Selina knew desire like she knew danger—intimately, instinctively, and always on her own terms.

But her wife?

Her wife burned hotter than Gotham’s summer asphalt and twice as bold. Lust wasn’t something she hinted at; it was something she wore, like perfume or a dagger at the thigh. Wherever they went—galas, rooftops, underground auctions—Selina could feel that gaze, heavy and unapologetic, like hands that hadn’t touched yet but promised to.

She could steal anything—diamonds, secrets, hearts—but keeping her wife’s hands off her in public? That was the real heist.

And Selina didn’t mind failing that one. Not at all.