THE ALGORITHM OF THE FORBIDDEN HEART

Chapitre 11

I took a step toward her.

"I'm not asking you to love me or to forget. I'm asking you to trust me in the reconstruction process. I'm no longer here for academic analysis. I'm here for you, for your well-being."

I stopped, my gaze fixed on hers. "I must at least try to ask you. Tell me that you will allow yourself to trust me, even for a little thing."

Carla swallowed. She looked at her hands, then at the kittens sleeping on her seat. She took a long moment to answer, but when she did, her voice was faint.

"I... I would like to try too, Dona."

Her answer was timid, but it was there. It was the first true foundation of our relationship.

"Good," I said, a small smile of relief stretching my lips. "Then we'll start with something simple. Trust me to feed you properly tonight."

The rest of the afternoon was a test of patience for me. I respected the pact, maintaining a physical distance while Carla continued to navigate her apartment to ensure her space was still hers. She worked, read, her mind processing the enormity of the confession.

But the raw truth had increased my desire for Carla tenfold. I wanted her. I wanted this fear, this pain, to be consumed by the intensity of my presence, by an intimacy where she would be in control. I want Carla so much, but above all, I don't want to rush her. Every fiber of my being reminded me of the submission strategy she had adopted to survive: sexual violence as the lesser evil. I had to be the absolute counter-example.

Toward sunset, a moment of vulnerability and beauty, Carla went for a swim in her pool. The orange light reflected on the surface, offering a magnificent view of the city that contrasted with the intimacy of her act. She was using the water, as she had the first time, to soothe herself.

I couldn't stay inside. I had to join her. I didn't have a swimsuit, so I went in my underwear to join her. It was an act of reciprocal vulnerability.

I approached the edge.

"Carla?"

She turned, surprised. Her body, half-submerged, was a picture of strength and fragility.

"May I come closer?" I asked, keeping my body outside the water.

She hesitated, then whispered a small yes.

Then, slowly, I entered the water and moved toward her in the pool, making sure every movement was visible and controlled. The water was warm and soothing.

I continued to advance until I touched her arm in the water. It was a gentle caress, without pressure. I immediately noticed that, in the water, it was as if she wasn't rushed by the contact. The liquid element acted as a mediator, a soothing shield.

"Look at me," I asked, my voice low.

I asked her to turn around and face me. She did, her body floating slightly, her eyes fixed on mine.

I took her hands in mine. I looked at her. She is tragically beautiful, but it is above all her resilience that takes my breath away. She is so strong. She is a survivor. She survived a month of hell and rose stronger than most people I know.

But in the midst of this respectful admiration, desire became a powerful wave again. I want her so much, to be consumed by her. To make her body a place of purity and pleasure under her sole control.

"You are so brave," I murmured, gently squeezing her hands underwater. "You don't have to be strong alone anymore."

Then, almost unexpectedly, panic brushed her. She broke eye contact.