His eyes didn’t flicker.
“I do.”
Then he leaned in.
Close.
Low.
“This isn’t about whoyouare, Cloe. This is aboutwhatyou are.”
I didn’t ask. Didn’t speak. Because deep down? I already knew. I was what he chose to keep. Or destroy. And he hadn’t decided yet.
He said it like the rules were already written. Like they didn’t need to be spoken aloud. But he kept going anyway.
“No lies. Not one. Not about what you feel. Not about what you’ve done. Not about what you want.”
I swallowed. It burned.
“You don’t get to use Camille as a shield. Not anymore.”
That hit harder than anything else. I blinked fast. Once. Twice.
He kept going.
“You don’t get to run to Barron. Or Loyal. Or anyone else when it gets hard. You ran to the world once, and it nearly got you killed.” He paused. “Next time, it won’t nearly.”
I opened my mouth.“Wolfe?—”
He raised a hand.
I froze.
He didn’t have to say another word. Then he said one anyway. “You can go.”
I stared at him. Heart stopped.
“You’ve proven you’re good at that,” he said.“Leaving.”The air thinned. “I’m not going to chain you to the floor, Cloe.” My name in his mouth was worse than silence. “I’m not going to chase you next time.”
He stood. Walked around the table. Stopped behind me. His breath slid down the back of my neck like smoke. “If you want to stay, you stay on your knees.” He leaned closer. Not touching. Not threatening. Just final. “Otherwise, the door’s open.”
I didn’t move.
Because I couldn’t tell the difference anymore—between staying and surrendering.
He turned back toward the hallway. I thought he was going to leave. Then I heard my voice break into the silence—uninvited.
“You don’t have to do this. I’m not your responsibility.”
He stopped. Just stood there, spine straight, arms loose at his sides like he was weighing the cost of breaking something.
His voice came quiet. Controlled. Precise. “You’re not my responsibility.” Then softer.“You’re my property.”
The words hollowed me. Not because they were new. But because they weren’t. Because I used to want that. Used to ache for it.
I’d once whisperedI belong to youlike a prayer between his hands—offered it like surrender, hoping it would be enough to keep him. And now that it was back etched in something colder, stripped of reverence and laced with warning.
He didn’t wait for my reaction. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t soften. Just turned toward the hallway and started to walk. And then I did something stupid. Something I didn’t mean to say aloud.
