Quincy went back into the room and paused at the doorway, his sharp eyes softening as he saw Harper lying peacefully on the bed. The lamp cast a faint, warm glow across the room. Freya stood up from where she had been seated at the edge of the bed, brushing Harper's damp strands gently to the side.
"She's okay now," Freya whispered. "I changed her robe and dried her hair."
"You guys should go and rest," Quincy said, stepping closer, his voice low and heavy with exhaustion. "I'll watch over her."
"Yes sir! Let's go, Sage." Freya tugged at Sage's hand, and they both bowed slightly before stepping out.
Quincy turned toward Harper, closed the door gently, then switched on the heater. The low hum of warmth began to fill the space. He flicked the bedside lamp off, leaving only the soft ambient light from the window and the heater.
He slipped into the bed beside her, careful not to wake her. But as he reached for her hand, he flinched. It was ice-cold.
"Damnit," he cursed under his breath. He quickly pulled the quilt over her more snugly and wrapped his arms around her, hugging her tight as if to will warmth into her body.
He pressed a kiss on her forehead and murmured softly, "I'm sorry, Harper… I won't let this go. I swear I won't let anyone mess with you anymore."
Meanwhile… in the courtesan quarters:
"I heard Quincy came here in the midnight," one of the girls whispered, peeking out the window with curiosity.
"He did!" another one chimed in, wide-eyed. "I saw him while going to the casino. He looked furious."
"Oh my! Is he gonna take it out on Angel?"
Angel, leaning against a pillar with her arms crossed and a smug expression, scoffed. "He can't do anything to me. He should put his mistress in check next time."
"He can't do anything to you," someone muttered. "But don't forget—he can mess with Logan. And Logan will kill you for it."
"I'm not doing all this for fun," Angel snapped. "I'm doing it for Logan. And she tried to kill me!"
"Stop being messy, Angel," one of the girls said, rolling her eyes. "We all know you played a trick on Blue."
"Whatever," Angel said coldly, flipping her hair. "She should be smarter next time."
"Well… we love to see mind games too," one courtesan giggled. "I wonder who will win?"
"Me, definitely," Angel declared. "You don't expect me to be defeated by that little pest, right?"
"You can't be so sure, Angel."
"Let's watch and see then," Angel said with a smirk, eyes glinting with malice.
Back in the room, Harper stirred gently in Quincy's arms. She snuggled closer, instinctively seeking his warmth. Her hands clutched his shirt tightly.
He looked down, surprised. "How do you feel?" he whispered, watching her eyes flutter open briefly, then close again.
"I know you're awake," he added softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
"Why are you here?" she murmured, voice hoarse and raspy.
"I came to take care of you."
"Were you not ignoring me the whole time?" Her eyes remained closed, but her voice cracked with something more than physical exhaustion.
"I was busy doing something important."
"Or regretting taking me as your courtesan?"
"No!" he said quickly, pulling back slightly to look at her face. "Why do you think this way?"
"That's what the other courtesans said. You never visited since I got registered. Maybe you got tired."
"Don't listen to the courtesans," he said, frowning. "They just make up stories every now and then. They like problems, you know?"
"It's fine."
"I will always come and check on you henceforth."
"You don't have to if you don't feel like it."
"I don't wanna scare you off, Harper."
"Scare me off?"
"Yes. I made you a courtesan out of nowhere, so I'm sure it will be hard for you to accept that. And me coming here every time might make you mad. I don't want to be forcing you to serve me."
"It's not a force. I belong to you already."
Quincy paused, his heart thudding slightly at her words.
"How about your own feelings? Does your heart belong to me?"
"Do you care about that?"
"Of course I do!" His voice was laced with sincerity now, eyes searching hers. "I care about your feelings. You're not just any regular courtesan that I wanna fuck for fun."
"You don't feel like I'm a prostitute?"
"Harper!" he said, slightly pained. "Because I made you a courtesan doesn't mean you are a prostitute. I just made you one to protect you. I don't think lowly of you, Harper."
"Thank you, Quincy. Thank you for everything."
"I haven't done anything for you, Harper."
"I'm now Blue," she said, eyes flickering with tired emotion.
He smiled gently and whispered, "You will always be my Harper that I have known since a long time ago—my little bro."
"I'm not a bro."
"My big girl!"
She chuckled faintly. "That's more like it."
