Page 57 of Daddy's Christmas Obsession
And yet beneath the storm of emotion, I feel... transcendent. The constant pressure of being Kyra Sinclair, brilliant, independent, strong, has lifted, replaced by the simple, primal satisfaction of belonging to this man.
"I don't understand," I choke out between sobs, "why this feels so—"
"Right," Victor finishes for me, his voice unexpectedly gentle. He kneels down before me, unmindful of his state of undress, and cups my face in his hands. His thumbs wipe away tears that are immediately replaced by fresh ones. "Because you've been carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders since you were seventeen. Because you've never allowed yourself to be weak, to need, to depend on anyone."
A fresh wave of tears overtakes me, my body shuddering with the force of my weeping. I should be mortified, breaking down like this in front of him, but the release is too powerful, too necessary to fight.
"Let it out," he murmurs, pulling me against his chest. "Let it all go, beautiful girl. You don't have to be strong anymore. Not with me."
I cling to him, fingers digging into his back as I sob against his shoulder. The tears feel endless, as if every moment of grief and loneliness I've suppressed since my parents died is pouring out at once. Every time I've pretended to be fine when I was breaking inside. Every night I've spent alone in my apartment, drowning in responsibility. Every achievement that felt hollow because there was no one who truly mattered to share it with.
"Yes," I manage between gasping sobs, my voice raw and broken. "I'm yours." The admission no longer feels like defeat. It feels like salvation.
Victor holds me through the storm, one hand stroking my hair, the other firm around my waist. He doesn't try to quiet me or tell me to stop crying. He simply provides the strength I need to fall apart completely.
When the tears finally begin to subside, leaving me limp and exhausted in his arms, he tilts my face up to his. My eyes are swollen, my nose running, my face blotchy and wet. I must look a wreck. But the way he looks at me makes me believe that perhaps my surrender has given him something he needed too.
"You've been fighting this for so long," he murmurs, thumb tracing my swollen lower lip. "Fighting me. Fighting yourself."
"I'm done fighting," I whisper, voice hoarse from crying and his use. "I don't want to be strong anymore. Not with you."
"That's why I chose you," he says, helping me to my feet. My legs are unsteady, and he supports me with an arm around my waist. "Not just for your beauty or your brilliance. But because I saw this in you from the beginning—this need to surrender that matches my need to possess."
He leads me to the leather sofa against the wall of his study, pulling me down beside him, then into his lap like a child. I curl against him, craving the comfort of his strength as the last tremors of emotion pass through me.
"I've never..." I struggle to find the words. "I've never let anyone see me like this."
"I know," he says, pressing his lips to my temple. "That's the gift you've given me today. Your vulnerability. Your trust."
"Not much of a gift," I murmur, embarrassed by the magnitude of my breakdown.
Victor tilts my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze. "It's everything," he says with fierce intensity. "Everything I've wanted since I first saw you. Not just your body or your mind, but your complete surrender."
As he holds me, as his arms encircle me in an embrace that feels like both prison and sanctuary, I understand that I haven't just surrendered my body to Victor Strickland. I've surrendered something far more precious—my will. My autonomy. My very self.
And in that surrender, paradoxically, I've found the thing I've been searching for my entire life.
Release.
Chapter sixteen
Victor
Running water echoes from the master bathroom as I review the final security reports on my tablet. Kyra has been soaking in the oversized tub for nearly an hour, processing our confrontation, our confessions, the weight of everything she now knows about me. The jasmine bath oil I selected creates a subtle fragrance that drifts through the cabin.
My phone buzzes with Patrick's ringtone, cutting through the quiet. I glance toward the bathroom door, ensuring Kyra can't overhear, before answering.
"What's the situation?" I keep my voice low, though the sound of water and her soft humming should mask my words.
"We have a problem, boss." Patrick's voice carries an edge I rarely hear. "Your son is en route to the cabin. Left three hours ago, driving through this storm like a man possessed."
I lean back in the leather chair, processing this development. Aaron, coming here. The same son I threatened into breaking Kyra's heart, now fighting through a blizzard to reach us. Interesting.
"ETA?"
"Given the storm and road conditions? He'll be lucky to make it by Christmas Eve morning. Maybe late morning if he keeps pushing through the night. The state patrol has most of the mountain roads closed, but you know he has the same stubborn streak you do."
Indeed he does. The boy never did know when to quit—it's one of his very few admirable traits.
