Page 71 of Crown of Thorns

"Authority I earned." I turn to face him. "I went to that warehouse. I saw what violence looks like. I accepted it. I understood it. I made peace with the fact that I'm complicit in it. So now I'm using that knowledge instead of hiding from it. That's not overstepping. That's evolving."

Lorcan stands. He moves toward me with the careful control of someone holding back something enormous.

"Do you understand what you've done?" he asks. "The Doyles will see this as weakness. They'll push harder. They'll test every boundary."

"Let them. We're stronger."

"That's not the point."

"What is the point?"

"The point is that you can't make unilateral decisions about family security. You can't call rivals and make deals. You can't—"

"I can," I interrupt. "I just did. I called Roisín Doyle. I made a threat. I extracted the girl. It worked. And you're angry about it because it undermines your control, not because it was a bad decision."

His jaw clenches. That small movement that means I'm right.

"You're angry," he says, "because I made you."

"Yes. I'm furious about it. I'm also grateful. And I'm terrified. But I'm not apologizing for using what you taught me."

He reaches out and takes my face in his hands. For a moment, I think he's going to kiss me. Instead, he just looks at me.

"I'm proud of you," he says. "That's what's terrifying me. I'm proud of you for making a dangerous decision. For taking action without authorization. For becoming exactly the kind of person who can survive in this world."

The words land between us like a grenade.

"I know," I tell him. "That's the worst part. You're proud of me for becoming a version of myself that you taught me to be. For making me into something useful. And I'm becoming that person, and I can see it happening, and I can't stop it because being that person is the only way to stay alive."

He pulls me close. It's not violent. It's not tender. It's total.

"Come to bed," he says.

I lead him upstairs.

The bedroom is dark. The city lights filter through the curtains. I stand before him and I don't remove my clothes. I wait for him to move, and he doesn't. He's giving me the choice. He's giving me the space to make this decision.

I reach for his shirt. I unbutton it slowly. I push it off his shoulders and down his arms. He lets me. His hands don't move. His eyes don't leave my face.

I examine his knuckles. I trace the healing marks. I run my fingers over each fracture that's mending, each sign of violence he's committed in my name.

"Look at me," I tell him.

He does.

I kiss him. It's not gentle. It's claiming. It's a question and an answer all at once. I'm not asking for permission. I'm not waiting for instruction. I'm taking what I want, and he receives it, and the dynamic shifts.

I push him onto the bed. He goes easily, surprising both of us. I take the dress off over my head. Bra. Underwear. I put them on the chair instead of the floor because I am not in a hurry and because I want him watching me not be in a hurry. Then I stand at the end of the bed with the city light on me and let him look, and he looks, and his hand moves once toward himself and stops.

"Don't move," I tell him.

"Hands above your head."

He puts them above his head.

"Keep them there. If they come down I stop. Do you understand me?"

"Yes."