Not in case he decided to try to escape. Because heneededme, and I wasn’t going to fail him again — not then, not ever.
Logically, I knew it was impossible, especially givenour… relationship. I would hurt him again. I would hurt him every day I kept him here against his will. I might see these tears again simply because he was homesick, and I…
I didn’t know if I could handle it.
I swallowed hard, not liking that realization one bit.
Set him free.
I couldn’t. I could never let him go. My life had become one of pained solitude as it was. I couldn’t handle the idea of living in prison for the rest of my days. Something inside of me insisted that I was trapping him in his own prison, but at least he wasn’t stuck in a small cell.
Not anymore.
I exhaled slowly, kissing the top of his head again. It was selfish, but I didn’t want to go to jail. I didn’t want to admit that this might’ve been a mistake. Maybe I should’ve just hired some whore to pretend. Maybe I should’ve swept someone out of a bad situation and used their gratitude to bind them to me.
But I’d chosen this path, and now I had to walk it.
It was selfish, but I didn’t want to walk it alone.
“I’m okay,” he finally said, the words muffled against my shirt. He squirmed, and I relaxed my grip enough to where he could pull back.
I stroked his hair as he did, and he watched me.
I couldn’t read his expression, but his eyes were swollen, red specks dotting his skin around them from the force of his tears.
Guilt rose within me once more, and I sighed. I let my arms fall away from him, giving him the freedom to pull away, but he stayed where he was. Slowly, I brought my hand back up, running it down his back again. He didn’t flinch, didn’t move. He only continued to watch me withthat unreadable look, leaving me with no idea what he was thinking or feeling.
“You aren’t okay,” I said quietly.
“I feel better now,” he said.
Was it because he’d finally cried it all out? Or because I’d gone and gotten him? Maybe I hadn’t done as much damage as I’d thought. Maybe…
“You don’t have to lie to me,” I told him with a sigh. “Not now. Not here.”
“Thank you for not leaving me down there,” he said instead of responding to my words. “I was scared.”
I didn’t know if there was accusation in his voice or if it was something else — but I deserved it. I felt like a chastised puppy myself in that moment, subdued and aware I’d fucked up but not sure how to make it better.
“I…” I didn’t know if I could say the words. But didn’t I owe it to him? Didn’t he deserve to hear it? “I’m sorry,” I choked out, the words bitter and tasting bad.
“Are you?” he asked softly, the words weighted in a way I couldn’t identify.
I nodded.
He sighed, but he didn’t speak again.
Several moments passed, and I finally said, “Would you like me to bring you dinner in bed?”
He started, looking at me with a strange expression. “What?”
“Dinner,” I repeated. “In bed. You can stay here and rest, then we’ll have dinner, then you can take a bath. Would you like that?”
“You can’t buy me off like that,” he whispered, his voice catching. “You can’t do that and expect me to be okay with it.”
The words were unexpected, and familiar anger threatenedto creep up within me. He was still mine, and if I wanted to hurt him, I could. If I wanted to spoil him, I could.
So why was it so difficult to endure the subtle challenge? It should’ve been easy.
