“Let this be the last time you mention time limits,” he said, stepping closer, crowding my space without touching me yet. “We’re married. That’s the reality everyone else sees. That’s the only thing that matters.”
I tried to step back, needing air—space that wasn’t saturated with him—but his hand shot out, fingers closing around my waist like iron bands.
He pulled me forward instead.
The contact stole my breath. Not because it was rough—but because it was controlled. Because I could feel the restraint in it, the choice not to grip harder.
“Don’t touch me,” I said, planting my palm flat against his chest.
His heart was hammering beneath my hand.
That—more than anything—shook me.
His grip loosened. Not releasing me. Just enough to acknowledge the line.
“You tempt me,” he said, eyes dropping briefly—not leering, not devouring, but cataloguing, as if he were fighting instinct itself.
“I surely do not intend to,” I shot back, keeping my voice steady despite the heat rising in my chest. “You were the one who barged into my room. Uninvited. Unannounced.”
“This is my room too.”
“No,” I said evenly. “This is the room you assigned me. And you don’t get to claim me just because it’s convenient.”
Silence stretched between us, taut and humming.
Finally, he let go.
The loss of his warmth felt wrong—my body registering the absence before my mind caught up, and I hated myself for it.
He took a step back, dragging a hand through his hair, frustration etched into every line of him.
I adjusted my grip on the towel, suddenly aware of the steam fading, the vulnerability of standing half-naked before a man who’d once known every inch of me.
“If you’re done checking on me,” I said, “you should leave.”
He hesitated.
Then he stepped closer—but stopped a careful distance away this time. Intentional. Controlled.
“You smell like soap and lake water,” he said quietly. “You always—”
He cut himself off.
The silence that followed was heavier than before.
“I’m not her,” I said, my voice steady despite the ache blooming behind my ribs. “And I will not replace her. If that’s what you think this marriage is—”
“It’s not,” he said immediately. Too fast. Too sharp. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
Something dark and edged flickered across his face—not quite a smile, but close enough to be dangerous.
“Get dressed,” he said. “Dinner in an hour.”
“I have no intention of eating with you,” I replied, voice steady. “Husband or not, for the duration of this marriage. It isn’t in the contract—but it is what I want.”
His eyes darkened. “You will eat where I say. You will eat when I say.” He paused, the silence sharp and deliberate, then added, low and controlled, “And you will eat with me, at my table, every single day, Pen.”
It wasn’t a suggestion. It wasn’t a request.
