“No. I can’t kiss you or have sex with you.”
“Until when?” he asked.
“Until I say so.”
He shook his head, his disapproval clear. “I don’t like this rule very much.”
“I gathered,” I said with finality.
We stood there in a standoff. It felt as if the room were shrinking around us because of his disapproval, but this was a line I had to draw, a boundary I needed to uphold, no matter how difficult it might be.
He took another deliberate sip of whiskey, his jaw hardening. “Okay. My turn. Breakfast. You will have it with me every Monday?—”
“EveryMonday—” I tried to interject, my voice trembling slightly.
“Rosalie, it’s my turn.” He cut me off sharply.
“But—”
“No. Taking turns is a respectful thing to do, and it will keep me from yelling.”
He needed to take a good look in the mirror, because it wasn’t me who was doing the interrupting.
“Okay,” I said flatly. I knew it was better to hear him out than to argue. Max may not want to hurt me, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have a temper. I knew what his hands were capable of, and they needed to remain far away from me at all times.
“Breakfast will be at nine every Monday. You will show up on time. We will get to know each other. It’ll help make this transition smoother, especially for you.”
I scoffed. “Oh, as if you’d actually answer any questions I have about you.”
“I will answer every single one of them,” he countered. “Every fear, every doubt, every curiosity. We’ll lay it all out.”
“Why?” I asked. He hardly ever told me anything about himself.
“Because I want you to know the man you’re going to marry.”
A weird feeling waved through me. It was familiar. It was those moths again. He was going to make it difficult for me to stand my ground. I hated how weak I could be with him; how he chipped away at my strength. But a part of me—atiny, rebellious part—was actually curious. Curious about what changes I’d see, and if Max was as full of shit as I thought he was.
“And the same goes for you. You will answer mine,” he continued.
“All right,” I agreed. “We get to know each other. But let’s be clear, this doesn’t change anything. The wedding is still a sham.”
He chuckled, taking another sip of his whiskey. “You exhaust me,” he said in a steady voice.
“Then maybe you should get some sleep. I need a break from you anyway.”
“Your mouth,” he demanded. “You run it too much.”
“Just show me to my room, and I’ll be out of your hair.”
Max made his way to the stairs, grabbing my bags.
When I reached the landing, I realized the hallway branched off in two directions: a west wing and an east wing. He turned toward the west, his broad shoulders momentarily blocking the entire corridor.
At the end of the hallway, he opened the door, letting me walk in before him. The room had vaulted ceilings, with large windows overlooking the water.
Max put my bag on the king-size bed. The duvet was rumpled and the sheets wrinkled as if someone else had already slept in them.
He moved toward the nightstand, reaching behind him to pull a sleek black gun from the waistband of his pants. Then he started taking off his watch—the one that somehow managed to track my every minute.
