The warm water slid over Katherine's skin, tracing the delicate curves of her shoulders before cascading into the marble tub. The heat seeped into her bones, easing the tension that had coiled inside her like a serpent. She had forgotten what it felt like to be cared for—to have someone tend to her without expectation.
Vincent had come visiting her earlier that evening at the brothel. He couldn't stop thinking about her.
His touch was gentle, deliberate, as he poured another basin of water over her back, his fingers combing through the tangled strands of her damp hair.
It should have felt strange.
It should have felt wrong.
Men had touched her before—hungry, greedy hands that took without asking. But Vincent was different. He moved as if she were something fragile, something to be handled with care rather than claimed.
And that felt terrifying.
She had learned to survive by anticipating what men wanted, by giving them what they sought before they could take it by force. Yet, as she sat in his gilded bathtub, surrounded by the flickering glow of candlelight, she realized she had no idea what Vincent LaFleur wanted from her.
And worse—she had no idea what she wanted from him.
When the bath was over, Vincent wrapped her in the thick, warmed towel that was by the edge of the bed, his hands steady as he tucked the fabric around her shoulders. She shivered slightly, not from cold, but from the unfamiliarity of the moment.
Katherine had never known tenderness.
She had known desire, lust, obsession—men who whispered sweet words in the dark and forgot them by morning. But tenderness? That was a language she had never been taught.
Vincent must have sensed the hesitation in her because he didn't rush her. He simply handed her a robe, his fingers brushing over hers in the brief exchange. The contact was fleeting, yet it sent a strange warmth curling through her chest.
She turned away before he could see the flush creeping up her neck.
She kept wondering why he was the way he was with her, was was he trying to achieve. She knew she was just a mere courtesan, one whose purpose is to satisfy men, bring them pleasure. That was all she knew.
Katherine perched on the edge of the bed, her fingers idly tracing the embroidery on the duvet.
The brothel's chambers had been filled with silk and perfume, but their beauty had been a façade, meant to entice and deceive. The armchair near the fireplace had a slight indentation, as if Vincent often sat there in the quiet hours of the night.
Vincent sat across from her, his expression unreadable. "Are you comfortable?"
Katherine hesitated before nodding. "Yes."
It was a lie.
She wasn't comfortable at all.
She was waiting—for him to ask something of her, for the inevitable moment when the kindness would run dry.
She had spent too many years bartering her body for safety to believe in selfless generosity.
Vincent leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "You're expecting me to ask for something in return."
Katherine's fingers tightened around the edge of the robe. "Aren't you?"
"No." His voice was firm, resolute. "I didn't come here to collect a debt, Katherine."
Her throat tightened. She wanted to believe him. She truly did. But trust was not a luxury she could afford.
"Then why?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "Why do all of this?"
Vincent exhaled slowly, as if choosing his words carefully. "Because I know what it feels like to be trapped in a life not of your own choosing."
Katherine's heart stuttered.
It was such a simple confession, yet it struck something deep within her.
She had always believed that men like Vincent—wealthy, powerful men—had never known struggle. That their lives had been written in gold from the moment they took their first breath.
But now, looking at him, she wondered.
"What was your cage?" she murmured.
Vincent hesitated. Then, quietly, he said, "Expectations."
Katherine frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"
He leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting toward the fire. "My father was a man of influence. He built his reputation on control—and he felt I was an abomination for a child, a disaster, a basterd, and he wanted to control me like he does."
She studied him carefully. "But you didn't."
"No," Vincent said, his voice lower now. "I left."
Katherine didn't press him for details, but she could see the weight of it in his eyes. The ghosts of his past were not so different from her own.
"I'm sorry that happened to you" she said.
A strange sort of understanding passed between them.
They were two people shaped by forces beyond their control, carrying wounds that had never fully healed.
And in that moment, Katherine felt something she hadn't felt for so long.
Not attraction. Not desire.
But something far more dangerous, and danger in her book was never good.
Connection—she felt a connection.
The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken things.
Katherine's pulse thrummed as she met his gaze, her body caught between flight and surrender.
Men had taken her before.
But Vincent LaFleur was offering himself in return.
And she didn't know what to do with that.
Slowly, she reached out, her fingers brushing over his. It was a tentative touch, hesitant and unsure, as if testing the weight of a decision she wasn't ready to make.
Vincent didn't pull away. He simply turned his hand, allowing his fingers to curl gently around hers.
"You don't have to be afraid of me," he murmured.
Katherine swallowed hard. "I'm not afraid of you, Vincent."
"Then what are you afraid of?"
She could have given him a hundred different answers.
The past. The future. The possibility of wanting something she could never have.
Instead, she said nothing.
Because in that moment, the only thing she feared was the way her heart stuttered at the feel of his hand in hers.
Vincent didn't try to kiss her.
He didn't try to push her toward something she wasn't ready for.
Instead, he simply held her hand.
And for the first time, Katherine let herself believe that maybe—just maybe—there were men in the world who didn't see her as something to be possessed.
Maybe, just maybe, there were men who simply saw her.
The fire crackled softly in the hearth, the warmth filling the silence between them. Vincent's thumb traced slow circles against her skin, not demanding, not coaxing—simply existing. It was an unfamiliar kind of intimacy, one that had nothing to do with bodies entwined and everything to do with the quiet recognition of another soul.
Katherine let out a slow breath, the tension in her shoulders loosening ever so slightly. For now, she would allow this moment. Just this once.