The sea was still whispering when she woke. Pale light spilled through the curtains, brushing over the linen sheets that smelled faintly of sandalwood and salt. For a moment, she forgot where she was — until the echo of Akon's voice from last night rippled through her memory.
"You are mine."
Her chest tightened. She wanted to hate him for those words, for the power he seemed to wield without effort. But hate had no weight this morning. Only awareness — of her heartbeat, of the air between them that would soon tremble again when she saw him.
She stepped out to the terrace, barefoot, the marble cool under her skin. The horizon stretched endlessly, golden and mercilessly beautiful. She wondered if this was what freedom looked like — or a cage made of sunlight.
Behind her, the door opened.
Akon stood there, freshly shaven, wearing a white shirt rolled up to his elbows. Morning light turned the edges of his hair to fire. His eyes found her instantly, and everything inside her went still.
"You're awake," he said softly, almost like a prayer.
"I couldn't sleep."
"Because of me?"
"Because of everything," she whispered.
He came closer, each step deliberate. "Then let me fix something. Just… breakfast. No promises, no threats."
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth — gentle, disarming. It was unfair, she thought, how a man could look dangerous even when he was trying to be kind.
He watched her from across the terrace, the way sunlight kissed her shoulders, the way her fingers trembled as she held her cup. Sharon was poetry written in contradictions — soft but unyielding, frightened but defiant.
He wanted to touch her, but he didn't. Not yet. She had to choose to stay — even if she didn't know it yet.
"I found you watching the sea," he said. "You looked like you were trying to remember something."
"Maybe I was."
"What was it?"
"How to breathe," she murmured, not meeting his gaze.
His chest ached. Every word from her was a wound and a gift.
"I never wanted to cage you, Sharon," he said quietly. "I just… don't know how to let you walk away."
"And if I asked you to?"
He smiled faintly, eyes shadowed. "Then I'd follow you. Until you turned around."
Her lips parted — half outrage, half surrender. He reached across the table, fingertips brushing hers. The contact was barely there, yet it set fire beneath her skin.
The air thickened between them. Her instincts screamed to pull away, but her heart refused.
She looked up, and in that moment, she saw not a man who wanted control — but one who was terrified of losing something he didn't understand.
"I don't know what this is," she said.
"It's real," he replied, his thumb tracing the back of her hand. "Even if it's wrong."
When he stood, she thought he'd walk away. Instead, he came around the table, stopping inches from her chair. The scent of him — cedar, smoke, and danger — wrapped around her like a secret.
He knelt slightly, meeting her eyes. "Tell me to stop."
She didn't.
His hand rose, tentative this time, fingers brushing her jaw before sliding to her neck. A shiver ran through her. He leaned in, his voice a whisper against her skin.
"This is me trying to be gentle."
Her breath trembled. "You're not gentle."
"Then teach me how," he murmured, and his lips met hers — not with hunger, but with aching restraint. A kiss that asked permission and promised ruin all at once.
When she didn't pull away, something inside him broke — or healed, he couldn't tell. Her lips tasted of fear and salt and something dangerously close to forgiveness.
He deepened the kiss only when she leaned in first. Every movement was a war between desire and devotion, control and surrender.
When they finally parted, both were shaking.
"Now you know," he said hoarsely. "What I mean when I say you're mine."
Sharon looked at him, her voice soft but steady. "And what if I never learn to love you the way you want?"
He smiled sadly. "Then I'll love you enough for both of us."