Morning in the sanctuary arrived not with light, but with sensation—a slow, creeping awareness of the body that began at the base of the spine and radiated outward like ripples in dark water. Taehyung woke to the feeling of being watched, of eyes tracing her skin with the weight of physical touch, before consciousness fully claimed her. She lay on her stomach, the sheets a tangled mess around her legs, her body naked and exposed and marked by the night's activities. The collar remained at her throat—a constant, cool reminder of her status—and between her legs, she ached with a dull, satisfied throb that spoke of thorough use.

But the ache was nothing compared to the heat that flared when she opened her eyes and found him sitting in a chair across from the bed, fully dressed in black, his legs spread in that dominant posture that made her mouth water. He was reading something—documents, files, the detritus of his other life as consigliere—but his eyes were fixed on her, had been fixed on her, she realized, for how long she didn't know.