“You can’t protect me from everything.”
He huffs out a breath, his careful façade finally breaking. “And what?” he asks. “You think doing this alone will be safer?”
“Maybe I do,” I shoot back. “Maybe we’d be safer away from New York and away from you. I wouldn’t feel like every breath I take is numbered.”
“No.”
That single word cracks through the air like a gunshot. I flinch. He steps close enough to me that I feel the heat radiating off of him. He doesn’t touch me, but the way he looks at me keeps me rooted to the spot.
“You’re not running away from me,” he says, voice low and terrifyingly calm. “You’re not taking our child anywhere.”
“It’s not your choice.”
“The hell it’s not.”
My eyes snap up, and anger surges through me. “Samuil?—”
“I’m the father,” he cuts me off, his calm façade breaking and revealing something much more terrifying. “That’s my blood. My family. You don’t get to decide that I don’t get to be part of my own child’s life because you’re scared.”
His tone isn’t cruel, but it’s absolute. He’s showing me that, once again, I have no say in the matter.
“I feel trapped!” I scream. “I feel like every decision I make is being controlled or monitored or threatened!”
He stares hard at me, searching. “You’re not trapped,” he says sharply. “You’re protected.”
“It feels the same to me,” I reply desperately, trying to make him see. “I’ve told you about my past, about what I’ve been through, and you’re doing the exact same thing. You’re keeping me caged in here like an animal!”
He exhales sharply, as if the words slice straight through him. We stand there staring at each other, tension crackling like a live wire between us. I try to step sideways. To move around him. To go anywhere else. But his hand carefully catches my wrist.
He doesn’t hold it hard enough to hurt me. Truthfully, he doesn’t even hold it so tightly that I couldn’t easily wriggle out of his grasp. It’s like he’s trying to show me that he could cage me in, but he’s giving me choices.
“Molly,” he says, voice rough, “please don’t walk away from me.”
“I can’t do this,” I whisper.
“Yes, you can.”
And when I shake my head, he steps closer, crowding me back until my hips hit the counter.
“Samuil—”
“No,” he murmurs, leaning down, breath brushing my lips. “I’m not trying to cage you in. I never want you to compare me to the assholes who traumatized you in the past. I care about you.”
“I’m scared,” I whisper after a beat.
“I know.” His hands slide to my hips. “Let me fix it.”
“You can’t fix who you are.”
His fingers curl, gripping me harder as his forehead rests against mine. “No,” he murmurs. “But I can show you who I am with you.”
“Samuil…”
His mouth ghosts over mine. All at once, it’s a question, a plea, and maybe even a warning.
I should push him away. I should walk back to the guestroom, close the door, and give myself the space to think.
But the second his lips brush mine, everything inside me unravels. The fear, the anger, and the confusion all melt into heat fierce enough to steal my breath. I kiss him back forcefully, desperately.
