Nothing form-fitting.
Nothing that might inspire lustful thoughts.
But here—God, here I can see everything.
Can see exactly how he's built.
Can't help but notice the way he moves, all controlled power and predatory grace.
"You don't need to look so terrified," he says quietly, staying near the door. "I'm not going to hurt you."
"You keep saying that."
"Because you keep looking at me like I'm about to."
I pull the robe tighter around myself, trying to create more layers between his gaze and my body. "What do you want?"
His eyes flick to the dresser.
To the unopened box sitting there like an accusation.
"You haven't opened it," he observes.
"I opened the books."
"But not the other box."
"No."
"Why not?"
Because I'm afraid.
Because opening it feels like admitting defeat.
Because I don't know what it means if I'm curious about what's inside.
Because my hands shake every time I reach for it and I end up pulling back at the last second.
"I don't want to," I say instead.
"Liar."
The word is soft.
Not accusatory.
Just... knowing.
Like he can see right through me to all the things I'm trying to hide.
"You don't know what I want," I say, but it sounds defensive even to my own ears.
"Don't I?" He moves closer—not crowding me, but close enough that I have to tilt my head back to look at him.
Close enough that I can smell him, that same expensive cologne mixed with something underneath it that's just him. "You've read both books cover to cover. Mrs. Silva says you've barely eaten the last three days because you've been so absorbed in reading. You're curious, Eden. You want to know if what they say is true."
He's right.
