She whimpered.
Because he already had.
And he would again.

He dragged her nightdress up over her hips -
slowly,
grazing his knuckles up her thighs like a promise.
Like a warning.

And then -

He climbed over her.

Knees between hers.
Hands caging her head.
Body sinking into the cradle of her own.

She felt his length, hot and hard, press between them -
not entering yet -
just resting.
Waiting.
Knowing.

Her hips arched on instinct.

"Please," she breathed.

He growled.

Low. Quiet.
Like he'd waited a century to hear her beg again.

And when he entered her?

Slow.
Thick.
Deliberate.

She broke.

Because it wasn't a thrust.
It was a return.

Every inch dragged along memory.
Along walls that had been untouched since the last time he filled her like this.

Every motion was measured. Every thrust a vow. He'd been honed in restraint-tempered by centuries of denial.

And when he bottomed out -
fully inside -
he didn't move.

He just stayed.

Breathing.

Letting her body adjust.
Remember.
Clench.
Welcome.

Her arms came up around his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

And still, he didn't move.

Until -

"Say it," he whispered.

She choked on the words.
But gave them anyway.

“I belong to you.”

"I belong to you."

That was enough.

He moved.

Long.
Slow.
Deep.
And devastating.

He fucked her like reverence in reverse -
not worshiping her body,
but claiming it.
Unmaking it.
Writing himself back into the folds of her muscle,
the shape of her moans,
the sound of her no longer denying any of it.

The mask grazed her cheek as he thrust.
The weight of him held her still.
And when he reached down and slipped two fingers between her thighs -

She screamed.

Not loud.

But raw.

And that was when he stopped being careful.

He took her hard, slow, and completely.

One hand on her throat.
Not squeezing.
Just reminding.

The other braced beside her head,
holding him up as he drove in again and again,
mask dipping low enough that his lips nearly touched hers -
but didn't.

Wouldn't.

Because he needed her to crave that last thing.

And oh, she did.

She begged.
She broke.
She came.
And still he didn't kiss her.

Until the very end.

When he finished inside her -
grinding deep, whispering filth into her ear like a hymn -
he finally lowered his lips to her throat.

And bit.

Just once.
Just enough to mark her.

She gasped.
Eyes wide.
Because she remembered exactly what that meant.

And so did he.

Because his voice was low and final when he said:

“You were mine before the forgetting.
And now you remember.”

"You were mine before the forgetting. And now you remember."

She woke shaking.

Sheets damp.
Neck bruised.
And her thighs sticky with proof that it had never just been a dream.