"Of this. Whatever this is. You're terrified." A bitter laugh escapes him. "Makes two of us."
He's right, and I hate that he can read me so easily. I've spent forty years perfecting my mask, my control, the impenetrable walls around my heart. One human shouldn't be able to crack them after a couple days.
But he has.
"I don't do this," I say. "Get close to anyone. Let people in. After my husband died, I promised myself I'd stay alone."
"Then why break that promise now? For a bull?" The word is bitter on his tongue.
"Because you're not just a bull." The truth spills out, unstoppable. "You haven't been since I saw you on that auction block. I told myself you were, tried to convince myself, but I've been lying from the start."
Oliver's expression shifts before he shuts it down. "Don't. Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Make me hope." His voice is rough, almost broken. "It's cruel. I can handle being property. Can handle being used. But don't make me hope for something more and then rip it away."
The pain in his words cuts deeper than any blade could. I stand abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor. "You should go back to your room."
"Yeah. I should." But he doesn't move.
Neither do I.
We stare at each other across the table, the food forgotten, everything forgotten except this moment. This impossible, dangerous moment where I could step back and rebuild my walls, or I could step forward and let them crumble completely.
"Primsyn?" My name is a question on his lips. A plea.
I move before I can think better of it, rounding the table until I'm standing beside his chair. He looks up at me, his breath coming faster, a mix of confusion and desire written all over his face.
"I don't know what I'm doing," I admit. "I don't have a plan. I just know sending you back to your room right now feels wrong."
"Everything about this is wrong." But his hand reaches out, his fingers brushing the silk of my skirt. "We're wrong."
"I know."
"I should hate you."
"I know that too."
His hand fists in the fabric, pulling me closer. "Idohate you."
"Yes." I lean down, my face inches from his. "But that's not all you feel."
"No," he breathes. "It's not."
The kiss happens without conscious decision, without thought or planning. Just his mouth on mine, desperate and demanding, tasting like anger and want. My hands tangle in his hair, his grip on my waist tight enough to bruise.
It's nothing like last night. This is raw and messy and real; all the walls we've both been hiding behind crash down at once.
Oliver stands without breaking the kiss, his body pressing mine back against the table. Dishes clatter, a glass tips over, but neither of us cares. His hands are everywhere, like he needs to prove I'm real.
"This is insane," he mutters against my mouth.
"Completely." I bite his lower lip, making him groan.
"We shouldn't..."
"I know."
