I don't fight. I lie on his chest, listening to his heart slow.
He rubs his hand over my hip and asks, "What's your plan?"
"My plan?"
"Now that you have your seat."
It catches me off guard. I don't answer for a moment, but finally say, "I'm not sure what you're asking me."
He turns me into him, pins his gaze on me, and asserts, "Let me know when you figure it out. I'm going to take a shower. Just remember, you and I are in this together now." He kisses me on the lips and gets off the bed.
I'm stunned, not sure what he means.
Brax stares back for a second too long before he steps away, like nothing between us just detonated. He gets to the door and spins. His voice is low. "Figure out what you want, Minx. If you don't, they'll figure it out for you."
"Is that a threat?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "No. Whatever path you choose next, I'm on it with you. But don't let them determine your fate." He disappears into the bathroom.
I stay frozen, pulse thundering, the sheets still warm with everything we just did.
All I ever wanted was to claim my seat. It was my only purpose, and Brax somehow just shifted the ground beneath me with one question.
I don't know how to answer it. I don't even know if I really understand what he's asking. And there's something else rattling me.
Together.
It's a word that's a warning and a temptation. I breathe it out slowly, steadying myself. I may not know what comes next, but one truth is undeniable.
Whatever this marriage was supposed to be, it's already becoming something far more dangerous. I'm only supposed to count on myself. I'm unsure how to even entertain the layers of complication that one word implies.
He threw two wildcards into the mix. When he's done showering, he comes out, tosses on a pair of gray sweatpants. He acts like he didn't just flip my entire world upside down and declares, "I'm hungry. Want some pancakes?"
20
Brax
The smell of pancakes has never done unholy things to my blood pressure. But my wife's standing barefoot in my kitchen, wearing nothing but my T-shirt, watching me flip a hotcake with hawk eyes. Her hair is a mess of dark curls down her back, wild and sleep-rumpled, and her long, bare legs gave me another raging hard-on the minute she stepped into the kitchen.
She points at the dark edge. "You're burning them."
"No I'm not. That's called carmelization," I claim, but she's right. Her damn legs distracted me for too long.
She snorts, "You're stubborn."
"And you're bossy," I retort.
"It's called being correct." She grabs the flipper out of my hand and slides severalpancakes onto plates with a flick of her wrist like she's on a cooking show.
I slather butter all over them and grab the syrup. I drown my pile in it.
She grabs the syrup. "Savesome for me."
I stare at her, deadpan. "I will drown you in the bottle if you ever take my syrup away again."
Her lips twitch. "This is a better option anyway." She reaches for the whipped cream.
I order, "Put that down!"
