When he slipped the fig from the platter, when he rolled it between his fingers like a coin meant to be flicked into the throat of fate itself, something in her broke rank. Her lips parted—softly, involuntarily—at the memory that flooded her senses. How those fingers, clever and merciless, had once traced her in the dark. How they had learned every delicate, dangerous place on her body with a precision no scholar could match, no artist could paint. The nimbleness of him, the cruelty of him, all wrapped in reverence, in possession, in the kind of skill that left her undone with nothing but a breath, a sigh, a tremble of her hips beneath his hands. And now—now those same fingers toyed with the fig like it was a living thing, a thing to be judged, weighed, broken. She watched the play of his knuckles, the languid strength curled just beneath the surface. And then—He bit.