"They sold you, Lily." His voice is hard now. Final. "They took a child into their home, let you believe you were family, and then they sold you to traffickers for drug money. They don't deserve a home. They don't deserve jobs. They're lucky I let them keep their lives."
My hands are shaking. I press them flat against the table to make them stop.
Part of me—a dark, ugly part I don't want to acknowledge—feels satisfied. Vindicated. They hurt me, and now they're hurting too.
But the rest of me...
"You did this without asking me."
"I didn't need to ask."
"Yes, you did!" The words burst out louder than I intended. "They were my foster parents. My trauma. My—"
"And now they're nothing." He leans back in his chair, utterly calm. "They can't hurt you anymore. They can't hurt anyone."
"That wasn't your decision to make!"
"It was." His eyes meet mine, ice-blue and unyielding. "You're mine, Lily. No one hurts what's mine and walks away unscathed. That's not how this works."
You're mine.
The words send a shiver through me—and not entirely from fear. That pulse between my legs is back, throbbing in time with my heartbeat.
What is wrong with me?
I stand up abruptly, nearly knocking over my chair. "I need air."
"Lily—"
"Just... give me a minute. Please."
He doesn't follow me. I feel his eyes on my back as I walk to the window, wrapping my arms around myself, staring out at the harbor without seeing it.
The Hendersons are ruined. Because of me. Because he decided they should be.
And the worst part—the part that makes me feel sick—is that some piece of me is glad.
He gives me an hour.
An hour of silence, of pacing, of trying to untangle the knot of emotions in my chest. Anger. Confusion. Fear. And underneath it all, something else. Something warm and wanting that I don't have a name for.
When I finally turn around, he's standing in the doorway of the living room, watching me. Patient. Waiting.
"I'm not sorry," he says quietly. "I won't apologize for protecting you."
"I know."
"But you're angry."
"I'm..." I shake my head. "I don't know what I am."
He moves closer. Slow, deliberate, giving me time to retreat. I don't.
"Tell me what you're feeling."
"I don't know how to explain it."
"Try."
