A soft sound carried from the master bedroom—a drawer, or a closet, something ordinary that landed in the study like a footstep on thin ice. Elena’s whole body went rigid. Marcus’s hands tightened. The silent panic spiked hard and shared between them without either of them speaking. The ordinary sound faded. The house returned to the scraped quiet of the continuous pressure.

Marcus’s mouth brushed the side of her face, not quite a kiss.

“Breathe,” he said.

“I am.”

“Slower.”

She tried. The air went in and out in shallow pieces. The thick residual claim inside her felt enormous. The lower marks under his hand ached. The complete submission and...