Her eyes open. Green and searching. "What do you want from me?"
I pause. Consider the question. Consider my answer.
"I don't know yet," I admit. "I've never wanted anyone before."
"Then why keep me?"
The honest answer is: because I can't let her go. Because something about her green eyes and her trembling voice and her ridiculous dream of having a family reached into my chest and grabbed hold of something I thought was dead.
But I don't say that. Not yet.
"Because you want a family," I say instead. "Someone who wants to keep you. And you'll never get that unless someone gives it to you."
"Why would you—"
"Because I can." I dip the washcloth into the water, wring it out, start on her shoulders. "And I'm going to."
She's quiet for a long moment. I wash the blood from her hair, careful not to pull. Watch the water turn pink, then clear again as I rinse.
"The senator said men like you take what you want," she says finally. "Use it up. Throw it away."
"The senator was a fool who assumed everyone shared his appetites." I meet her eyes. "I've never taken an unwilling woman in my life. I'm not starting now."
"Then what—"
"You'll stay here. With me. I'll keep you safe. Give you whatever you need." I set the washcloth aside. "And in return, you'll be mine. Not as a slave. Not as property. But as someone I've chosen to protect."
"Why?"
The question hangs between us. I don't have a good answer. Don't have any answer except the truth I'm not ready to admit.
Because you looked at me and asked for a family, and something in me broke.
"Because I can," I repeat. "And because I want to."
It's not enough. I know it's not enough. But it's all I can give her right now.
I dress her in one of my shirts—soft cotton, warm, hanging past her knees—and lead her to my bedroom.
She stops in the doorway. Looks at the bed. Looks at me.
"I'm not going to touch you," I say. "You'll sleep here. I'll take the couch."
"I—" She wraps her arms around herself. "I don't want to be alone."
Something cracks in my chest. A wall I've spent decades building, developing a fissure.
"Then I'll stay."
I guide her to the bed. Pull back the covers. Wait while she climbs in, curling on her side like she's trying to make herself as small as possible.
I should leave. Should go to the couch, put distance between us, maintain the walls that have kept me safe for fifty years.
Instead, I sit on the edge of the bed. Close enough that she can feel my presence. Far enough that I'm not threatening.
"Try to sleep," I tell her.
"I can't."
