"Are you? Because from where I'm standing, you're still making decisions for me. About me and without me." I sit back down on the window bench. I am so tired. "You want me to be a weapon. Fine. But who's holding the weapon, Saint? Who's aiming it? Who decides when and where and how it's used?"
He doesn't answer because he doesn't have an answer. Not one that I would accept. And Saint is a lot of things, but he's not stupid.
"You do. It's always you. Because you're the Don. You're in charge. And I'm just..." I trail off. "Your wife."
Silence. Long. Heavy.
"What do you want?" he finally asks. "Really. Tell me what you want."
"I want to matter. Really matter. Not as your wife. Not as decoration. Not as a tool you pull out when convenient." I look at him. "I want to be your equal."
"You can't be my equal in the family. No one is?—"
"I know. I understand how this works." I lean forward. "But in here? In this marriage? In our partnership? I want to be equal. I want to be trusted. Consulted. Respected. Not managed."
"I do respect you?—"
"Then why did you send me away last night?"
He blows up before I can even think to expect it. "Because I needed you safe! Because I couldn't think straight with you there. Because if something happened to you—" His voice breaks, and he's panting. "I can't lose you, Gemma. I can't. And when you're in danger, I don't think. I just react. I just try to protect you."
I close my eyes. His words, they make me melt, but I need to be strong.
"I don't need protection. I need trust."
"I do trust you?—"
"No. You don't." I stand again, walking towards him. "You love me. But you love me like I'm something fragile. Something to keep safe. And I'm not. I proved that when I killed Alexei."
He takes my hands. His calloused thumb plays across my knuckles. "That's not—you're twisting what I'm saying?—"
"Am I? Because it sounds like you want a weapon you can control. A partner you can manage. A wife who's dangerous but obedient. And I can't be that, Saint. I can't be dangerous on command and docile the rest of the time."
"What do you want from me?" His voice is raw. "Tell me. What the fuck do you want me to do?"
"I want you to stop deciding for me! I want you to ask instead of order. To discuss instead of decree." I move closer to him. "I want you to see me as an actual equal. Not someone to protect. Not someone to use. Someone to partner with. Really partner with."
"I'm trying?—"
"Are you?" "Tears are streaming down my face now. "You say you love me. But you don't act like it. You act like you love the idea of me. The potential. Not the actual person standing in front of you."
"That's not true?—"
"Then prove it." I step back. "Stop talking about what I could be. What I should be. What you want me to be. And start asking what I actually am. What I actually want."
He stares at me. Lost. Confused. Hurt.
"I don't know how," he finally says. Quiet. Broken. "I don't know how to do this. How to love you without trying to protect you. How to trust you without controlling you. It's not in mynature to love, Gemma. And when I do, it's going to look like this."
And there it is. The truth.
He doesn't know how to love me and let me be free.
"Then we need to figure it out," I say. "Because I can't do it this way."
"I don't want you under my control?—"
"Don't you?" I tilt my head. "Be honest, Saint. Really honest. Don't you want to know where I am? What I'm doing? That I'm safe and protected and not making decisions that scare you?"
