My Dark Lord

Chapter Twenty-Six: A Diary of Shadows

The steam curled between us like smoke off a forbidden flame, and I didn't move.

Tom stood just inches away, droplets of water tracking down his collarbones, sliding over the lean lines of his chest and vanishing at the edge of his towel-draped waist. His eyes didn't waver-- deep, dark, and consuming.

He had said we could shape the world. Together.

I swallowed the sudden rush of heat in my throat, unsure if it came from the steam or something far more dangerous. "You're playing me," I said quietly. "Aren't you?"

He didn't deny it. "Always," he said-- and then softer, more honest than I expected, "But I play everyone. With you, I prefer strategy. With them? Control."

The admission caught me off guard. My breath hitched-- not from shock, but from the intensity of his gaze. It wasn't the words that unnerved me. It was how much of himself he allowed me to see.

I took a step closer, deliberately, almost testing him.

"And what if I'm playing you too?" I asked.

He smirked, but the edge of his mouth was tinged with something that wasn't entirely amusement.

"I'd hope you were," he said. "Otherwise you'd be boring."

A silence stretched between us, long and heavy. Somewhere behind us, the bath gurgled, the scent of ylang-ylang rising with the steam. I could see the pulse ticking at the base of his throat. Fast. Matching mine.

"Layla..." he said then, quieter now, more cautious than I'd ever heard him. "You know what I want. You've always known."

I didn't speak. I only looked at him, the same way I might consider an intricate spell or a dangerous beast-- aware of its power, and yet unafraid to hold it.

His hand lifted slowly, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear.

The touch was not demanding. It was... reverent.

My breath caught.

Then his hand slid down, slow and tentative, tracing the edge of my jaw. "Tell me to stop."

I didn't.

And when his mouth found mine, it was not rushed. It was claiming, yet controlled-- like everything else he did. No student, no fumbling. Just focus. Precision.

Heat bloomed under my skin like wildfire, tempered by the terrifying awareness of who this was-- what this was. It was not love. Not safety.

It was recognition.

I kissed him back.

Our ambitions met again in the space between our mouths-- sharp, gleaming things hidden behind soft lips. This wasn't a fairy tale. This was two storms circling each other, finally allowing their winds to meet.

His hand moved to my waist, and mine to his shoulder. The marble was cold beneath my bare feet, but my body was burning.

He deepened the kiss, just for a moment. I let him. Let myself.

But then I pulled back.

Our breaths mingled in the fog between us, and my hands stayed on his chest. His eyes searched mine-- not angry, not impatient. Simply waiting.

"I'm not yours," I whispered. "Not yet."

He didn't ask what I meant. He only smiled, something slow and dangerous curling at the corners of his mouth.

"I never expected you to give in easily," he said. "I'd be disappointed if you did."

He stepped back then, enough to let the chill air between us. "Go. Before I convince you otherwise."