I force it out, cheeks hot. “An overly masculine man?”There.It sounds as dumb as it felt.
He arches a brow, smooth, cool amusement crossing his expression. “An overly masculine man?” His tone is velvety, deep, delicious. “I do hope you mean me.”
“Of course,” I whisper. He never laughs at me, never makes me feel small for how silly my questions can be, never tires of my confusion.
He signals with nothing but a nod at his thigh—the Clay Butcher nod. A command as clear as the pull of a puppet’sstring. “Explain your question for me, little deer. I’m not sure I can decipher this one.”
I kick off my flats and float towards him, barefoot. I climb onto his lap, nestling there, holding the rose between us, spinning it slowly. There are no thorns left. Bronson made sure, plucking them before I ever touched it.
“My foster mother said you have toxic masculinity.” The words feel like, ‘I don’t care.’ To be honest, even if he does, I don’t really care, but he is my everything, so I want to discuss this with him.
His eyes narrow, a cloud passing through, but he is always in control, composure never breaking. I think maybe that word annoyed him, but he’d never burden me with even a tickle of agitation. “What doyoubelieve?”
My shoulders rise and fall with a little shrug. “I don’t know,” I breathe. “That I don’t care either way.” I can’t look at him; the rose is safer.
“Look at me.”
I do.
His stare is so blue, so serious yet—home. “Women like her mistake your submission for weakness,” he says slowly, every word passing between his perfect mouth. The skin shadowed by that salt-and-pepper beard. “Because no one has ever loved them enough to take responsibility for their life, their happiness, their pleasure. Most men now see it as too much pressure; most women see it as too much risk. No trust in capability.”
I sit straighter. “Some women do everything themselves, Sir.”
He smiles, and there is a note of pride in it, mixed with something heavier. “I don’t take care of you because you can’t—I do it because you already have. For too long, and from too young an age. My love isn’t calm, sweet girl. It doesn’t ask. Itisn’t rainfall but a flood. It demands. It’s obsessive, possessive, controlling. You surrender to my guidance, and in return, I shoulder every burden that would ever touch you."
“I understand.”
But I look down again, blonde hair sliding forwards, acting as a shield, partly covering my eyes.
He won’t accept that. “No. I don’t think you do.” With a hand, he tucks my hair behind my ear, and now I have to meet his gaze, those blue eyes scorching me again. “I recall you saying that you liked the movieTitanic.When the Titanic sank, nearly seventy percent of women survived, while less than twenty percent of men did. That was an era of plain masculinity. Not toxic.” His words are measured. “It isn’t masculinity that is toxic, but the individual. What do you think would happen if it sank today?”
I lean into his hand, lingering on my throat, his thumb stroking up and down my pulse. “I don’t know.”
“Men would save themselves, and the modern woman would wrestle for control.”
“But she didn’t before.”
“No.” His hand cups my jaw, soft this time. “Women then accepted authority, and men died for them. Stepped aside for strangers’ wives without a second thought. Is that toxic?”
My answer is swift. “No.”
He nods, gentle. “Not all masculinity is toxic, and chivalry is daily devotion.” He draws me closer until I feel his warmth, his presence like a heavy blanket. “I open your car door because I’ve already checked for danger. I pull out your chair to let you know you’re welcome, that you belong beside me. I order your meal because I want you relaxed, and I know what you need. Do you think men do that anymore?”
“They do for me.” I beam at him.
He nods, just once. “Yes, sweet girl. For you.” A single kisslands on my forehead, soft as a sigh, and his breath drifts over my skin, touched with sweet-smoke and warmth. “Am I ever unfair to you or with you?”
“No,” I admit.
“Good.” He leans back to stare at me. “You will use your voice if I ever am.”
“Yes.”
“I have two things to complete, then I’ll come to you.” His gaze flicks to the door behind me, dismissing me.
I pout, but slip from his lap, sulking towards the door, making sure he notices…
“Little deer?”