Quincy's thumb lingered along the edge of her jaw, his touch featherlight as if afraid she'd shatter beneath his fingers. Harper leaned into it without thinking, eyes fluttering closed, breathing uneven. Her body was still weak, but her heart was louder than ever, hammering in her chest like it recognized him—like it had been waiting.
"Kiss me," she whispered again, voice raw, trembling—like the words were scraped from someplace deep inside her.
"What?" he breathed, blinking at her, his heartbeat thudding in his ears.
"You don't want to?" Her voice cracked as she looked away, walls flying up again—walls he'd spent so long trying to reach behind. She folded in on herself like she regretted asking. Like she'd just revealed too much.
"Oh, I want to." His voice was thick with longing, but there was reverence in it too—like she wasn't something to consume, but someone to be held.
He reached for her slowly, deliberately, giving her time to pull away. But she didn't.
His palm cradled her cheek, warm against her cold skin. She looked at him again, lips parted slightly, breath caught in the back of her throat. Their eyes locked—hers vulnerable, questioning; his steady, aching.
"Are you sure?" he asked quietly.
Harper nodded. "Just… don't stop."
His chest tightened. He leaned in, brushing his lips against hers—softly, almost not touching at all. Testing. Waiting.
She exhaled shakily against him, and that was all he needed.
He kissed her—gentle, aching, like he was telling her everything he couldn't say out loud. Like he was apologizing for every moment he hadn't protected her, for every night she had to endure alone, for all the things they lost.
And she kissed him back—hesitant at first, but then with quiet urgency, like she needed to feel something real, something warm, something hers. Her hands found his chest, grabbing at his shirt, and she pulled him closer. He didn't hesitate. He let her take what she needed.
Her fingers tangled in the fabric near his heart, and he deepened the kiss—not rough, not hurried. Just real. His hand moved to the small of her back, drawing her closer, feeling her body shiver under his touch, not from fear, but from the fragile, overwhelming intimacy of it all.
When their lips parted, he didn't move away. Their foreheads touched, breaths mingling, hearts racing. He looked at her with something fierce in his eyes. Not lust. Not even love. Something purer. A kind of devotion.
"I've wanted to do that since the first day I realized you were more than just a shadow behind Ross," he whispered. "Since you stood in front of me and made me see the kind of strength I've never known."
"I didn't think you'd come tonight," she murmured, her voice barely audible. "I thought you'd given up on me."
"Never," he said, firmly. "I didn't come to see a courtesan. I came to save you—my Harper."
She swallowed hard, chest aching. "I'm not her anymore. I don't even know who I am now."
He pressed a kiss to her temple. "You're mine. That's enough for now."
"I'm scared," she admitted, the words slipping out like a wound opening.
"I am too," he replied, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "But I'll be scared with you. I'll face every damn thing with you, Harper. As long as you let me."
And when he kissed her again, it wasn't just passion—it was a promise. One he'd bleed for.
Quincy's hand slid along the edge of her robe, pausing where the fabric parted slightly across her thigh. His touch wasn't rushed—it was deliberate, asking permission with every inch. Harper's breath stuttered, her chest rising as she looked up at him, vulnerability flickering behind her boldness.
He watched her face closely, tracing the lines of her expression, the way her lips parted and her brows furrowed just a little as his hand moved up, brushing the bare skin of her leg.
"I want to feel you," he whispered, voice raw and uneven. "I've wanted this for so long, Harper… but not if it's only because you're hurting."
Her fingers tangled in the front of his shirt, tugging him down again.
"I'm not running from pain right now, Quincy," she said against his lips. "I'm running to you."
His control slipped.
He crushed his mouth to hers, deeper than before, and she welcomed it with a soft moan that echoed into him like a vow. His hand finally slid beneath the robe, palm gliding over the warm curve of her hip, and she arched toward him, instinctive and unguarded. Their bodies moved like they'd known each other forever—like this had always been meant to happen.
The robe slipped from her shoulder and he leaned down, lips brushing her exposed skin—featherlight kisses trailing along her collarbone, her neck, down to the hollow where her pulse raced. She gasped softly when his mouth lingered there, when he sucked gently against the delicate skin, marking her not in claim—but in reverence.
Her hand fumbled with his shirt, pulling it upward, and he helped her strip it off. Her eyes widened slightly at the sight of him—scars and all. Her fingers traced one near his ribs.
"This… from before?"
