"Useful," he says finally. "Capable. Mine." His grip tightens. "But also... more."
The tavern. The way I slipped into that role without effort. Made myself small and hungry and desperate. Einar looking at me and seeing exactly what I wanted him to see.
I've been doing that my whole life. Being what people need me to be. The difference is I usually hated every second of it.
Today I didn't.
That's either growth or a warning sign. Possibly both.
"I didn't hate it," I admit. "The work."
Something lights up in his face—pride and possession and that hunger, all tangled together in a way that should terrify me more than it does.
"Good," he says. "Because there will be more."
He pulls me closer. Arms around me, hands splayed across my back, face buried in my hair. Breathing me in.
I let myself sink into it. Just for a minute. Just because my feet hurt and I spent four hours being someone else and his arms are warm and I'm tired.
That's the only reason.
Shut up.
"Don't laugh with him like that," he murmurs against my hair. "Not when I'm not there."
I pull back. "You're jealous. Of Renan. Your best friend. Who spent the whole day making fun of me."
"I didn't say it was rational."
"It's insane."
"Yes."
"Don't do it anyway."
"That's—" I stop. Breathe. "You can't just tell me not to laugh with people."
"I know."
"It's controlling and possessive and completely unreasonable."
"I know."
"And you're asking anyway."
His arms tighten. That edge of desperation—the fear of losing, the need to hold. "Yes."
I should argue. Should push back. Should establish some goddamn boundaries like a person with self-respect.
Instead I hear myself say: "You're exhausting."
"I know."
"This isn't a yes."
"It's not a no either." His voice is rough. "I'll take it."
We stand there in the entrance hall, his arms around me, my face pressed against his chest. His heartbeat is too fast. Mine probably is too.
