She studies my face in the pale morning light, her dainty fingers tracing the line of my jaw.
"What's wrong?" Her voice is gentle but insistent.
"I swore I'd never become like him," I say, unable to meet her eyes. The words come out before I can stop them, plain and honest. "But what I feel for you, it's so intense it scares me."
"So you have feelings for me?" she asks, her eyes wide and her lips curving into an almost shy smile.
I want to scoff at that. Do I have feelings for her? The word is too small, too casual for what I feel.
“Feelings? I don’t have feelings for you.” I shake my head, and I see her smile falter and leave her beautiful, perfect face. My free hand grips her hip tighter and I press her against me. “You consume me entirely. You’re my mate, Rona. You’re the very center of my entire universe. Nothing compares to you. Nothing ever will.”
Her eyes widen, and her mouth falls open at my words. I wish I could regret them, but I don’t. It’s the truth, and she deserves it. She deserves more than that. She deserves the entire world.
“Wow.” She blinks, then her lips lift in that sexy smile that fills my veins with fire all over again. “That’s a lot to take in.”
“I know, but it’s how ogres are,” I say simply. “I know you’re human and that you’re different, so there’s no pressure for you to answer right away. I can wait.”
She exhales and looks at me with those wide eyes. Like she can’t believe what she’s hearing.
“You’re unbelievable.” She shakes her head. “Everyone in my life always wanted to control me. I’ve been told what to do, whatto wear, what to think for as long as I can remember. But you’re not going to do that, are you?”
This time, it’s my turn to shake my head, wordless. I’ve never considered this aspect of her life. She’s been sheltered and spoiled, given all opportunities by her wealthy mother, but she’s never been given a choice. In a sense, she’s never been free.
She fits against my chest like she was made to be there, her breath warm through my shirt. When she speaks, her mouth brushes my skin, each word a tremor I feel as much as hear.
"I've never been just myself, you know?" she whispers. "I've always been an accessory to Mom's career. Something to be polished and posed and photographed when it was convenient, then put back on the shelf for later use."
My hand pauses at the small of her back for just a heartbeat before I make myself move again in slow circles. I keep my voice low so it doesn’t spook her. "I’m listening," I say.
And I am. Every inch of me is tuned to her: the flutter of her pulse under my palm, the tightness in her breath, the scent of her sudden sadness.
"I never even wanted to study business," she says, words spilling fast, like a dam finally giving way. "I wanted to be an artist. I used to paint every day when I was younger. Watercolors, oils, anything I could get my hands on. I'd lose myself for hours, just me and the canvas and all these colors. I loved every minute of it."
She says it like a confession, and it lands heavy. I know she has talent. I’ve seen her drawings.
"What happened?" I ask.
"Mom called it frivolous." Bitterness edges her voice. “She said I needed to 'get serious' about my future. That art was a nice hobby, but I had responsibilities, a legacy to uphold. So I did what was expected of me. I gave it up.” She laughs, humorless. “Just like that.”
Heat climbs my spine, the old, ugly anger that comes when adults carve children into shapes that fit their own ambitions. I make sure my tone is even, but there’s iron under it.
"It was wrong of your mom to try to shape your future," I tell her. "Children should be free to build their own paths."
She looks up, eyes glossy and too brave for someone who’s been told to shrink. The sight presses on my ribs.
"I feel like I have no control over my life," she whispers. "Like I'm just this thing that gets moved around wherever other people think I should be. And I hate that I'm not strong enough to stand up to her. I hate that I'm twenty-three years old and I still do whatever my mother tells me to do because I'm too weak to hold my own."
Something in me snaps taut. "Stop." The word is out before I can soften it, sharp as a blade because gentler edges won’t cut this lie free. My jaw locks, and I feel my eyes heat, vision tipping toward that vivid red that betrays too much. "Don't talk about yourself that way."
"But it's true."
"It's not." I frame her face, careful with my thumbs as they catch the wetness on her cheeks where silent tears fell down. "Choosing peace in a house that leaves no room for anything else isn't weakness, Rona. It's survival. And art isn't frivolous if it's the thing that makes you feel true."
She searches my face like she’s waiting for me to add something. To add some criticism or some conditions to my support. There isn’t one. I would cheer her on whatever the path she chose. Because she’s my mate and her happiness is all that matters.
"Do you mean it?" she asks, small but steady.
I don’t look away. The answer is the only thing in me. "You are strong and you are fierce, and if you ever talk about yourself that way again, I'll put you over my knee and spank you until you learn your lesson. And that’s an ogre’s promise."