He nodded.
She leaned forward and kissed it.
That did something to him—broke something tender open. He held her face in both hands, forehead against hers, heart hammering against her chest.
"No one has ever looked at me the way you do," he breathed.
"You make me feel safe," she whispered, pressing her lips to his again. "Even when I don't know how to ask for it."
With that, the rest of the robe slipped away, pooling around her waist. Quincy's breath caught. His gaze swept over her like a prayer. She didn't flinch. Didn't shy away.
She was stripped bare, and yet—for the first time—she wasn't afraid.
He kissed her again, deeper, one hand braced beside her head, the other stroking down the length of her torso, memorizing every curve, every reaction. Harper's hands traveled along his back, nails dragging lightly as her breath hitched in anticipation.
Their legs tangled beneath the quilt as he positioned himself above her, pausing again just to look at her—really look.
"You're beautiful," he said hoarsely.
She swallowed hard, nodding, eyes shimmering with something she wasn't used to showing—trust. "Then don't stop."
When he finally sank into her, it was with slow, reverent precision—like this moment deserved to be felt second by second, heartbeat by heartbeat. She gasped and gripped him tighter, her body arching beneath his as she adjusted to the rhythm of him, the heat, the tension building like a storm long overdue.
They moved together, in sync, as if their bodies had been speaking this language in secret all along. Moans were muffled by kisses, skin slick with heat, their heartbeats thundering like war drums.
He whispered her name like a sacred chant, over and over, holding her face, her waist, her soul—like she was something precious.
And she was.
To him, Harper wasn't a courtesan. She wasn't a survivor. She wasn't the broken girl from the field.
She was everything.
And in that moment, she gave all of herself to him—without shame, without fear.
Only fire.
Only love.
Only them.
The room was still, save for the low hum of the heater and the quiet rhythm of their breathing. Harper lay curled against Quincy's chest, her bare skin warmed by his body and the quilt drawn up around them. A soft layer of sweat still clung to them, but there was no urgency now. No words. Just silence and breath.
Quincy's fingers traced lazy circles on her back, his heartbeat steady beneath her ear. He hadn't let go of her since they finished. It wasn't lust that lingered in his touch now—but something deeper. Fiercer.
Harper's arm was draped over his waist, her cheek pressed to his chest, eyes half-lidded in exhaustion. But sleep wouldn't come yet. Not with her heart still echoing everything they had just shared.
"I didn't know it could feel like that," she whispered, her voice a hushed rasp in the dark.
"Like what?" he asked softly, brushing a kiss into her damp hair.
"Like I wasn't just giving myself away… but getting something back too."
His arm tightened around her. "You weren't giving anything away. You were letting me in. There's a difference, Harper."
A pause. Then she asked, voice smaller this time, "Did I do something wrong?"
Quincy lifted her chin with gentle fingers so he could look into her eyes. "No. You were perfect. Every second of you."
"But I've never—"
He kissed her before she could finish. A slow, lingering kiss meant to quiet the noise in her head. When he pulled back, he held her gaze. "You don't owe me any experience or performance. I don't want that. I just want you. Always."
A flicker of emotion danced behind her eyes. Guilt. Gratitude. Relief. She buried her face in his chest again, clinging a little tighter.
"You stayed," she murmured. "You could've just carried me in and left."
"I would never leave you after something like that," he said, stroking her hair. "You're not a fling to me, Harper. You never were."
She exhaled shakily, the truth of it settling into her bones. For so long, survival had meant being used, forgotten, replaced. But this? This was new. Terrifying. Real.
"Do you regret making me a courtesan?" she asked quietly.
Quincy was silent for a beat. Then, "I regret that it was the only way I could keep you close without putting you in more danger."
Harper tilted her head to look at him, her lashes heavy with sleep. "What if I wanted to be close even without the label?"
He smiled, brushing a knuckle along her cheek. "Then I'll throw the label away. You don't belong to the house. You belong with me."
Harper blinked slowly, her heart thudding louder again—but not from fear this time.
"I'm scared, Quincy," she admitted in a whisper. "Not of you. Of losing this."
"Then don't run," he murmured. "Stay right here. I'm not letting go, Harper. Not now. Not ever."
And in the dim quiet, with her head tucked beneath his chin and his arms wrapped around her like armor, Harper finally let the weight in her chest ease.
Not because she was safe.
But because she was wanted.