Chapter 3: The Stumble

The main hall pulsed like a forge gone wild, its arched ceilings trapping the chandeliers’ flicker—a molten glow that licked over bodies tangled in shadow and rope. Rowan stood at its core, a sculptor in black, shirt unbuttoned to the sternum. The air was thick with leather and lust—a scent that grounded him, thirty-eight and forged from defiance. The crowd buzzed—couples weaving scenes, knots glinting like steel he’d once bent—and he scanned them with a hunter’s patience. Until she appeared.

Elise. Framed by the threshold, her lace dress a dare against the gray he’d glimpsed in her eyes. The hem grazed thighs still untouched by him. Her bid on his cage, her surrender in the velvet room—they’d tethered her to him. And tonight, he’d test that thread. Reclaim the power his father’s fists and Leo’s knife had tried to break.

Her gaze met his—brown flecked with gold, raw with hunger he’d stoked. His cock twitched, a pulse he leashed with iron will. She’d chosen lace—bold, fragile, a claim on something she’d buried. He nodded. A sculptor’s verdict: Begin.

“Kneel,” he said. His voice a gravel hum, low but unyielding. A command she’d begged for with her return.

Her breath hitched—a small, desperate sound that coiled heat in his gut—and she sank. Knees to wood, palms pressing down. A supplicant’s grace that made his blood roar.

Her spine arched, instinctive, offering herself. He stepped closer, boots a soft thud against the floor’s pulse. “Slower,” he murmured. The word, a lash. A caress. She leaned forward, ass lifting an inch, lace riding up to bare pale thighs—stretch-marked, he guessed. A secret she hid. A truth he craved.

Her breasts strained against the fabric, nipples sharp points of need. His cock throbbed harder, trousers tight. A primal ache he wouldn’t sate here. She was beautiful—not gallery-polished, but raw, breaking. He wanted her gasps, her trust. Wanted her to mirror the boy he’d been, defying a world that tried to cage him.

“Lower,” he said. Rougher now. A sculptor shaping clay. Her gaze locked on his—green meeting gold. A tether he pulled.

Her thighs trembled, parting slightly. He scented it—her arousal, slick and sharp. A confession.

The hall watched—dozens, shadowed. Their murmurs a low hum of look, see. He reveled in it. Their eyes, a stage. Her body, a canvas. Power surged. His to wield. Hers to give.

He saw the spark in her. Rebellion against a past he didn’t know. A past he’d burn with her if she let him.

Then she froze.

Mid-motion. Palms pressed harder. Knees locked. A statue cracked by invisible hands.

Her breath caught. A sob swallowed. Her eyes dropped, breaking his hold.

He knew that silence.

Had stood like that once—back rigid, breath held—outside Leo’s bedroom, hearing laughter he hadn’t been invited into. It wasn’t rejection. It was exposure. The wrongness of being seen, but not held.

Now she was burning too.

The crowd’s murmurs sharpened—weak, faltering. His chest tightened. A sculptor’s hand stilled by clay too fragile.

Her flush deepened—a rose tide down her chest. Her dress, too much. Too tight. Too seen.

He saw it: shame, not surrender, flooding her veins.

His scar itched—Leo’s mark. A ghost of failure. Doubt flickered: Too much. Too soon.

He’d pushed her here. Into this hall of beasts. Her trust, a weight he’d sworn to bear. Now it frayed.

Her rebellion buckled beneath the eyes he’d once defied.

His boots stilled. The hum of the hall blurred. He paused, gauging her—clenched thighs, trembling hands, the slickness he knew she hid.

Power teetered.

He felt it—the boy he’d been, bracing for fists, for silence—rising to shield her.

A part of him whispered: he shouldn’t have brought her here. That he might not know how to protect what he didn’t yet understand.

But her breath still moved. Her hands still pressed down. And she was here.

So he waited.

Not because he was certain.

Because she’d chosen this. Chosen him.

She’d knelt. Dared. And he would not let her break. Not here.

The crowd blurred. Her breath stuttered.

And in the hush, he held the space where her courage had lived a moment ago.

Waiting for it to rise again.

The alcove hushed the hall’s feral din. Velvet curtains closed them in, draping Elise in shadow. The candle flickered—a fragile pulse against her frayed edges.

She stumbled behind Rowan. His grip on her arm: a lifeline pulling her from the crowd’s teeth. From eyes that had clawed her lace, her stretch marks, her shame.

Her knees throbbed, bruised from where she’d knelt. Her body sang—skin flushed, clit a tender ache, slickness seeping from the echoes of his voice: lower, slower.

She sank to the sofa. Thirty-four and trembling. Her dress a thin shield over a rawness she couldn’t name.

Disgraceful, her mother hissed. Sharper now. A whip for freezing. For failing him. For cracking under their stares.

Rowan knelt. Green eyes leveling with hers. Sharp, yet softened. A hunter’s gaze tempered by something new—worry. A breach in the iron he’d worn.

His shirt gaped. Chest bare to the sternum. Her fingers twitched, yearning for his heat. For the collarbone she’d kissed in dreams since the loft.

Her breath scraped. Shame scalded her throat. Filthy. Weak.

Her flush bloomed. A rose tide spilling down her chest. Her dress dipping to bare it.

He’d watched her falter. Watched her rebellion snap.

She braced for judgment.

His hand rose. Deliberate. His thumb grazed her cheek.