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“More than okay.” She reached for the hem of his shirt. “Your turn.”

They undressed slowly, both of them hyperaware of every moment. When Brock’s fingers found the scar on her hip—the brand the cartel had left—he paused, looking at her with a question in his eyes.

This was the test. The moment that could break the spell or prove she was truly ready.

Elena covered his hand with hers, pressing it more firmly against the scar. “It’s okay. I’m okay. It’s just a scar now. It doesn’t own me anymore.”

Something shifted in his expression—pride, maybe, or love so fierce it made her breath catch.

“You’re incredible,” he said. “You know that?”

“I’m starting to believe it.”

They stepped into the shower, the hot water cascading over them both. Brock backed her gently against the marble wall, his body close but not crushing, and Elena felt years of careful control finally releasing.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmured against her throat.

“You. Just you.” She pulled him closer, her hands exploring the planes of his chest, the ridges of muscle, the steady beat of his heart. “Don’t stop touching me. Don’t stop showing me what this is supposed to feel like.”

They stayed in the shower until the room was filled with steam, touching and kissing and learning each other. By the time they emerged, both flushed and breathless, Elena felt different. Lighter. Like some burden she’d been carrying for years had finally lifted.

Brock wrapped her in one of the plush robes, then pulled on his own. His hair was damp and tousled, his eyes dark with desire barely held in check.

“We still have time before dinner,” he said, his voice rough.

Elena looked toward the bedroom, then back at him. This was the moment. The choice. She could say they should get dressed, go to dinner, keep things from progressing further. Or she could take the final step, reclaim the last piece of herself that the cartel had stolen.

Her heart hammered, but it wasn’t fear. It was anticipation. Want. The knowledge that she was ready.

“Brock,” she said. “I need to tell you something.”

Concern flickered across his face. “What?”

“I want all of you.”

“Are you sure?” he asked. “Because we can wait. We can⁠—”

“I don’t want to wait.” She led him toward the bedroom, her hand steady in his. “I want to choose this. Choose you. Choose to take back what was stolen from me.”

He stopped at the edge of the bed, turning her to face him. “Then we do this your way. At your pace. You’re in control, Elena. Completely.”

She looked up at him, seeing the love and patience in his eyes, and felt the last of her fear dissolve.

“Make love to me,” she whispered. “Show me what it’s supposed to feel like when it’s a choice.”

What followed was tender and careful and everything Elena had never thought she’d have. Brock was patient, constantly checking to make sure she was okay, following her lead, letting her set the pace. And when she finally gave herself over completely—not because she had to, but because she wanted to—she felt something inside her heal that she hadn’t even known was still broken.

Afterward, they lay tangled in the moonlight filtering through the terrace doors, both breathing hard, neither one wanting to move.

“That was—” Elena couldn’t find words adequate to what she felt.

“Yeah,” Brock agreed, his arms tightening around her. “It really was.”

She turned in his arms to face him, her hand coming up to trace his jaw. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For waiting. For being patient. For making that feel like—” Her voice caught. “Like I was being loved instead of used.”