I set down my glass. "This is dinner. Nothing more."
"I'm aware."
"I won't decide tonight if I'm marrying you." The words come out harder than I intended. Good. Let him hear the steel. "I have rules."
"What rules?" His voice drops, interested.
"Three months."
"Three months," he repeats.
"I need to spend time with any candidate before I agree to marry him. Get to know him. See if I can actually tolerate sharing a life with someone." I meet his gaze directly. "I'll do this with every candidate. Not just you."
"Three months of what, exactly?"
"Dates. Conversations. Seeing how you handle situations." I lean back in my chair, deliberately casual. "Seeing if you can go five minutes without threatening to kill someone."
"That seems unlikely."
Was that a joke?His expression gives nothing away, but there's something in his eyes. A glint of dark humor.
"Then you'll fail the test," I say sweetly.
"I don't fail."
"Everyone fails eventually."
He studies me for a long moment. The candlelight catches the silver threading through his dark hair, the scar bisecting his left eyebrow. Up close, he looks exactly like what he is: a man built for violence who learned to wear expensive suits.
"Three months," he says finally. "And during these three months, you'll be evaluating other men as well?"
"That's the arrangement."
His fingers drum once on the tablecloth. A single, controlled tap. "I have a counter-proposal."
"This isn't a negotiation."
"Everything is a negotiation." He leans forward, forearms resting on the table. "Three months. I'll follow your rules. But during that time, you evaluate only me."
"That defeats the purpose?—"
"If I fail your tests, you can pursue other candidates afterward. But give me three months first." His voice is low, certain. "If I can't convince you in ninety days, I'll withdraw my proposal myself."
I should say no. This is manipulation again—him trying to control the situation, limit my options, box me into a corner.
But there's a hint of what looks almost like desperation in his eyes, quickly hidden.
"Why?" I ask. "Why does it matter if I see other men during the evaluation?"
"Because I don't share."
The words hang between us. Simple. Absolute. Not a threat this time—just truth.
He doesn't share.
My pulse kicks up. I ignore it.
"I'll consider your counter-proposal," I say. "But I'm not agreeing to anything tonight."
