---
"Even the darkest parts of a man will kneel—if the woman before him holds a flame instead of a leash."
---
It began with silence.
Not the kind that meant peace.
The kind that hummed beneath your skin like a secret waiting to explode.
Ava stood at the edge of the private balcony overlooking the Grand Hall, one hand wrapped around a glass of chilled wine, the other absently toying with the flame-shaped charm at her throat.
Below her, The Crimson Room pulsed with low music, moans, silk, and surrender. Submissives wore their freedom like satin; dominants moved with reverence, not arrogance. Everything she'd fought to build was thriving.
But not him.
Not tonight.
Damien hadn't emerged from the west wing all evening. He'd missed the strategy meeting. The Paris liaison call. The new submissive intake ceremony.
And now, Lyla was performing in Room 33.
Publicly.
Which meant only one thing: she wanted to be seen. And Ava knew exactly who she wanted to see her.
Damien.
---
It took Ava thirteen minutes to find him.
He wasn't in their quarters.
Not the training wing.
Not even his personal studio.
He was in the archive hall.
In front of a portrait he never looked at.
His own.
Painted just after his coronation as Crimson Knight—years ago. Masked. Cold. Eyes unreadable.
He stood there now, staring at the man he once was.
"That version of me," he said without turning, "never would've let you tie his hands."
Ava crossed the room slowly, heels clicking in rhythm with the tension between them.
"And this version?" she asked.
He looked at her then. Hollow-eyed. Hungry. Torn.
"This version," he murmured, "wants you to tie them again. Just to remember how it felt when someone touched him without breaking him."
She stepped closer.
"I didn't touch you to fix you."
He nodded.
"But you touched the parts I was taught to bury."
---
In Room 23, the air was warmer.
Ava lit only one candle.
She didn't speak.
She didn't ask permission.
She kissed him like the answer was already yes.
And he let her.
Let her push him to the bed.
Let her remove every article of his clothing with excruciating patience.
Let her bind his wrists to the headboard—not with ropes, but with the red silk scarf he'd once used to silence her moans.
Tonight, it became a crown.
---
She straddled him.
Not to claim.
To witness.
He was hard already—aching, leaking, eyes dark and locked on her every move.
But Ava didn't ride him.
Not yet.
She dragged her nails down his chest, slow enough to make him shake.
"You want pain?" she whispered.
He nodded.
"You want pleasure?"
Another nod.
"You want both and hate yourself for it?"
His jaw clenched.
"Yes."
Ava leaned down, lips against his ear.
"Then you're finally honest."
---
She slid her body against his, wet heat brushing the length of his cock without letting him in.
He groaned—raw, desperate.
She reached between them, circled his head with her fingers, teasing.
"You can beg," she whispered.
"I won't."
"You already are."
He exhaled a tremor.
And that was enough.
She sank down onto him in one slow, merciless thrust.
And he arched.
His breath shattered.
Her hips rocked—firm, slow, punishing in their restraint.
She didn't speak again.
Just moved.
Deliberate. Measured.
A rhythm that said: I own my body. And you're lucky to be inside it.
---
When he came, it was with a sound that didn't belong to a man who dominated rooms.
It belonged to a man who'd found heaven in hell—and survived it.
She kissed his forehead.
Then his mouth.
Then his pulse.
"I want more," he said, hoarse.
"I know."
"Not sex."
She looked at him.
"More of this. Of us. Without performance."
Ava nodded.
"We'll start tomorrow."
---
But tomorrow never came softly in The Crimson Room.
At 3:13 a.m., she was pulled from sleep by Mina's quiet knock.
"There's something you need to see," Mina said.
Ava pulled on her robe.
Followed her down the spiral staircase.
Into the surveillance lounge.
Mina handed her a tablet.
Paused the video at a single, frozen frame.
Room 9.
Lyla.
Naked.
On her knees.
Collared.
But not alone.
Beside her—
Damien.
Fully clothed.
Standing.
Expression unreadable.
"Play it," Ava said.
Mina hesitated.
Then tapped the screen.
---
Damien didn't touch Lyla.
Not once.
But his body… shifted.
And Ava could see it—the slow erosion of control.
The temptation.
The history.
The guilt.
At the end of the clip, Lyla looked up.
Voice hushed.
Lips barely moving.
But the mic picked it up:
> "If she ever stops choosing you… remember I still would."
Then silence.
And Damien walked out.
Ava stared at the screen long after the image faded.
Not angry.
Not broken.
Just… reminded.
Even the strongest towers can crack if the fault lines are ignored.
---
Back in their room, Damien stirred when she climbed into bed.
"Everything okay?" he murmured.
Ava didn't answer.
Just slipped beneath the sheets.
Pressed her body against his.
Held him.
Not because she forgave him.
Not because she doubted him.
But because this—
This was the moment that would decide what kind of story they became next.
A kingdom of performance.
Or a reign of truth.
And Ava Carson?
She had never ruled with illusion.
---
To Be Continued in Episode 7: The Woman Who Bites Back