His hand pressed against her chest, a steady weight that anchored her to the mat beneath. The rough fabric of the gymnastics mat scratched against her bare thighs, the texture catching through the thin cotton of his shirt she still wore. Above her, David's body blocked out the dim light filtering through the grimy windows, casting her in shadow that felt almost like shelter.

She watched his face as he looked down at her, his brown eyes moving across her body like he was memorizing every line. His hand slid from her chest down her stomach, fingers tracing the curve of her ribs through the fabric. The touch was slow, deliberate, nothing like the rough handling from the day before in her dorm room.

"You're shaking," he said. Not a question.

She hadn't noticed until he said it. But now she felt it — the fine tremor running through her arms, her legs, the place where her spine met the mat. She opened her mouth to deny it, then closed it again.

"I know," she said instead. The words came out smaller than she meant them to.

His hand paused at her hip, fingers curling around the waistband of the shorts that were still tangled around her shins. He hadn't taken them off yet. The reminder of how she'd arrived here — how he'd bound her wrists, how she'd said his name, how something had shifted in his eyes when she did — sent another tremor through her.

"Do you want me to stop?"

The question hung in the thick air between them. Dust motes drifted through a shaft of light near the window, spinning lazily. She could hear her own heartbeat in her ears, could feel the pulse at her throat where his eyes had lingered earlier.

She thought about what stopping would mean. The silk at her wrists. The deal she'd made. The way Chloe's voice had sounded in the library, sharp and cruel, before David had stepped between them. The way Mack's eyes had followed her across the quad yesterday, hungry and calculating, before David had pulled her into his side and the look had died.

Protection. That was what she'd agreed to. Her submission for his protection. But standing at the edge of this moment, with his weight above her and his hand warm on her hip, she realized it had stopped feeling like a trade somewhere between the binding and now.

"No," she whispered. "I don't want you to stop."

Something flickered in his eyes. She couldn't name it — not triumph, not satisfaction, something quieter and more dangerous. He leaned down, his lips brushing her forehead, her temple, the corner of her eye. Each touch was light, almost tender, and she felt herself trembling again for reasons she couldn't sort.

His hand left her hip and moved down her thigh, fingers pressing into the muscle. She felt the calluses on his palms, the strength in his grip as he guided her legs apart. The mat scratched against the backs of her knees, the rough surface grounding her in the reality of where she was and what was happening.

"Look at me," he said.

She did. His face was close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the slight roughness of stubble along his jaw. He smelled like sandalwood and something clean underneath, and his breath came slow and even against her skin.

"I want you to remember this," he said, his voice low, almost gentle. "I want you to remember exactly where you are, and who you're with, and what you chose."

She swallowed. The silk at her wrists pulled slightly as she shifted, a reminder that she wasn't free to leave even if she wanted to. But she didn't want to. That was the part she was still trying to understand.

His hand slid higher, fingers brushing the inside of her thigh, and she felt her breath catch. The touch was light, almost teasing, his thumb tracing a slow circle against her skin. She could feel the heat of his palm, the contrast between his warmth and the cool air of the gym, and she bit her lip to keep from making a sound.

"You've been waiting for this," he said. "Haven't you?"

She wanted to deny it. The word rose in her throat — no, of course not, this was never what she wanted — but it died before it reached her lips. Because it wasn't true. Not anymore. Maybe not ever, if she was honest with herself in the dark of her dorm room at night, when she replayed the way he looked at her, the way his voice dropped when he told her she was his.

"Yes," she breathed.

His thumb pressed harder, and she felt the heat of his touch through the fabric of her underwear. Her hips shifted involuntarily, and he smiled — a small, knowing thing that made her stomach tighten.

"Good girl," he said.

The words settled in her chest like something warm and heavy. She didn't understand why they felt so good, why approval from him — this man who had cornered her and claimed her and told her she was his to break — made her feel like she'd been given something precious.

He shifted above her, his weight pressing her deeper into the mat as he reached between them. She heard the rustle of fabric, the soft sound of him unfastening his jeans, and she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, trying to steady her breathing.

"Open your eyes."

She did. He was watching her, his face inches from hers, his hand between them. She couldn't see what he was doing, but she could feel the shift in his weight, the way his body tensed as he positioned himself.

"I will get you pregnant babe," he said, his voice low and steady. "'Cuz you are mine now."

The words hit her like a wave, cold and hot at the same time. She felt the weight of them settle into her bones, felt the absolute certainty in his voice, and she realized with a clarity that should have terrified her that she didn't want to argue. She didn't want to push back. She wanted to be his. She wanted the claim to be real.

