Bruce knew power.

He wore it like a second skin—pressed into tailored suits, carved into silence at boardrooms and crime scenes alike. But even he had weak points. And one of them was currently folded in silk tissue paper inside a small, matte-black box.

Custom made. Her initials stitched in delicate thread no one but him would ever see.

It wasn’t about control. Not with her.

It was about appreciation. Anticipation. The quiet thrill of knowing exactly what would make her gasp, not because he demanded it—but because he understood her.

He slid the box into the drawer beside the bed, the corners of his mouth twitching just slightly.

Tonight wasn’t about Gotham.

Tonight was hers.