Page 138 of Maksym

Grace, as she had been. Grace as she still was, beneath everything they had done and failed to destroy. I pulled back because I had to see her face.

Her eyes had gone wide and dark. Her lips were swollen from my mouth. Wonder moved through her expression before vulnerability overtook it.

“You felt that,” she whispered.

“Yes.”

“What was it?”

“You,” I said. “Before.”

Her eyes shone. I brushed my thumb along her cheekbone.

“You are precious to me.”

The words were too small. All words were too small.

“I am going to make you feel... everything,” I told her. “Beyond anything the feeding alone has given you. But you will tell me if something does not feel right. No pleasing me by enduring. No silence to spare my pride. Do you understand?”

She nodded. I waited.

Her mouth curved faintly. “Words. Yes.”

“Good girl.”

The words slipped out, low and instinctive. Her breath hitched. I felt the reaction move through her body. Not fear. Heat.

I stored that knowledge carefully.

“May I remove your nightdress?”

“Yes.”

I took the hem in both hands and lifted slowly, giving her time to change her mind with every inch. She raised her arms. The soft gray cotton passed over her head and fell from my hand to the floor.

For a moment, I could not move.

My blood had restored what starvation stole. Not perfectly, not into some false innocence untouched by history, but into the living abundance of her own body. Full breasts, heavy and soft, tipped with nipples already tightening in the cool air. A round stomach that moved with each breath. Wide hips. Strong thighs. Skin pale where the nightdress had covered her, flushed where desire had begun to wake. Scars remained in faint traces here and there, silvered memories no healing had fully erased.

Beautiful. Not despite survival. Through it. After it. With it.

I placed both hands on her shoulders.

Her eyes started to lower.

“Look at me,” I said.

She obeyed. The trust in that obedience nearly brought me to my knees.

I ran my hands slowly down her arms. “These hands survived chains and still chose to touch me.”

Her lips parted.

I moved my palms back to her shoulders, then down over her collarbones, careful of old marks, reverent with new skin. “This throat carried screams and arguments and testimony, and tonight it said what it wanted.”

My hands slid lower, cupping her breasts. Their weight filled my palms.

She made a small sound.