I can’t make those things fit together.
I can’t make him fit.
My mouth opens before I decide to speak. “Why?”
The word is barely louder than the water.
For a second, I think he won’t answer.
His hand stills against my thigh.
The whole bathroom feels wrapped in steam and something too fragile to trust.
Then his mouth brushes my temple. “Because he touched what is mine.”
The words should make me go cold.
Part of me does.
The other part—the ruined, humiliating part, melts a little at the sheer certainty of it.
I hate that.
I stare at the water instead of him. At the little clouded trails of soap drifting around my knees.
“That’s not a real answer.”
His arm tightens across my waist. Not enough to trap. Enough to remind.
“It is.”
“No.” My voice comes out thin, rough around the edges. “That’s ownership. Not…” I trail off because I don’t even know what word I’m looking for.
He shifts behind me, big body heat and wet skin and the solid line of him at my back.
“It is for me.”
I close my eyes.
Of course it is.
Of course this impossible man would make tenderness sound like a threat and mean it as something sacred.
The washcloth drags over my knee. My other leg. Slow. Methodical. He works in silence for a minute, like once he’s said what he’s willing to say, that’s the end of it.
But it isn’t the end for me.
Not tonight.
Not after Gabriel. Not after the rope. Not after telling him the truth and watching his face change around it.
“We should talk about it.”
The words leave before I can stop them.
His hand pauses again and a heavy sigh escapes.
“About which part?”
