I squeeze his hand again, trembling, trying to breathe past the fear clawing at my ribs.
“Trey,” My voice comes out smaller than I intended. “I need you to… marry me.”
For a second everything stops.
The storm behind his eyes—gone.
The air leaves his lungs, slow and measured.
“Sure…” He says after a beat, his tone unreadable. Our palms are slick with sweat, and I feel him try to pull his hand back, but I can’t let go. Not yet. Not until I explain. The words hang between us. My chest pounds so hard it hurts.
“Really?” I ask, hating the way my voice cracks.
Trey lets out a low scoff. “Why do I get the impression that you mean what you said, and think that I do to?”
“You…you don’t want to marry me?”
“Why is that solution number one, Sera?” His voice rises, not angry—bewildered. “Why not, oh, I don’t know, the police?”
“No police!” The words snap out too fast, too sharp. My heart lurches. “They won’t do anything.”
He stares at me. “Why not?”
The room tilts. My stomach twists, a sick, hollow pull. The suffocating weight of it all presses down on my lungs.
I can’t speak. He sees it—the panic—and his expression changes. He pushes back from the table, pacing, muttering under his breath, the words lost in the sound of his boots against the floorboards.
Then he stops.
“Trey?” I whisper.
He turns. His eyes flare bright. For a long moment, the room is nothing but silence—thick, humming silence—and the rasp of my own uneven breathing.
“Why me?” he finally asks. “And why marriage?”
My mouth is dry. The answer tastes like shame and desperation, but I give it anyway.
“Marriage is…absolute. If I’m presumed married, then my father won’t touch me. And Gideon…” my voice falters. “He won’t want me. Not if I’m not…pure.”
Trey blinks. His voice drops low. “You’re serious.”
I nod, swallowing hard. “I can’t wait. Please.”
“You mean, right now?”
He drags a hand through his hair, pacing again, the tension rippling through every movement. His boots scuff the floor, the air thick.
“I just…I need safety.” I whisper. “Protection. I know it’s selfish—”
“Selfish?” He barks out a laugh, sharp and disbelieving. “It’s bananas!”
My breath catches. His pacing slows. He crouches in front of me, resting his tattooed hands on his knees. His gaze searches mine, steady and unflinching.
Then, softly. “Lucky for you, I’m a fan of bananas.”
A shaky sound slips out of me—a laugh, or maybe a sob. I don’t even know anymore.
“You’re sure this is the only option? The best one?”
