It helps to have a cover story, even when the only witness is a man who has already mapped every inch of my nakedness.
"You know what I want," I say, my voice softer than I mean it to be.
He does not turn.
"Say it anyway."
"An hour each day. Alone. Outside the house."
I see the muscles in his jaw move, the faint twitch at the corner of his eye as he weighs the threat versus the concession.
"I want time in the stables," I continue.
"Unsupervised."
He finally turns.
The lamp is nearly out, and his face is a chiaroscuro of shadow and sharpness, the eyes black hollows, the mouth a narrow line.
"What will you do with it?" he asks.
I shrug, pulling the blanket higher on my thigh.
"Breathe. Think. Maybe plot your downfall if the mood strikes."
He almost smiles, but only with the left side of his mouth.
He crosses the room in two steps, stands close enough that I can see the ragged edge of his cuticle, the fine latticework of old scars on the back of his hand.
He reaches down, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, and holds his fingers there for a moment, thumb pressed to the pulse point.
"You're dangerous," he says, voice low.
"So are you," I answer.
"That's what makes this interesting."
He releases me, steps back, and gives a single nod.
"One hour a day," he says, "unmonitored. If you're not back, I send the dogs."
I lean back into the chaise, tilt my head as if considering the terms.
"That's reasonable."
He heads for the door but pauses with his hand on the knob.
In the half-light, he looks less like a crime lord andmore like a man trying to remember the last time he slept without fear.
"Don't make me regret it," he says.
I trace the spine of the port history with one finger, feeling the groove of the title embossed in gold.
"Regret," I say, "is for the weak."
The door closes with a soft click.
11
