So he's not sleeping in the bed with me, thank god. But I don't want him so close either.
“You can't…” My throat goes dry as I imagine him on the floor beside me, close enough to hear me breathe. Close enough to touch if I reached down. “You're not sleeping in this room with me.”
When he said he'd lead me to my room, I figured he'd sleep somewhere else.
Anywhere else.
“I have to,” he says, his eyes growing stern, and I shiver‚ not entirely from fear this time. His tone brooks noargument. “I have to make sure you're safe and don't do anything rash.”
“Like what?” I demand, my voice rising, desperate to break whatever spell he's weaving. “Like trying to escape? Isn't that the whole point of locking me up in the middle of nowhere?”
The words seem to hit him like a physical blow. He flinches, and something in his expression crumbles.
He stands slowly, but instead of coming toward me, he moves to lean against the dresser across the room, putting space between us and giving me room to breathe.
His head drops, and for a long moment, he just stands there, his hands gripping the edge of the dresser as if it's the only thing keeping him upright.
“Like, hurt yourself.”
The words are so quiet I almost miss them.
My anger falters. “What?”
He lifts his head, and the look in his eyes makes my breath catch. There's fear there and something that looks dangerously close to grief.
“I'm afraid you'll hurt yourself, lass.” His voice breaks slightly on the words. “That you'll decide this is too much. That you'll…” He stops, his jaw working. “That you'll do something Ican't fix.”
Oh.
Oh.
He's still across the room, still giving me space. But his eyes are pleading with me in a way his words can't quite manage.
“Please,” he whispers. “Just… promise me you won't. Promise me you'll fight me, scream at me, hate me all you want. But promise me you won't hurt yourself.”
I should use this. Should see this vulnerability as weakness and exploit it.
But instead, I hear myself say, “I won't.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
The relief that washes over his face is so profound it's almost painful to witness.
His shoulders sag. “Thank you,” he whispers.
We stand there in silence, the lamplight casting soft shadows between us. He doesn't move. Doesn't try to close the distance.
But his eyes stay locked on mine with an intensity that makes my skin warm.
And despite everything—despite the absoluteabsurdityof this situation—I find myself noticing things I shouldn't.
The way his throat works when he swallows.
The vulnerable set to his shoulders.
The fullness of his lips when he's not frowning or giving orders.