"Okay," she whispered.

Something shifted in his expression — a crack in the controlled mask he wore, a flash of something raw and hungry. His hand found her hip, fingers pressing into the bone, and she felt the pressure of him against her, warm and insistent.

She held her breath. The mat scratched against her back. The air in the room was thick and still. His eyes held hers, dark and intent, and she saw the moment he decided to move.

"Remember," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "You chose this."

And then he pushed inside her.

The sensation was sharp and full, a pressure that stole the air from her lungs. She felt the stretch of her body adjusting to him, the heat of him filling her, and her hands curled into fists against the ribbon at her wrists. A sound escaped her — not a scream, not a cry, something caught between the two — and she bit her lip hard enough to taste copper.

He stilled, letting her adjust. His forehead pressed against hers, his breath warm and uneven against her cheek. She could feel his pulse where his chest pressed against hers, could feel the tension in his arms as he held himself above her, waiting.

"Breathe," he said.

She did. The air rushed into her lungs, and with it came a strange sense of rightness. She was here. She was his. The silk at her wrists, the weight of his body, the fullness of him inside her — it all fit together like pieces of a lock clicking into place.

She lifted her hips slightly, a small movement that said more than words could. His breath caught, and she saw the question in his eyes — are you sure — and she answered by tilting her head back, offering her throat, a gesture of surrender that felt more honest than anything she'd said or done before.

He moved. Slow at first, a rhythm that tested the boundaries of what her body could hold. Each thrust sent a wave of sensation through her, building from where they were joined to spread through her chest, her limbs, the tips of her fingers. She heard herself make a sound — soft, broken — and he answered with a noise of his own, low and rough, pressed against her ear.

The mat creaked beneath them. Dust rose in the dim light. The world outside the Old Gym ceased to exist — no Chloe, no Mack, no classes or deadlines or whispered gossip in the dining hall. There was only this: the weight of him, the heat of him, the steady rhythm that was carving something permanent into her bones.

She felt the pressure building low in her belly, a coil of heat that tightened with each movement. Her fingers clawed at the ribbon, not to escape but to hold on to something. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps, her body moving with his in a rhythm she hadn't learned but somehow knew.

"Look at me," he said again.

She forced her eyes open. His face was flushed, his jaw tight, his eyes almost black in the dim light. He was watching her with an intensity that made her feel seen in a way she'd never been seen before — not as a target, not as prey, but as something he had chosen, something he wanted with a ferocity that matched her own.

"Say my name," he said.

"David." The word came out breathless, almost broken.

He rewarded her with a deeper thrust, and she gasped, her back arching off the mat. The coil inside her pulled tighter, closer to something she couldn't name, and she felt herself falling toward it, unable to stop, not sure she wanted to.

"Good girl," he said again, and the words wrapped around her like a promise, like a brand. She felt herself break apart, the tension shattering into wave after wave of heat that pulled a cry from her throat, muffled against his shoulder as she buried her face in the crook of his neck.

He followed her, his body tensing above her, a sound torn from his chest that she felt more than heard. He pressed deep and stilled, and she felt the heat of him spilling inside her, marking her in a way that felt as permanent as the silk at her wrists.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Their breath mingled, warm and uneven, in the space between their faces. She could feel his heart pounding against her chest, could feel the tremor in his arms as he held himself above her.

Then he lowered himself, his full weight pressing her into the mat, his face buried in her hair. She felt his lips against her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth — soft touches that felt almost reverent.

"You're mine," he murmured against her skin. "Say it."

She opened her mouth to speak, but the words caught in her throat. Not because she didn't believe them — but because she did. Because somewhere between the first time he'd touched her and this moment, the truth of it had stopped being something he imposed and become something she accepted.

"I'm yours," she whispered.

He kissed her then — soft, slow, nothing like the claiming kisses of the weeks before. This one felt like a seal, like a signature at the bottom of a contract they'd both signed without speaking.

When he pulled back, his eyes found hers. The dim light caught the gold flecks again, and she saw something in them she hadn't seen before. Not triumph. Not satisfaction. Something quieter, something that looked almost like wonder.

He reached up and began to untie the ribbon at her wrists. The silk loosened, and she felt the blood rush back into her fingers, a pins-and-needles sensation that reminded her she was still in her body, still here, still real.

But even as the ribbon fell away, she knew she was still bound.