The words make me flinch. “This isn’t my home.”
“It will be. For now, at least.” He takes my bag, sets it on a black leather sofa, and gestures toward a hallway. “The guest room is the second door on the right. Private bathroom attached. You’ll have your own space.”
I blink at him. “I get my own room?”
“What did you think? That I was going to chain you to my bed?”
The mental image makes my cheeks flush, and I quickly look away. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”
“Fair enough.” He heads toward the kitchen. “Are you hungry? I can have my chef cook you something.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You should eat anyway. It’s been a long day.”
“Stop telling me what to do.” I drop onto the sofa beside my bag, suddenly exhausted. “I’m so sick of being told what to do.”
He pauses mid-step and turns back to face me. For a long moment, he just looks at me, and I can’t read what’s going on behind those ice-blue eyes.
“I know this isn’t what you wanted,” he finally concedes. “I know you feel like I’ve taken everything from you. Your autonomy. Your choices. Your life as you knew it.”
“That’s exactly what you’ve done.”
“Maybe, but despite what you believe, I haven’t taken your freedom. I meant what I said before. You can still go to work, see your friends, and live your life. The only difference is that you’ll have protection when you do.”
I narrow my eyes. “What kind of protection?”
“Bodyguards. One or two, depending on where you’re going. They’ll keep their distance unless there’s a problem.”
“Bodyguards.” I let out a disbelieving laugh. “You want me to walk around with bodyguards following me everywhere.”
“Staying alive will require some adjustments to your routine. I’d say it’s a fair trade.”
“And what if I refuse? What if I just walk out that door right now and go back to my apartment?”
He just shrugs and answers, “Then I’ll have someone watching your building around the clock. Less convenient for both of us, but the result is the same.”
“So I’m a prisoner either way.”
He pushes off the counter and closes the distance between us. I resist the urge to shrink back into the sofa cushions as he stops a few feet away.
“Kirsten, you’re my wife, and I take that seriously. I’m not going to lock you in a tower or forbid you from living your life. All I ask is that you let me keep you safe while we figure out how to handle Wallace and Tillman.”
“And after that? After they’re dealt with?”
He pauses. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
It’s not the answer I want. Not even close. But something in his tone makes me believe he’s telling the truth about the rest of it. That he really will let me work and go out and maintain some semblance of normalcy.
Not that any of this is normal.
I drag a hand through my fine hair and let out a sigh. “I don’t even know if I can trust you, Menlow.”
“You shouldn’t. Not yet. Trust is earned. I intend to earn yours.”
I don’t know how to respond to that. In my mind, there’s no possible way to reconcile the man standing in front of me with the criminal he claims to be. He speaks about protection and safety like they’re gifts he’s offering, but all I can see is what he’s taken away.
My choice. My consent. My right to decide my own future.
