floorboards, turning dust motes into slow fireworks. She turns the coin in her fingers, then holds it out to me.
"One more trick?"
"Careful." I ease a little closer, closing my hand over hers. "Last one's dangerous."
No flourish. No patter. I take the coin, slide it along the back of her knuckles, then let it disappear—simple, clean. She lets out a tiny breath, still watching my hands.
When she looks up to ask where it went, I’m already closer than before—a breath or two—close enough that her lashes flicker in surprise. I lean in.
The kiss starts as a brush—testing, not taking.
Heat hits anyway, sudden and bright, like a spark finding dry tinder.
Her breath hitches; her fingers catch at my shirt, then fist the fabric.
I keep it gentle because she's never done this before—never been kissed by someone she chose, never tasted freedom on someone else's mouth. Everything in me wants to go slow.
Still, the taste of her—spicy tea and sweet honey—wrecks my caution. My thumb finds the hinge of her jaw; she follows the touch, leaning in instead of away. The world narrows to the soft give of her mouth and the tiny sound she makes when my lower lip skims hers again.
"Draco," she whispers against my mouth, not a plea so much as a discovery.
I answer with a second kiss—deeper, still careful—letting her set the pace.
Her hands slide up my chest, hesitant then bolder, and when her fingers curl into my hair, I nearly lose the thread of control I'm clinging to.
I deepen the kiss, just slightly, and she makes that sound again—half gasp, half surrender—that threatens to undo a lifetime of discipline.
My other hand finds her waist, steadying her, or maybe steadying myself. She's soft and warm and trembling, and every instinct screams to pull her closer, to take more, to forget every reason this is dangerous.
But I don't. Because this first time needs to be about her choice, her pace, her freedom.
When I finally pull back—before I can't—her eyes are dazed, her lips swollen, and I've never seen anything more beautiful.
Our foreheads touch. Both of us breathing too hard for something that tame.
"That was…" Her voice fails her, eyes bright and a little stunned.
"Yeah." My thumb drifts once more along her cheekbone before I drop my hand. "Dangerous."
Her smile is shaky, proud. "Then let it be dangerous. Danger means I picked it."
A warning flickers through me—old, sharp, familiar.
This is how it started with my domina… wanting, hoping, trusting too much.
And look how that ended.
"Midnight," I say again, because if I don't anchor this, I'll kiss her until the sun comes up. "Side gate."
She nods as she rises, then backs toward the door as though she's afraid any sudden move will break the spell.
"I should go," she whispers. "Dinner. My parents." She touches her lips briefly, still stunned. "Tomorrow night. I'll be there."
At the threshold, she glances down—my coin sits in her palm. I must have slipped it back to her when I pulled away, without even thinking. She closes her fingers around it like a secret.
When the door clicks shut, the room feels bigger and smaller at once. The rules that kept me alive for years in Rome—don't care, don't stay, don't need—lie quiet as dust.
Tomorrow night, I'll show her my city. Tonight, I’ll try not to count the minutes.