"Your presence at meals. Your company in the evenings. Your willingness to engage when I speak to you."
"That's all?"
His mouth curves. "For now."
There it is.
The catch.
"What does 'for now' mean?"
"It means we'll renegotiate as things progress."
"What things?"
He reaches out. Slowly. Giving me time to pull away.
I don't.
His fingers brush my cheek.
Tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.
The touch is gentle.
Almost tender.
I hate that it makes my pulse spike.
"When you're ready," he says, "I'm going to teach you what your body can do. What pleasure feels like when you're not taught to fear it."
My face burns. "I'm not—I don't want?—"
"Not yet," he agrees. "But you will."
"You're wrong."
"We'll see."
He steps back, returns to his seat and picks up his newspaper like nothing happened.
Like he didn't just promise to— to?—
I can't even think it.
"Eat your breakfast, Eden."
My hands are shaking.
I pick up my fork.
Hate myself for it.
Hate him more.
But I eat.
Because he's right about one thing: I can't survive on stubbornness alone.
