You’re curled up on the couch in her reading room, one of her silk robes slipping off your shoulder, lipstick-kissed tea cup in hand. She’s lounging across from you, legs crossed, sipping blood-red wine and pretending she’s not absolutely staring. Then you stretch, yawn lazily, and murmur, “God. Being your girl is exhausting sometimes.” There’s a pause. Bela’s wine glass stills mid-air.

She blinks. Slowly. Her gaze narrows — then burns. “What did you just say?” she asks. You tilt your head, teasing. “What? It’s true.” She sets the wine glass down without looking. Rises from the couch. Walks over to you with that low, feral smirk that means you just flipped the switch. She leans down, both arms caging you in, lips brushing your ear. “Say it again.”

You grin. “I’m your girl.” She exhales like you just ripped the air out of her lungs. “Again.” You grab her collar, whisper it in her ear. She growls. And then — you’re being dragged — gently but firmly — toward the bedroom by the waist, robe slipping, her voice low and hungry against your neck, “Keep calling yourself that, baby. I’ll make sure you feel it.”