He doesn’t speak.
Not a word.
Just a slow exhale against my cheek, warm enough to sting.
My pulse jumps, a violent jolt of fear tangled with something hotter and far more dangerous.
His thumb traces the corner of my mouth.
I suck in a breath, shaking.
“Noah,” I whisper again, softer this time, pleading, not sure for what — mercy, control, answers, anything. “Please talk to me.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Intentional.
A punishment.
His hand slips to my throat — not squeezing, not hurting, just resting there, the weight of his palm and fingers enough to make my breath hitch, enough to remind me of the ring he wants on my finger and the vow he expects me to speak in front of strangers and God.
“You’re angry,” I whisper into the dark. “I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t—” My voice breaks.
His grip tightens slightly.
My breath fractures.
Heat floods my chest.
Something I should not feel in the hands of my future husband.
Something I’ve only ever felt in the hands of one man.
No.
No, it’s Noah.
It has to be Noah.
A fingertip traces the locket on my chest, the metal shifting against my skin.
I flinch.
I can’t help it.
His breath moves to my ear, slow and warm, brushing the sensitive edge of my skin, stealing another shiver from me so easily I hate myself for giving it.
My hands tremble in my lap.
I squeeze them together, trying not to reach for him, trying not to show the weakness he feeds on.
“You scared me,” I whisper. Darkness presses against me like a body. “You—” my breath shakes, “—you always scare me when you’re quiet.”
He still doesn’t speak.
Just presses a hand to my waist, sliding me backward along the floor until my shoulders hit the wall again, the cool stone shocking enough to rip a soft gasp from my throat.
