Good.
I keep my expression neutral, careful not to rush this. I give him time to decide. Then I shrug as much as the restraints allow, letting my eyes travel over him in a way that makes my intent unmistakable.
“I think you already know,” I say evenly. “If this is how things are going to be, maybe we don’t have to make it worse.”
I hold his gaze and wait. This part only works if he chooses it too.
“And what exactly would you like to get out of this?”
“I’m not asking for freedom,” I say quietly. “Just… something that makes this easier to endure.”
He studies me for a long moment, unreadable. Whatever decision he’s making, he doesn’t rush it. Then his mouth curves slightly, not amused, but interested.
His hand moves to finally make contact with me. His hand lifts, pauses inches from my arm, then settles against my skin, fingers warm and deliberate as they slide slowly downward.
The touch sends a shiver through me, and I hate myself for it, hate that my body responds even as my mind rebels. But I hold my reaction in check, willing myself to stay calm, to play along. I want to make him want me.
His expression tightens, focus snapping into place, searching my face, as if he’s trying to decide if I’m being genuine or playing him.
“Trying to change the terms,” he says quietly.
I meet his stare, holding it steady while letting a hint of innocence slip into my expression. “Not change the terms so much as maybe I’m just tired of lying here waiting for things to get worse.”
The faintest hint of something crosses his face. Is it amusement, or intrigue? I can’t tell. But he’s leaning in closer as his hand rests on my shoulder now, and his thumb brushes against my collarbone.
His touch is both possessive and permissive. He’s testing me, watching how I react, seeing if I’ll break under his touch.
Maybe I will, eventually. But not now. Right now, I hold myself still, forcing my body into compliance even as my mind stays sharp, already planning how to turn this to my advantage.
This is the one advantage I still have.
The weight of his hand on my shoulder sends a sharp reaction through me, equal parts tension and awareness. It’s steady and deliberate, not hesitant. Not accidental.
I hate that my body registers it at all.
I do not trust him. I should not want this proximity. And yet the pull between us exists in this confined space where neither of us stops.
His touch is controlled, confident in a way that leaves no doubt about who holds the power here. It should repel me. Instead, it sparks something low and unwelcome, a response I did not ask for and cannot ignore.
Up close, he is undeniably attractive, all hard lines and restraint. A full, dark beard on his jaw. His eyes are sharpand intent, focused on my face, not my body, as if he is refusing to let this go somewhere too quickly.
That self-control is what makes this dangerous.
His hand leaves my shoulder. The absence registers immediately. For a moment, nothing happens. Then his fingers return, resting there again, light enough that I could shrug him away if I wanted to.
I don’t.
His attention sharpens. Not eager or indulgent, but assessing.
His hand drifts to my upper arm and stops, and he waits for my reaction.
The pause stretches, the moment charged. My breathing goes uneven, anger and calculation tangling together. This is the line. I know it.
So does he.
I shift slightly, not in surrender, but in invitation. His fingers tighten once, then loosen again.
“Careful,” he says quietly.
