I swallow hard, my chest tightening. Last night was supposed to be a line I swore I’d never cross. I told Constance and Adelaide that I would keep my head down. That I would see out the next six months. And yet here I am—tangled in his sheets, tangled in him, wondering when I stopped fighting and started falling.
I think of Benny, of how I thought he could be my freedom. Of his kindness and his gentle words. Then I wonder whether he could have ever made me feel how Jacob did last night. Was it the possessiveness in Jacob, his brutality and his demanding words that made me feel so alive?
Part of me feels guilty—embarrassed that I let this happen. That I didn’t put up a fight and tell Jacob no. But it happened, and the worst thing is, I don’t regret it one bit.
The floorboards creak when I step into the hall. But I don’t feel like I need to hide today.
The bathroom mirror catches me off-guard. I look older. Like something inside me hardened overnight. My skin is still flushed, marked faintly with fingerprints that don’t quite bruise, but don’t disappear either. My lips—redder than I remember. My neck—kissed raw. And my eyes… there’s something alive in them. Something dangerous.
I brush my hair back, take a breath and make a promise to myself.
Today, I’ll play it differently. Today, I won’t shrink.
Because if this thing between us is turning into something else, I want to be ready. I want to keep my guard up and still be able to walk away when the time is right. If he decides to dress this in flowers, then I’ll wear a dress made of thorns. Let him see the woman I really am and not the cowardly little girl who backs away from him in fear.
I make my way through to the kitchen to make coffee, the way he likes it. Bitter. Strong. No sugar. A peace offering. A thank you for giving without taking.
When he finally appears, shirtless, hair damp from the shower,the doorway becomes a frame built just for him. He doesn’t step in right away. He stands there, watching me, gaze slow and assessing, like he’s stripping me bare without lifting a finger.
“Morning,” I manage, pushing the mug toward him like it’s some kind of shield. Like I didn’t fall asleep in his bed, tangled in his arms. Like my thighs aren’t still trembling with the aftershocks of what he dragged out of me.
He takes it without breaking eye contact, fingers brushing mine. Silent. Heavy. The kind of silence that isn’t empty—it’s full, thick, stretching tight between us until I want to squirm.
Then, finally, his voice. “We’re going out tonight.”
Not a question. Not a suggestion. A command, as sure and cold as the badge he wears.
I blink at him. “Out?”
“Dinner.” His tone makes the word sound foreign in his mouth, like he doesn’t even like the taste of it. “Somewhere decent. Wear something nice.”
My grip tightens around my own mug, porcelain pressing deep into my palms. Dinner. This is different. He doesn’t do dates. He doesn’t do gestures. He does control. He does possession. He does violence stitched into tenderness so tight you can’t tell which is which until it’s too late. But this—this is something else. And it terrifies me more than his temper. Because if he starts being nice—if he starts playing the part of the man he could have been instead of the one he is—I might never want to leave.
Right now, it’s lust. It’s hunger wrapped in hate, and I still believe I’ll leave when the chance comes. But if he’s really trying—if he starts giving me the things I once dreamed about—then it won’t just be dangerous. It’ll be ruin.
Still, my lips shape the word before I can stop them. “Okay.”
The hours stretch long.
Jacob doesn’t go into the office. He says he’s “working from home,” which in his language means keeping me in his line of sight. He moves through the house with the same controlled precision he does everywhere else—answering calls, jotting down notes,holstering his gun every time the phone rings like he’s waiting for trouble to walk straight through the door.
And me? I circle the edges of his world like a ghost. I make coffee. Fold laundry. Try to read a book but end up staring at the same line until the words blur.
My skin hums, restless, from last night. From this morning. From the fact he hasn’t touched me since.
Every time I catch his eyes on me—across the kitchen table, from the couch, through the reflection in the hallway mirror—my chest tightens. He doesn’t say a word about what happened. Doesn’t acknowledge it. It’s like he’s daring me to break first, to bring it up, to admit how badly my body remembers his hands.
By mid-afternoon, the silence has grown claws.
“Why are we going out tonight?” I ask, folding the same dish towel for the third time just to keep my hands busy. “Since yesterday you’ve been—” I choke on the word, “different.”
He cocks a brow at me, and something flickers in his eyes—amusement, maybe, or warning. Without a word, he pushes his chair back with a slow, scraping drag that makes my skin prickle. Three strides and he’s in front of me, so close I have to tilt my head back to see him.
“Different?” he says softly, brow lifting again, voice like silk pulled over barbed wire. “I’m taking you out. Wine. Dinner. I’m making an effort for you.”
The jump I feel between my legs almost makes me collapse onto the floor. I feel crimson flushing up my cheeks, and suddenly realize I’m holding my breath.
“I want every pair of eyes in this town on you,” he says, his voice low, a growl threaded with something colder. “Watching. Remembering you belong to me. Knowing I’m the one who takes you home. After the other night?—”
