Then back up.
“Then prove it.”
My fingers curl at my sides. God, he’s infuriating.
“You don’t get to talk to me like that,” I say, but my voice isn’t as steady as I want it to be.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m—” I gesture between us, frustration boiling over. “Like I belong to you.”
Silence. A long, heavy beat.
Then his expression shifts.
Subtle.
Dangerous.
“You don’t,” he says.
Relief flickers because he’s not done.
“Not yet.”
My breath stutters. Heat floods my chest, sharp and confusing.
“That’s not funny,” I snap.
“I’m not joking.”
Of course he’s not.
I step back this time, breaking the space between us before I do something stupid—like lean into him instead of away.
“I’m not staying here under your control,” I say.
“You already are.”
“No,” I shake my head.
“Yes. That’s the deal. Be my bride. Be protected.”
“Temporary. This is just temporary until I figure this out.”
“You’re not figuring anything out alone.”
“I’ve been alone this whole time,” I shoot back.
“And how’s that working for you?”
I grit my teeth. “Better than being ordered around like?—”
“Like what?” he presses.
“Like I can’t think for myself.”
He studies me for a second. Then nods once. “Fine.”
